Holy technological dinosaur, Batman
Mood:  irritated
Now Playing: That song that Michael Bolton turns down in his car at the beginning of Office Space
I am pretty sure I could work for customer service. Especially at a cell phone company, because you don't need to even really know how much more than how to pick up a phone, it seems. If you call about any problem whatsoever, here's what they'll tell you:

Turn the phone off for a few minutes and turn it back on.

That's it. Apprently, this will magically cause the satellite signal stars to align in your favor.

I naively expect the customer service reps to be really knowledgable and have some idea of how to solve the problem. We don't let doctors get away with that kind of thing. ("Just go to sleep for at least eight hours a day and your broken leg should just heal right up.") Or mechanics: ("Take the key out of the ignition for a couple minutes and then try starting it again. That'll fix the brakes.")

I also learned a couple other things recently.

If I can help it, I'm never going to fax another thing. These illegitimate lovechildren of the telephone and the photocopier must be stopped. The machines are clunky; the technology is archaic, with all the dialing, buzzing, beeping and waiting. I had to fax some crap to my incompetent relocation company today (If you hear the name Paragon Relocation in job negotiations, politely decline and instead pack your stuff on a donkey. More reliable and less stubborn.) and, a mere fifteen minutes of busy signals later, transaction complete!

As I stood there and waited for my documents to scan and come out the other side, I realized that the fax machine is exactly like those futuristic and ridiculous computers on the Batman television series. Batman walks up to the Bat-mileage Calculator or some such and frantically pushes some buttons. Beeping, whirring and flashing ensues. Finally, a little slip of paper comes out. The fax is the exact same way, except you don't get any new information on the paper at the end.

Second thing I will be avoiding from now on is grits. As part of my quest to try new things and to assimilate to the area, I ordered shrimp and grits tonight. I was told grits were delicious: a lovely substance that magically takes the flavor of whatever is mixed in. Even Outkast likes 'em ("If you like fish and grits and all that pimp s***")Yeah, well, here's the truth about grits: It's Cream of Wheat that also gets served with dinner. But not in a comforting warm breakfast cereal, way. Not in a hearty, delicious mashed potatoes way. Or not even in that refreshingly-light-change-from-meat way rice has. My verdict is, grits, as the name implies, simply make food an inedible taste and texture.

Maybe the need to eat grits is genetic here in the South, like accents, friendliness, or a penchant for wallpaper.