I hate utility monopolies. I hate doofus gas company technicians --
and I use that term with grave reservations.
This morning, D met some gas company employees in the back yard as she
schlepped out the trash. (Tuesday is my day to do trash; we're
married, so we share everything.) They were changing out our meter
and told her that our gas would be off for a "couple of hours." No
big deal, right? Well the chuckleheaded snot sniffers apparently
thought she was a unemployed. They neglected to tell her that she had
to be home to get the gas turned back on.
She wasn't. I wasn't. It wasn't.
We heat the house with gas. We heat the water with gas. It's
December fer cryinoutfugginloud. And we don't have gas when we get
home from -- you know-- WORKING.
So she calls. Gets a computerized pretend-it's-a-real-person
disembodied voice that demands that she talk to it as though it's
human. It discovers that we live in our house, that D has a SSN, that
we have no gas, that no, we don't eat dog feces, and who knows what
else and agrees to call us back when somebody out there in Gasland
isn't entirely on break.
We were due to leave for a work-related shindig in Dallas, but we
waited for the computer's human consort to call us back. Half an hour
later the much anticipated call comes. Well, it'll be sometime
between now and 10 p.m., says the nice woman on the other end. Pretty
much shoots our 6-8 p.m. Dallas gig in the ass, doesn't it? I can
turn the gas on and I say as much. NO! she cries, NO! You'll be
fined! Fined? Yes, she avers darkly.
Guess the Odoms ain't eating out tonight. They probably should cook
something. The GAS stove isn't an option, of course. But there's the
propane grill and that pork tenderloin D conjured from the freezer
last night. I fume and sputter and begin a beer and a marinade (soy
sauce, sambal, basil, and ginger).
Then I call another 800 number for the gas company to see if things
will speed up. What the hell? Our gas "service" is supplied by an
outfit called Atmos Energy. That's a truly funny name, isn't it?
Atmos = Atmosphere with the "phere" (fear?) lopped off. Fearectomy
of the atmosphere. Somebody got paid to come up with that name. What
do you do for a living, eh? Bet it's not as fun as pissing on the
English language, muddying the debate over global warming, and
sniggering at customers through a computerized complaint system.
Anyhow, I got another version of the discorporated corporate computer
conundrum with the new 800 number, but after listening to it prattle
on about its programmed expectations of my troubles for a few moments
I impulsively hit 0.
Lo! the mighty 0!
Apparently I was upgraded a couple of digital notches in the machine's
heirarchy. Suddenly I was steps away from a carbon-based life form.
It demanded my civil response to a question or two (screaming was not
acceptable, I learned) and eventually I spoke to a woman named Sara.
Or Denise. Or Delilah. Or Jezebel. Something like that. I should
have written it down, but I didn't. "What can I do for you?" "I have
a complaint." Our conversation developed predictably. The pigmeat
marinated. She said she needed to put me on hold and then....
Beepbeepbeep...
We were cut off.
I turned the meat over. I put half a bag of frozen okra in an iron
skillet, dosed it with olive oil and chili powder, and popped it into
the (electric) oven at 350F. I pulled a pack of frozen artichoke
hearts out of the (also electric) freezer and put them into a baking
dish with some preserved lemon pieces and pepper.
I dialed again. Did the 0 trick again. Spoke my last words to a
software system for the night (one devotedly hopes), and another Sara
or Bernice or Susannnah or Phoebe or Hermoine or Judith (who
decapitated the evil Holofernes) was at my service. I explained that
I was angry. Livid. Infuriated. I only used the word "[censored]"
once while speaking of the workers who'd left D so uninformed,
however. She (who might have killed a Philistine general in a
previous life) passed me on to her supervisor.
The okra roasted. The meat soaked. I did my level best to explain
how much NoFearofAir Inc. had messed up my Friday night. How much
this had inconvenience me. Not inconvenienced! Saboutaged! Mauled!
Murdered, even! The mouth-breathing, scum-sucking rodents
Atmosphere-with-no-anxiety employed to "serve" its paying customers
had crippled my career! I largely contained myself, though. I only
threatened to turn HER GAS OFF once, for example.
A second work order was issued (great, another one -- that oughta work
like a charm) and I lit the propane grill. I also popped the
artichokes into the oven with the okra. Grand ole okrie. I set the
meat on the grill and put the marinade in a saucece pan with about
half a cup of much-reduced smoked turkey stock. The pot I put on the
grill's side burner. Reduced the stock/marinade. Moved the meat now
and again, pressing it to check for doneness.
Dinner was fine. I sliced the pork and dribbled the salty reduction
over it. Plated it with the roasted veggies. It all went down really
well.
And the Not-Skeered-o-the-Air guy left a while back after turning on
our gas. Seems he had to light our pilot light, according to a
corporate dictate. Otherwise I might either be fined or sue them when
I do it and burn down the house. At least that's what I think he
said.
modom