I don't want you to take this the wrong way...

"Now, I don't want you to take this the wrong way..."

"Oh, no!" My mind was racing. "He's going to break up with me. Or tell me I have bad breath. Or tell me he hates my friends. Or there's something in my nose. Ennnhhhh..."

I was wrong, of course. The internet repair dude proceeded to explain to me, in excruciatingly boring and incomprehensible detail, that I was never, ever to move some little box thingy that had to do with the internet. I explained we were only renting the beach house for a week and hadn't touched the mystery thingy. He gave me a world weary look that said he was onto me and all the other saboteurs of the World Wide Internets. I love the internets. Why would I try to kill them?

He held up a little machine, kind of like the one they used in Ghostbusters, that he had used to prove we moved the thingy. He brandished it, insisting it had shown him that "those levels were extremely low, which means somebody [insert raised eyebrows here] moved the blahblahblah." With a physical demonstration, he explained exactly how he had held the fancy machine up to the internet thingy and measured the levels. My husband stood behind him, laughing silently as I tried to defend our family honor. I felt kind of mad at him for not punching or at least threatening the guy. There are times when I'd appreciate a well placed, "I ain't gonna' stand by and let you talk to mah little lady like that."

"Wait," I asked, "Do you mean bump it or actually move it to another room? Because we might have bumped it."

"Blah, blahblahblah...move it to another room...blahblah. Blahblah, blahblahblah. Blah," the repair dude answered. During the lecture, which involved a lot of hand gesturing, I noticed he was wearing a wedding ring. I might have zoned out for at least a minute and a half and it might have occurred to me that his wife probably never argues with him, in a desperate attempt to avoid long speeches like this one. I explained again that I might have bumped it, but hadn't moved it. I was rewarded with another smirk. I'm not above lying, like the time I insisted I had no idea how my cell phone had gotten wet, inside and out (Truth: I let the baby suck on it for about an hour during a long road trip.) But this time I was telling the truth.

I mentioned several times that we were renters and hadn't moved or rigged anything. He did not hear me. He also didn't hear me when I assured him we hadn't added the piece of "store bought" something or other that he thought was obstructing the internets. I wish you could just wave a little flag and call a truce in these situations. I don't have any real need to be right; I just want the car/internet/phone/dishwasher/other high tech thingy fixed. No explanation necessary. But repair people are the new priests. They want a confession. Problem is, they don't offer absolution, only scoffing.

He did manage to fix the elusive internets, for which I'm grateful. And he finally left. I was beginning to think he wanted to stay for a drink and talk about our treachery some more. The last we saw of him, he was in his truck, talking on a cell phone and rolling his eyes, probably telling one of his colleagues about the big, fat liars who tried to kill the internet. Oh well!

Namasté, y'all!