ONT? Yeah, you know me…
Our internet is down until Monday. It went out as we were watching a movie early on New Year’s Eve. I tried to cheer Andrea up by saying, “We can pretend we’re camping!” Only it didn’t cheer her up. She gave me a smoldering glare.
She tried valiantly to resolve the issue with a Verizon tech. I wondered aloud if a mouse chewed through a wire. I haven’t seen a mouse or evidence of a mouse in our house. Just the garage. And that little bastard chewed through a wire in Andrea’s truck.
Anyway. Andrea was working with the tech over chat. “Alright. The tech needs to do something! I don’t know if they will be able to hear you.”
“Fine. I won’t swear or say anything about ‘boobs’.” I promise as I go into the kitchen to make myself useful by washing some glasses in the sink. A glass slips from my hand, I catch it yelling, “Shit! Oops! Sorry!” I yell. I hadn’t anticipated trouble so soon.
“It may be our ONT.” Andrea mutters.
“Our ONT!” Andrea bellows.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“How the fuck do I know?”
“Oh.” I keep scrubbing dishes.
With our streaming services down, we’re forced to resort to what our antenna picks up since we hadn’t bothered with cable when we moved to Richmond. A decision we’re reconsidering because we’ve added countless streaming services (would cable be cheaper at this point?). This particular network airs the depressing ASPCA commercial every single time which prompts Andrea to change the channel while yelling, “Oh for fuck’s sake!”
We went to bed before midnight and I make up a lot of the sleep I missed the night before. I get up and weigh myself for the first time in weeks. My scale is surprised at the amount of Christmas cookies I managed to pack away and greets me with this.
I check my email and see this email from the Boston Globe.
I feel the bar for 2022 isn’t set terribly high.