So now I’m trapped.
I called in to ask to have my internet connected, and the nice lady on the other end said Emerson will call me to set up a time, and I don’t dare leave for fear of missing Emerson’s call. Which means I can’t go down to the common room to get connected and post items to the blog. Which means I can keep writing them, but you can’t read them until Emerson calls, freeing me from this enslavement to the sound of the phone.
The phone, by the way, is not my cell phone. It didn’t occur to me until I got here that when the instructions say, “Call extension 1020”, it isn’t something I can do through Verizon. The assumption is that of course people will bring landline phones with them – who doesn’t have a landline phone? And the answer is, for instance, me.
Fortunately, the Wittwers had a spare, and John brought it up to me yesterday afternoon. It’s a lovely little Panasonic, plugs into the wall outlet, gives me access to the TP phone network. I can even get an outside line just by dialing 8. (Local calls included in the monthly fee, long distance is extra.) And this morning it let me call the nice lady who promised that Emerson would call. I have to wonder whether Emerson has my phone number, and in another hour or so I will probably call the nice lady back and make sure they know how to reach me. The Wittwers’ number is their room number with a preceding digit, but the number on this line has no connection to my room number, so maybe they can’t find me.
I should be embarrassed to post publicly such naked evidence of internet addiction. But on the other hand, one of the unexpected benefits of old age is that the number of things that embarrass me is dwindling. Soon, I will happily flap down the hallway in my flannel nightgown and fake sheepskin slippers because what the hell.
I want my internet.