Taylor the Teacher

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Since living in the Southeast means not getting Saints games on regular cable, and since Saints games are absolutely mandatory in our household, we signed up for Direct TV two years ago this month so we could get the NFL Sunday Ticket. Our relationship with Direct TV was great. Whenever we needed help, we called and they helped us immediately. This was a huge contrast from the government-run cable monopoly, and I loved using a private company instead of the supremely incompetent cable company.

I also fell in love with my DVR. Ever since we’ve had Direct TV, I never watch live TV. This allows me to avoid the inanity of commercials. Wow. I was in love.

Every relationship has problems, though, right? So about a year ago, one of our receivers broke. We called, and Direct TV handled it within a week. That was great.

Now that we’re moving to the French Quarter ~plenty to do and see there~ and our contract with Direct TV is up, we called a few weeks ago to tell them we didn’t intend to renew our contract, and we needed to get them to come get their stuff & cancel our account.

That’s when the fun started. The man told me that we couldn’t cancel our account because when we got that new receiver, it added another year to our contract. I assure you, they didn’t tell me this.

I was pissed, but we were leaving to go out of town. When we got back in town, my husband called Direct TV again. This time, a representative kept trying to talk my husband into taking various offers to keep our service with them. After three or four tries to get him to stay with Direct TV ~vonage did the same thing to me a few months ago…. very annoying. are you sure you want to cancel, yes i’m sure, are you sure, yes i’m sure, are you sure yes i’m sure. but you’ve been with us for three years. yes i know, i don’t need your service. but we have a great deal. i want to cancel. good grief~ the man from Direct TV said we’d have to pay a fee to disconnect because of the extra year we supposedly agreed to when we got the new receiver.

So after god-knows-how-long on the phone, my husband spoke with a “supervisor” who said that we were paid through July, and didn’t owe them a dime. She said the extra-year-for-THEIR-faulty-receiver thing should never have come into play in the first place since we purchased equipment protection ~or whatever they call it~ and that she would send us a box to mail the receivers back to them. That supervisor said we were done. The box to mail back the receiver arrived Thursday, and I took it to FedEx on Monday. Our service has been turned off for more than a week.

This morning, there is money deducted from our checking account from Direct TV for $117 and change.

What?

They have no authorization to take money out of our account at all. We have always received a bill and paid through online bill pay. Plus, we owe them nothing.

After THREE HOURS on the phone with them, they say they will take the charge off in three business days. We’ll see.

Either way, I chalk this up to a bad break up. Shame, really, because our relationship had always been so good.

Plus, I want my three hours back.

TWITTER reaction to this post:

My husband tossed the deflated air mattress we’d borrowed for our trip to New Orleans last week to his buddy.

“This thing caused me more arguments with my wife than my first two years of marriage,” he said with a grin.

We slept on an air mattress built for one on the floor of a kid’s room in Lafitte, toys falling all around us, for five nights while we looked for a place in New Orleans. My husband is grumpy when he’s asleep. I’m grumpy when I don’t get enough sleep.

I had all but given up on finding something affordable in the French Quarter that wasn’t the size of a small office ~or love nest~ and I was actually okay with that. But after five straight days in the car and more one-way streets and no u-turn signs than I care to think about, we finally found a place. ~and his knee in my back doesn’t seem nearly as bad from the french quarter balcony that is OURS to make out on as we please~

Then we found this one:

I’m honestly stunned. I’ve wanted to live in the French Quarter since I was in junior high. ~it’s a tennessee williams thing~ These are the only pictures we have so far, taken from our cell phones. ~which explains the blur~ Many more pictures and details to come, I’m sure.

The orange building is the one we’ll be living in. The very top, left balcony is ours. Here’s the view from the balcony:

There’s so much more to say that I can’t process all my thoughts. We are very busy with moving and packing, but that’s not really it. It’s just kind of surreal. Not something to process quickly.

I’m so excited I’m about to wet my pants.

Craigslist is infinitely fascinating. I found these three ads today, all within about five minutes:

_____________________________________________

Teachers Needed Everywhere Everyday (New Orleans)

Teachers Needed Today

Okay, so I was defensive in my last. ~sorry for being a meaniehead~ I’ve never let my blog go that long before.

Plus, I forgot my note from home. Here are some of the early drafts:  

Dear Mrs. Scott:

Please excuse Taylor from her recent absence from her blog. She was celebrating her birthday and anniversary. ~which started way early this year and are still in progress~

Please excuse Taylor from her recent absence from her blog. She was reluctant to examine her life the way she needed to to blog well. We have spoken with her about this and discussed with her the importance of either dealing with reality or becoming a fiction writer. She stubbornly refuses to do either.

Please excuse Taylor from her recent absence from her blog. She was busted flat in Baton Rouge waiting for a train, staring at the world through her rear view, rolling ‘round the basement floor, rocking the sure shot missing her ritalin. Her medication should be adjusted now. Please let us know if you have any further problems.

