Friends, I promise I am a reasonable person. I’m actually a model of patience when it comes to being out in public, because I worked as a waitress for years.

I pressed 1 for English.

Pressed 9 for this.

Pressed 4 for that.

Then pressed @#$!#%^&**&% for some self-expression.

And then I pressed 4. I don't even remember for what at this point.

When the hold music came on, it was kind of soothing. I felt my blood pressure returning to normal, and when a voice cut in every few moments to explain how important my call was to them, I believed it.

Then 25 minutes into the call, jamming out to Matchbox Twenty, I began to question everything.

"We are experiencing a high volume of other callers. Call back another time. Goodbye."

Click. They hung up on me.

What betrayal! I was totally committed to that relationship.

After a modern day version of slamming the phone down, which is really just an irritated finger poke on my phone screen (but not too hard because nobody wants a scratched phone screen).

I called back and went through yet another series of menus, and instead of pressing 4, I accidentally hit the asterisk (seriously why is that even there if not to screw people up when they are furiously hitting menu options).

“I’m sorry. That is not an option.”

And there we went again through the entire menu. And I pressed a few more buttons while mumbling under my breath. The whole house felt it.

The calm before the storm.

By the time I reached that special place to explain to literally no one (because it was just an automated line) what my problem was, I couldn’t quite find the words. Where does one begin to explain after two phone calls, and 45 minutes of waiting, pressing numbers, and then screaming “I thought I was special to you! I thought we were in this thing for the long haul.”

And you know, by the time I got to that point, for a second, I couldn’t even remember who I called or why I called them. Why in the world did I begin this ridiculous journey in the first place? Why do I do this to myself?

“Tech support,” I said.

“Did you say pay your bill?”

“What? No. I said tech support.”

“Did you say pay your bill?”


“Did you say pay…”


I spit the words into my phone as my children ran behind the couch, “Mom’s gonna blow!”

“I’m sorry I did not understand.”

At this point I was nearing rock bottom. The neighbors were surely debating a domestic disturbance call. 

“Of course you didn’t understand. You aren’t even real. You’re not a PERSON. You are a good for nothing AUTOMATED VOICE who pretends my call is important but then leaves when things the going gets tough. You pooooooooor thing.”

“I’m sorry I can not understand you. Hanging up now. Goodbye.”

I wanted to throw breakable things. I wanted to run outside and scream to the top of my lungs all the words that are bleeped out on TV.

Instead I started laughing. And twitching. Shawn’s face was in mine, but my anger was raging so loud all I could do was read his lips saying, “I don’t think I can get her back this time.”

Friends, I promise I am a reasonable person. I’m actually a model of patience when it comes to being out in public, because I worked as a waitress for years. Flipping out on an actual person verses blowing off steam at an automated phone line is totally different. In fact, if a real person comes on the line I go from Hulk Smashing to Bruce Banner in seconds.

And by the third time I called and finally got a person, I might as well have been June Cleaver.

“Oh, hello! This is Meg Duncan. How are you? I just need some tech support today.”

That’s all there is to it. The kids came out from the couch, and Shawn explained to the neighbors that the wifi was down again.

And just like that, all was well at the Duncan’s.

Until Netflix went down.