"Hello?"
"Yeah, ma'am. Charter service here. You got problems with your cable?"
"Um. Okay. I'll come let you in."
My wit was not strong enough at 9am to respond with "I have problems with more than just my cable, thank you."
So I let him in. And he looked like Snoop Dogg. I immediately regretted not taking the 40 additional seconds to put on a bra. I was wearing brandon's sweatpants and had some serious JBF hair. Anyway, he walks into my living room and has this look of sheer shock. I am not fully awake at this point, but the little monsters had been up for a while and were anticipating being fed. Dylan sniffed Snoop's leg cautiously, and then ran away. Dylan never runs away. Dylan is like Lenny from Of Mice and Men. Both cats LOVE strangers. So I came to the conclusion that my cats are racists and that I would deal with that later. To ease D O double G's fears, I smiled politely and said, "Oh, they're very friendly. They won't hurt you."
Awkward silence. He blinks. Of course not, Jessi. They are cats, not German Shepherds. Great. This is going so well. Twenty minutes later, the cable is fixed and Mr. Cable Guy is quickly on his way out. My cats have hidden themselves in the smallest crevices available, and won't even come out for treats. I need to call Brandon about the house inspection later, and now I'm going to have to talk to my furry children about social injustice.
I sit back down to watch my long lost good old cable, AND FINALLY REALIZE that he'd probably never walked into some young, evidently-financially stable girl's apartment and SEEN A 12 FOOT STRIPPER POLE IN THE MIDDLE OF HER FUCKING LIVING ROOM. Or at least, if he had, the girl was like "uhh, umm oh", or had improvised something like "That's my skinny mirror" or "It's structural."
Be right back; I have to go talk to my cats about Rosa Parks.
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