After five days of trying to set up the satellite system himself only to fail miserably, Dave finally bit the bullet last week and called in the professionals.
This was no easy decision for him, being a cheap bastard man who prides himself on achieving such tasks on his own, but not having several hundred channels to choose from was really starting to eat him up.
So on Wednesday afternoon yet another strange man climbed the ladder to our roof, the only difference between him and the others being that once he set foot on the patio he was handed a wad of cash.
But whatever. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and by that point I didn’t care what he had to do or how much it was going to cost. I just wanted the fucking thing hooked up already.
Mr. Satellite Professional quickly determined that the problem had nothing to do with the satellite receiver or where the dish was pointed, it was just a cheap dish. When Dave said he’d picked it up for sixty bucks, Mr. Satellite Professional scoffed at him, told him he’d come back tomorrow with a better dish to install and left.
Dave made me hold the ladder while he climbed up on the roof and took his cheap dish down, because it’s safety first over here and my girly grip on the ladder would definitely stop him from falling and splattering all over the patio.
He returned the cheap dish, got his money back and Mr. Satellite Professional returned on Thursday, in the middle of dinner, to install a higher quality dish.
Just as I was leaving for my pedicure I heard a triumphant yelp from the family room: the satellite worked. IT WORKED. There were channels. Many of them. Callooh! Callay!
When I got home with my purple sparkly toes Dave was waiting for me on the couch with the remote in his hand and a big grin on his face. I have to admit, I was excited – Dave had promised lots of cool channels for me and the kids. So imagine my surprise when he started flipping through the channels and none of them were in English.
Five days and $180 later, I have about two hundred foreign channels at my disposal. And the thing is, Dave doesn’t necessarily want to watch them, he just wants to flip through them.
Watching foreign television with him is like being forced to sit through someone’s carousel of vacation slides: he flips to some crazy channel auctioning elaborate Persian rugs, leaves it there for eight seconds and then flips to the next channel. And the next channel. And the next channel.
He loves it. I’m not so thrilled.
Although if I start blogging in Turkish, you’ll know it grew on me.