Excuses, Excuses

I've been berated of late for my extreme slacking on the blog. I'd like to say I have a good excuse, but that would be a lie. The truth is, I've been far too involved with making questionable decisions to take the time out to entertain my loyal readers. I've also adhered to a strict "no blogging while intoxicated" policy, which severly limits the time I can spend writing.

The fact that I wanted to make up a lie for why I have not been blogging got me thinking about excuses in general. My friends can attest to the fact that I'm pretty awful when it comes to my cell phone communication skills (or lack thereof). As a Sprint customer, I've sworn that I "don't have service" at the exact moment I "missed" your call. For those of you who haven't figured it out yet, this is likely untrue as in reality I saw my caller ID and made the conscious decision not to pick up.*

*As an aside, please note that leaving a voicemail only telling me to "call you back" is not only unnecessary but relatively annoying.

I digress... The point here is the very nature of the excuses we use to justify our behavior.

I have consumed alcohol for at least 10 of the past 14 days.... and no, I'm not on vacation. In no way do I consider this a noteworthy feat, as I'm certain I have friends with significantly longer streaks. However, this binge kinda got me thinking about the reasons we think we deserve to get drunk.

Some of my favorites include:

Having a rough/great day: Whether you want to celebrate the good or drink to forget the bad, uncorking a bottle of wine after work is always justifiable. As a bonus, you'll be just drunk enough to almost tolerate Megan Hauserman or any other attention-whore with a reality show.

The weather sucks/the sun is shining: Nothing says BBQ like a beautiful sunny day. Dumping buckets of rain? Since there's really nothing productive you can do outside during a hurricane, spending the day playing movie drinking games is definitely the next best option.

Finding an apartment/signing a lease: Even if you haven't actually signed any paperwork, apartment hunting is stressful enough to warrant a few take-the-edge-off-cocktails.

Any live (or televised) sporting event: This is where the excuses get really excessive. No matter what season of the year, or day of the week, I'm certain you can find some athletic competition worth drinking for. Sunday/Monday football, a Tuesday night Knicks game, the interminable heartache associated with being a Mets fan, and even if you don't like tennis, watching a sweaty topless Andy Roddick during a rousing match at the US Open are all valid reasons to guzzle down a few Bud Light tall boys.

Buying a couch (or TV, or any other big ticket item): In my experience, one of the best ways to nip buyer's remorse in the bud and thwart the pangs of anxiety regarding your upcoming $2,000 credit card bill is with booze.

Birthdays: Just because your birthday only happens once a year doesn't mean you shouldn't celebrate other people's birthdays with the same enthusiasm. In fact, even if you don't have a close friend who's turning a year older, there's probably someone mildly famous worth raising a glass for. Anyone got plans for Columbus Day?

Holidays: This is a no-brainer. Even your parents are probably getting sloshed. The favorites of course being Thanksgiving Eve, St. Patty's Day, and New Years... The stretch, of course, being "holidays" like Veterans Day, Arbor Day, and Earth Day.

Random drink specials: Margarita Monday at Rodeo? Two-For Tuesday at Opal? Wine-Down Wednesday at Choice? Happy Hour Thursday.. anywhere! Isn't it funny how a cute rhyme or alliterative nickname for a night of the week suddenly makes you think you're not really doing anything wrong by getting drunk? I'm sure we've also used the following justifications: On a Wednesday- "I made it halfway through the week!"; On a Thursday: "It's okay if I'm hungover tomorrow, no one really expects me to function on summer Fridays!" On a Sunday: "Well it is an all-you-can-drink brunch!"

Celebrate we will...whatever the reason may be.

You Down with TWC?

Unfortunately.


One of the less obvious and more annoying things about moving is having to get your new digs wired for the 21st century. I've been cable-less for over a week now, and although I've consumed plenty of wine to pass the time, I'm definitely jonesing for a long night in front of the boob tube.

If you live in NYC or any of the surrounding boroughs, you're pretty much forced to endure TimeWarner as your cable/internet provider. Confusing bills, outages, price hikes, and horrific customer service are just a few of the many joys of a year long contract. However, the worst part about the relationship is its termination.


Like a jaded ex-lover, TimeWarner can't just let you walk away - at least not without a fight. The incessant phone calls, pleading, offering specials and empty promises of "this time it will be different." And after all is said and done, the final straw is their irate demand that you "return their stuff."*

*Had I not been informed that the penalty for keeping the equipment is a ridiculous charge of close to $300, I would have happily Carrie Underwood-ed the cable box, Office-Space style, similar to the way I've destroyed the personal items of many ex flames.

As one might suspect, they do not make the return process easy.

There are only three Time Warner centers in the greater NYC area. Fortunately one of them happens to be a ten minute walk from my apartment and is open until 8pm on Wednesdays. I convince myself that maybe this won't be so bad after all. I am wrong.

I arrive at the store on 23rd and Park at 6:45. I am greeted, or more accurately scowled at, by the nasty receptionist who asks me why I am there. It should be noted that I am carrying a huge cable box, a modem, and a remote. I am not there for a Big Mac.

The receptionist throws a slip of paper at me and tells me to take a seat to the right (where there are at least 35 other disgruntled TWC customers.) The paper I'm holding has the number 664 on it. They are now serving number 612.

I have officially found an establishment that is worse than the DMV. fml.

After squeezing myself into one of the last available seats between two decent looking guys, I begin waiting. I look down at the man's hands next to me, a move that I've done many times to check for a wedding ring before I begin shamelessly flirting, this time with a completely different objective. I contemplated stealing his ticket and offering him my phone number in exchange... until I looked down further...

This man was wearing Crocs.

I immediately abort flirting mission to furiously text my friends about the tool sitting next to me. I think the only thing less attractive than a man wearing Crocs is a man with a hairy back.

So I continue waiting....

48 minutes later I am called to the desk by a woman whose arms are quite possibly the size of both my thighs. She's too large and sloth-like to even reach over her desk to pick up the equipment. Her computer screen is strategically angled so I have no idea what she's typing into her magical Time Warner database of bullshit. A minute later my equipment was whisked away into a back room and I was being asked to sign some non-descript receipt documenting this transaction. This woman has not even asked for my name. WTF just happened?

I hesitate in signing the paper because I'm uncertain as to how I'm going to get my deposit back for all this stuff. Betty Big Arms informs me that "I'll be mailed a check," which would be awesome if they knew where to mail the check to! Every question I asked seemed to anger this woman further, when all I'm really asking is for her to do her fucking job. It's time like these that I wish people had a better understanding of what it means to be in a customer service position.

I left the Time Warner store in disbelief of how much they suck and went straight to the bar....Nothing a pitcher of margaritas couldn't fix.