Today's funny: Cable Confabulation
My grandmother will not be getting cable. Given her problems with attention span, short-term memory, executive function and impulse control, the second worst thing for her is TV programming that runs on a 7 minute program, 2.5 minutes of commercials schedule, and the absolute worst thing for her are 23 minute commercials disguised as programs with 7 minutes of actual commercials. I've seen her with commercial television -- it ain't pretty. (The Food network and Paula Deen are responsible for the 4 years of 200-500 blood sugar readings and needing insulin. Without those, and her own kitchen, she's a rock-solid 100 without insulin.)
She has a roku and all of the benefits of Netflix, Amazon, hulu+, et cetera. It's got a lovely, simple, sturdy remote and limited to no commercials. The downside of the roku is that she has to be an active viewer and make decisions about what she wants to watch instead of letting the goddam noisy box decide for her, but that's to her advantage.
Today, the maintenance guy at her ALF asked me to sign off on her cable box. What cable box? I asked. Neurologically, I'd rather she took heroin or started her day with a big Bloody Mary. He says that she told him my mother arranged for cable for her. Uh, no, sez I, my mother would never do that without involving me, and Mom agrees that Gran+cable is a bad! bad! bad! idea. (Also, local cable company is comcast, and good lord, can you imagine trying to shut that down when the inevitable happens? 35 minutes of "She's DEAD," and "But we have the fastest speed! What's the new address? Would you like to add HBO?" Insert RAGE face here.)
Maintenance Guy and I agree that there is no cable order, that there is no incoming cable, that the box is a fantasy, and any blowback belongs on me, not him. Then I go talk to Gran. Who has convinced herself that Mom set up cable for her. So we call Mom. Who is trying hard not to laugh in my Gran's ear as she says, no, I did not, and no, you cannot have cable, and if you want your Days of Your Lives, you can trundle your butt 100 feet down the hall to the TV room and watch it with the 4 other ladies who are DOYL fans. Which is where the pouts start -- yep, imagine a thwarted 4 year old. But I WAAAAANT cable.
Tough, sez we. And I want a pony, sez I, and I want a pool, sez Mom. Note that we're not whining. (These are normal family dynamics for us, ritual phrases for whinging.)
Pouts continue. Mom sez, you have the internet and a phone. Figure out how to set it up yourself. Do the legwork. (There is no risk in this actually happening; see above about memory and motivation. But if it does, then yes, dammit, I will happily sign the checks for a cable-like substitute, and lock out all of the shopping, Fundy, Faux and DIY channels. Because standards, we has them, and independence and rebellion, we likes it.)
Mom gets off phone, I tell Gran that if she can make it 60 days without falling, we'll talk cable (actually, Xfinity, because Centurylink is better behaved than Comcast, but the difference is measured in gnat's wings.) We go about our business, and ten minutes later, she says, "But why can't I have cable? I did all the legwork. I arranged it!"
"Uh, no, you lied to Maintenance Guy and you just made that up. 60 days. You're on day 5. And trundle your butt down to the TV room and watch it on the big screen with everyone else. 2 PM, channel 13." And I write that on the reminder board.
We'll see if it happens, or if the whinge continues.
The internal head stories are amazing. Dementia is sucktastic, and yet way too funny sometimes.
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