Our cable box blew the fuck up. Poof! Snap! Hiss! No cable! We sat there and stared at a black screen that said "ONE MOMENT PLEASE: this channel will be available shortly." And we waited many moments. And we fiddled with various remotes and cables.
(TIREWATCH 2006: Day 95, in which an angry mob of various remotes & cables attempt to drive the tire outside)
("TIRE SMASH!" says the tire. "TIRE HUNGRY!")
Anyway, we finally gave up and called the cable company.
The cable company said they'd send a Guy today, between 11 and 2.
SO, BACK THEN:
You email your boss and tell him you have to work from home for part of the day because you have to wait for the Guy.
You get a vague sense that he's irritated with you and then a telepathic shining of your next annual review all chopped to bloody hell in the office hallway, so you scramble and try to explain that you have SO MUCH WORK you can do from home, stuff that you can do BETTER from home, honestly, so working from home is pretty much the best thing you could do right now, super-responsible-employee-wise, and anyway, the Guy will probably get here right at 11 so you'll be in after lunch! That's not bad at all! See you soon, Mr. Best Boss Ever!
And then you sit there. ALL DAY. Until the Guy shows up at like, 3 p.m. And you've long since run out of any work to do, and there's not even any damn TV to watch, and you're hungry because there's no actual food in the house besides mayonnaise and you didn't dare go anywhere for lunch because you were waiting for the damn Guy, and now it's 3:30 and you still feel obligated to drive your ass to work because...I don't know...you've just always been crazy like that.
Baby goes down for a nap at 10:30 am. You jump in the shower, incredibly pleased with your incredible scheduling skillz.
Doorbell buzzes at precisely 10:37 am.
You run around naked like a crazy naked banshee looking for clothes -- ANY FOOL ASS CLOTHES -- to throw on in order to answer the door, cursing yourself for not owning a stupid bathrobe, cursing the dog while attempting to administer Dog Whisperer behavior techniques to shut her the hell up, except that you can't remember if you are supposed to leash her, poke her, or simply scream at her like a naked banshee.
You finally grab a pair of your husband's shorts and one of his shirts from the closest laundry pile and answer the door, sopping wet, with shampoo in your eyes, panting and desperately holding the waistband of the too-big shorts that you didn't even take the time to ZIP UP, because you are stupid and very bad in even the most minor of crises. Dog runs outside. You chase.
The Guy enters the apartment, gingerly avoiding the big puddles of water you've tracked everywhere and politely averting his eyes away from you. You suddenly notice that you only buttoned one button on your shirt, but when you reach to close the wide-open shirt you forget about the shorts and they fall down to your knees.
Needless to say, there was no underwear in the laundry pile.
Guy asks if he should maybe come back in a few minutes.
You shrug helplessly. There is no point. There is no saving this encounter.
"I don't have dignity," you say. "I have a baby."
He nods thoughtfully, as if he understands. As if he's seen worse. He probably lying, but you get your cable back in time for The Price is Right.