For the past year, I've had a troubled relationship with my boyfriend, Comcast. As hard as a tried to make our fairytale love story work--the fairytale where two people are stranded on a deserted island and start dating because there's 3,000 miles of ocean separated them from the any other choice--I had to move on. Literally. My apartment lease was up and I was moving into one with another man already waiting for me.
Before the breakup process even started I knew what bae was going to sae: he would want to stay together, to go with me on my magical journey to explore the far away land of air conditioned apartments. He would want to make our relationship last two weeks past its sell by date. As much as
I hated Comcast with a burning passion strong enough to crumble its headquarters to the ground loved Comcast with all of my heart and more, the two of us were never the mysteriously indestructible can of spray cheese; we've always been that bowl of beer cheese soup that no one should have bought in the first place.
It's Not Me, It's You
I know its childish to break up with someone over the phone, but deep down some part of me just couldn't handle the thought of doing it in person. That would require a car ride and changing out of my pajamas I'd otherwise be wearing the entire day.
Sunday May 10th, 2015 11 a.m.
I finally commit to the breakup and decide that today would be the day Comcast would have to stop bringing the noise (cable) and the funk (Internet service). Comcast had other plans. Apparently it wasn't a "business day," and it was also "Mother's Day" so my darling lover "thought" he'd "make" "other" plans "than" answering my call, and wouldn't "be available until Monday." Whatever.
Typical love bug, ducking my phone calls and prioritizing his mother above me. No wonder we didn't make it.
Monday May 10th, 2015 1 p.m.
There's probably a 99% chance that Comcast has read my mind and will completely ignore all my calls to avoid our inevitable breakup, but I decide to throw caution and my dignity to the wind and dial up 1-800-COMCAST anyway. As the phone rings, all I can focus on is how my buggaboo has managed to take the doucheyness of a customized license plate to the next level via monogrammed phone number.
After a couple of rings and a minute long sequence of instructions from an automated voice doing its best to hide the "cancel all services" option, a female voice greets me. Leave it to my honey bunch to have someone else fight his battles for him.
Unnamed Female Comcast Worker and I engage in some witty banter for about 5 minutes, where she asks me why I'm leaving, if I'm leaving for another man, if I would for some reason like to help Comcast's next side piece enter into their prenup (having the slightest amount of intelligence, I respectfully decline). The highlight of it all was her telling me that Comcast understands when people need to cancel their services. Oh silly Comcast, you know you've never had a good poker face!
The breakup interrogation actually moves along pretty quickly, until the only thing left to resolve is whether or not I will have to pay the bill I had been sent, since it covers a billing period after I moved out. Considering I wasn't looking to pay $90 for a service I wouldn't be using, I ask UFCW Comcast had expected me to.
"Okay, well since you've canceled your service in the middle of a billing cycle you will have a prorate."
Well that's all well and good except that I don't know what a prorate is.
"You have a balance on your account because of the time left in your billing cycle."
Okay but are we talking balance that I'm paying you or balance that you're paying me? Which one of those is a prorate? Are both of those a prorate? And what's the deal with airline food?
"You should be refunded for the next bill and then also for the remainder of this billing cycle once your service is cancelled."
That's an unexpected surprise! I guess I own you an apology, Comcast. You really aren't as bad as I thought.
"Looking at your bill you should get a refund of $176."
I got $2.50.
Once I took back my apology, the dust had been settled and there was nothing left for us to do but go our separate ways. My now ex-babe suggested we stay friends and possibly reopen our relationship in the future. I don't have the heart to tell him that staying friends with your ex is one of the single most unappealing things to do on the planet, so I hang up instead.
Friends Are For Little Female Dogs
After approximately 21 hours of being broken up, Comcast decides he can't go another second without hearing my voice. Actually, he decided he left his favorite pair of Internet modem and his high school varsity satellite dish at my old place and wants them back. So much so that he calls me twice a day for almost a week. Unlucky for him, I no longer had a key, and was not in the mood to deal with my now ex-landlord, who, if I had to describe using mac and cheese, would be the gluten-free vegan mac and cheese you'd find in a plastic baggy kicked under one of the shelves in Costco. Luckily for me, he wasn't the only one that learned how to duck calls in our relationship.
And so my love story with Comcast has come to an end. It feels almost surreal that I've ended the longest romantic relationship I've ever had. (That wasn't a joke. You can ask the one guy I dated for a month my freshman year of high school.) For now, I'm left to roam the lonely, rainy streets, hoping that some day a grocery store pulls me into their medieval and sadistic rewards program, or I'm selected to be a contestant on a game show that turns out to be the Hunger Games. Until then, I'll probably stick to Netflix and online streaming services. I don't know which cable provider my new apartment has, and I'm afraid to find out.