Over the "Wee Fee" Wire

Nation,
There is an issue that needs to be addressed, familiar introductory words by Stephen Colbert, but the meaning behind them enforced by moi.
Here's the deal. I have a whole lot of stories that are dying to be published, but I have yet to, well this is going to sound so catastrophe, I have yet to set up wi-fi (pron. "weefee") in my apartment.

I slink down in terror of what everyone must be thinking... how is it possible? She seems like such a bright girl, a modern one at that, and how does she exist on this planet without weefee? Doesn't she work in the internet industry or whatever they're calling it these days?

Here's the deal...

In order to set up wireless cable at one's home in France, one must have the telephone number of the previous tenant who resided at your exact address. Given that I live in an apartment building that was rented to me through an agency, where previous tenant vacated months before I arrived, how the hell am I to obtain this information? I asked my building guardien where I could obtain this much needed data. Without haste she runs inside her apartment and hands me a slip of paper with a mans name on it and my address. What am I supposed to do with that? Who the heck is Pierre? Am I supposed to hire the FBI to seek and destroy this man?
*Useless. (*not sure if im referring to her, me or pierre there)

Anyway, Thats point one. Need Pierre's digits.

Point 2, is that telephone conversations are still quite difficult for me. Without the hand and face gestures, really all french sounds the same over the wire. Most likely this person will sound pissed at you, and will display characteristics of being loud, interruptive and will spout never-ending dialogue. I sit silently at the end of the line waiting for my turn to speak, but really not knowing what Im going to say when it is finally my turn. So I resort to the usual, "d'accord. d'accord." (OK) And we'll hang up amicably. Yes friends, its like this all the time.

So where has this gotten me? Day in and day out, I live tormented by my peers that even though I was the first in my office to have the coveted Apple itouch, I still have not been able to sort a connection to it. My laptop sits in sad little dust bunnies at chez moi waiting for me to embrace it, but alas, I just cant bring myself to tease little "delly."She is frought with dispair over my absence, I just know it.

And remember that beautiful flat screen I purchased way back when? Well she sits almost untouched with the exception of rampant dvd play because I can only tune her to 3 or 4 staticky channels. (Sidenote: I've now seen every single episode of sex and the city minimum 3 times. Treated myself to the box set for Valentines day and have regretted it ever since. Its addiciting and I cant stop and they should have put a label on the box indicating such behavior would occur. Not might ladies and gents. Will! Beware!)

So Im living in a material world with technical depression.

And so the reason I havent been writing as frequently as I should is because I have sad tech. I have to resort to publishing from work now, and I always feel a little guilty when I do that. Not because Im at work, but because my heart cant really spill under halogen lighting. I cant focus on my prose in office conditions.Im at my best when safely nestled in my "home office." Bureau de moi consists of a nice glass (bottle) of red, a cigarette (pack) idling nearby, itouche playing lightly in the background, and yours truly stretched out on my chaise with laptop where it belongs-- on my lap.

So until I can take command over this ever-elusive wireless scenario, I guess I'll just have to oui, wee, wi all the way home.