Bunker Life

Someone has it in for me. Actually, not someone, but rather something, an entity, a group larger than mere people. It’s the network. And no one can hear me now.

Now that I’m back in Georgia and exploring the local peoples and customs, I’ve discovered one thing I hate: my apartment. Now, normally this would send me into all sorts of emotional upheaval, but the greatest joy of my current life is my newfound mantra: it’s only for six months. (Make that less than five now, but who’s counting?) The apartment itself isn’t all bad. Not necessarily what I would design, and there’s no window over the kitchen sink, but I’ve lived in worse. There is, however, one major problem with it: location.

Here’s the deal. In my mind, a first-floor apartment means the apartment is on the same level as the parking lot. a.k.a. no stairs. Apparently, this definition is not universal. I discovered on moving day that to reach my first-floor apartment, I must go down a flight of stairs. Where I come from they call that a basement, but the clever marketers that leased me this place probably know that no one ever opts for a basement apartment. The building is on a hillside, so for anyone entering from the woods, my floor is the first. But, if all goes according to plan, no one is coming in from the woods.

The location isn’t necessarily a problem in and of itself; I really don’t care if I have to climb stairs to leave. What I do mind are the sorts of things that live in basements. Mainly things they eat on Fear Factor. I thought I was pretty much over my bug-o-phobia, but alas I had not been truly tested in quite some time. At least they haven’t carried me off in my sleep.

And, as if the bugs weren’t bad enough, I have no cell service. I take that back. I have found one spot that I can sit in, and, as long as I don’t move my head at all, I can get a call out. A call that will have horrible reception. A call that will be lost within no more than 30 minutes. I’d never realized how much I walk around, or even move my head, while I’m on the phone. I dare you to try to sit perfectly still the next time you’re on the phone. Go ahead: try it. Makes you cranky, doesn’t it?

So, for everyone who thinks I’m ignoring their calls: I am. I make as many calls as I can while I’m not at home. I’ve had quite a few conversations in my parked car. But the joy of talking on the phone is (temporarily) gone. I’m going to call my cell provider today. I don’t have much hope that they can help, but I’ve got to try. I just have to make sure to get the call out before I go home.