Please excuse Taylor from her recent absence from her blog. She realizes she’s been copping out since the English Department post ~dangerous brush with maturity~ and has been acting silly ever since.  ~just like her kid brother~

Please excuse Taylor from her recent absence from her blog. She was giggling, being tickled, and lost track of time.

Please excuse Taylor from her recent absence from her blog. Her jeans were in the wash.

Please excuse Taylor from her recent absence from her blog. She was eating pancakes with the family.

Sincerely,

Mommie

I swore to myself I would never apologize for not blogging in blah-blah number of days, because really who cares? But, like all resolutions, this one is safely in the pile of disappointment.

Sorry I haven’t blogged in however many days. Here’s what happened…

I wanted to participate in Jose’s Howl meme a second time….. but I was drinking frozen margaritas.

I wanted to write about the day I went to the district office…. but as soon as I parked the car, signed forms in hand, I had the overwhelming urge to drink margaritas. 

I wanted to explicate the differences between a memoir, a biography, journalism, diaries, and explain how a blog really fits nowhere comfortably…. but the margaritas made my head spin.

I wanted to talk about the nature of truth and how everyone’s story is situated… but that’s obvious when you’re drinking margaritas.

I wanted to explain, with full orchestration and five-part harmony, my new love affair with margaritas… but I’m on my first summer break in 3 years.

So, no profundity here. Sorry bitches.

Go to the pool.

~unless you’re linda, then i totally want to know how your trip went~

*** none of the above should be construed as advice. ***

Circa 1998.

Since being a bridesmaid means wearing EXACTLY THE SAME THING as 4 or 5 other single girls at a highly important social occasion, I felt it was necessary to distinguish myself with these red leopard print stiletto heels from Victoria’s Secret.

To tell the truth, they hurt my feet.

But I still felt like a perfect doll!

I took a couple of photography classes at Louisiana State University. ~i graduated from there three times, and lived in baton rouge from 1990–2003. had many adventures which need re-telling on this or another blog. i think i have that rare disease that makes sufferers want to write down everything~ The teacher of that photography class was one of many teachers to say that I annoyed him with questions. He said, in fact, that I drove him to quit teaching. ~what a dick~

His real problem was that he wasn’t a teacher at all, but an artist teaching for pay while he worked on his graduate work. Teaching is a specific skill, and contrary to popular belief, not everyone can do it.

This is taken from one of the balconies my husband and I made out on. My teacher was less than impressed with this composition, as am I, but I now realize I shouldn’t have let him discourage me. Looking back at the images I took, I see in this one a seed of an idea that was common in my photos. I’m not so much into landscapes or portraits as into subjective, first-person perspective shots of a moment in time. This one isn’t what I mean, exactly, but it’s close.

Why did I let that teacher convince me I wasn’t any good? I should have kept working harder.

This is the sign for a store in South Carolina on the highway up to Asheville, NC. I was honestly too afraid to take pictures inside, lest someone sense my shock & disapproval and whistle for the militia which I’m sure bunks within earshot of that place. Inside was every conceivable household item plastered with a Confederate flag from bikinis to bedspreads. ~i can’t name the number of students in the last five years who wanted to write persuasive essays in favor of the confederate flag. the thesis sentence for this masterpiece always included the phrase, “it’s heritage. not hate.” imagine trying to explain why bumper-sticker propaganda can’t be the basis for a persuasive essay~

It was only eight years ago that they took the flag down from the top of the state capitol dome in South Carolina. I’m all for free speech. Display whatever you want on your truck, t-shirt, house, or bedspread ~or even on your boobs~ but understand that MY free speech rights allow me, and decency compels me, to speak my mind by pointing you out and mocking you if you wear something that makes you look like an asshole. Democracy in action, o my brothers.  But the STATE CAPITOL is the place where everyone in the state is supposed to be able to go for a fair shake. And since when do the LOSERS of a war get to fly their flag over governmental buildings?

Something is fundamentally wrong with this place.

Taylor,

who is waiting for a ticket to ride*

*Read Jose Vilson’s Howl if You Hear Me poetry meme!

My ~then~ boyfriend and I went to New Orleans for a day of taking photos, drinking Jack Daniels, and making out in French Quarter balconies. He’s now my husband, and we’re moving back to the Big Easy this summer.

Would it be bitchy to make an outgoing message on my cell phone voice mail asking people NOT to leave me a voice mail?

It would go something like this:

This is Taylor. Please don’t leave voicemail. My phone alerts me when I miss a call and your number is there. I’ll take that as a request to call you back.

If you want to add a personal touch to your request for a callback, such as “hey sweetie, call me back” or “i’m coming for your ass bitch” or “i miss you, let’s do lunch” you can do that with a text message.

If you have something specific to ask me — “are we on for tonight?” or “how much are the tickets?” or “where are you?” — text is much more efficient than voicemail. I’ll get your message faster. And I’ll be more likely to respond quickly.   

Going through the menus for my voice mail takes longer than text messages and takes more of my attention. I try to avoid it.

So if you’re leaving me a voicemail even after I’ve told you this, it better be important.

This was a pretty long message wasn’t it? It took up your time, didn’t it? That’s how it is with voicemail.

Switch to text.