The price of being connected

Well, we did it. We took the plunge. According to our middle school daughter, we became slightly less "un-cool," which means a great deal -- a great, big, hairy deal.

It began with a systematic barrage of mailers from various communications companies, all explaining how we could save by spending more. And reminders that, come February, there'll be nothing but snow if we don't. But the real kicker promised to deliver Nebraska football right into my husband's lap.

So we calculated new bundles and canceled old bundles. "The company" scheduled installation, I stocked the pantry with party snacks, and we waited … and waited. And waited.

Finally, he came. But after poking around the basement for 30 minutes, the pubescent-looking installation boy appeared behind me with a nervous "ahem."

"Hey!" I said, still thinking positive thoughts. "How's it going?"

"Well," he answered. "I can't connect this house."

I reminded him that the previous owners were "connected," as evidenced by the many black wires protruding from our walls.

He informed me that those wires were unusable and very likely original to the house.

I informed him that the house was built in 1906, as per the sign out front, but that he had my blessing to replace any outdated technology. Indeed, that's why we had called.

Then he informed me that "fishing" wires through walls or above ceilings is not allowed by "the company," because someone's house burned completely to the ground during such a drill. He would, however, be happy to install services in our home if we had an electrician install them first.

That's when my husband jumped up with a "thanks-for-coming-let-me-show-you-to-the-door." And it was a good thing, too, because I was considering giving that boy a piece of my mind.

But, God bless him, my husband is a jack of all trades. With his trusty flashlight, he cased our foundation and chased the cobwebs of tangled wires from the basement to the attic. Without so much as a spark, he had everything mapped out. So he called "the company" again. There's just nothing my husband won't do for Nebraska football.

And they came -- two grown men this time. Thanks to my husband's pre-installation services, it was a snap.

In fact, in the short time we've been "connected," we've discovered that everything beyond installation moves efficiently. Take the billing, for example.

In less than three weeks we've already received two bills. Each comprehensively covers past services, future services and some nice fat taxes. The customer service representative assured me that double payments are for our benefit, in case we ever "fall behind." I suggested that my mortgage company accrues escrow less aggressively.

When I asked him to interpret my bill, he said he'd have to put me on hold … again. I suggested he call me back when he knew something.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he said, "but our phones don't call out. We can only receive calls."

"That's too bad," I replied. "You might look into bundling with another company."

Unfortunately, being "connected" is a hard habit to break -- like having a dishwasher, underground sprinklers and a refrigerator that makes ice (I'm guessing on that last one). And, truth be told, we're not just connected, we're hooked.

My husband prefers football from his very own ugly chair. Furthermore, he has become an expert on water filtration, golf and swimming elephants.

Our oldest daughter, we've learned, is bent toward the macabre and anything creepy. We're hoping it's a phase, but I absolutely draw the line at black fingernail polish.

A fan of "Extreme Home Makeover," our youngest daughter gravitates toward HGTV and TLC's "What Not to Wear." I was tickled pink until she pooh-poohed my new coffee table and protested a darling, gingham dress on the premise that it makes her "look like a picnic."

It's our middle daughter who's the real problem, though. Try as we might, she still prefers a book. All she does is read, read, read. And it's becoming downright anti-social. Whatever happened to family time? Despite the great lengths required to provide enrichment for the family, some kids just don't appreciate it.

Ah well, I guess someone ought to read the fine print.

Kristen Friesen is a wife and mother of three girls and lives in Grand Island. She grew up in a house on Cottonwood Drive in Lincoln, where she learned much of what she passes on in this column. Contact her at hervoice@theindependent.com.