This year is the sixth anniversary of our pool. And the third anniversary of our pool leak.
Three years ago, I noticed that the pool level was dropping several inches a week, so I mentioned it to the pool guy. His theory.....evaporation. The fact that it was fall and the temperature was struggling along in the seventies didn't phase him one bit. He swore it happened all the time to every pool he serviced. He was convinced that our pools were causing hurricanes, typhoons and monsoons the world over.
When I failed to buy into his theory, he came up with a new one....we had clearly splashed it out while we were swimming. Happened all the time to every pool he serviced. (I'd like to know who he thought we had swimming in our pools--Shamu?) It was what caused the neighbors' basements to flood when it rained. The fact that we hadn't even been in the pool that week was beside the point.
Two years ago, the new pool company came up with a different theory....a leak. Best case...recaulk the filters, the lights and the polaris(automatic pool cleaner thingy that runs around the pool sucking up leaves and such). Worst case.....rip up the deck and possibly the yard and replace the pipes. Perhaps I was too hasty dismissing guy number one. Maybe there was something to his evaporation theory after all.
Hoping for the best, we scheduled an appointment to have the pool recaulked. The good news was that we wouldn't have to drain the pool. The guy doing it would wear scuba gear and just do it under water. I should have sold tickets and popped some popcorn. I could have made a fortune.
That year, we were remodeling our kitchen (okay, and the bathroom, dining room and part of the basement. Oh, and painting every room in the house and replacing the back porch screens. We have issues with doing things in moderation, but that's another story). Anyway, the entire house was in shambles, we had a dumpster sitting out front with pieces of walls and floors sticking out of it as well as a broken pirate's sword (I assume one of the neighbors, but I'm not sure I want to know which one. Since none of them even remotely resemble Fabio, I can't imagine a good scenario here). Add to that the various trucks and cars with an astonishing array of tools and materials spilling out all over our yard, and it looked like we were filming an episode of Extreme Home Makeover. I think one of the guys actually did have a bullhorn (but again, something I'm not sure I want to know about).
Into this mix, came Scubaman. One bright, sunny afternoon, a white van pulled into the driveway. The back door swung open and a flipper stuck out. It turns out the flipper was attached to a leg and was part of a matching set. Slap, slap, slap. Up the driveway he came, complete with mask and tank. Tools abruptly ceased their clammoring, mouths dropped open, paint dripped unheeded down the walls, neighbors gathered so quickly, I wondered if someone hadn't ridden down the street shouting, "The pool guy is coming!".
We all followed Scubaman into the backyard and watched while he slipped into the pool. It was riveting; better even than Survivor or Dancing With the Stars. We were all kind of disappointed when it only took a few minutes for him to complete the job. Still, for those few shining moments, we had front row seats at our own Cirque du Soliel water show.
The water level held pretty well through the end of that season and into the next. Last August though, the water level began, once again, to drop. We decided to close the pool early and fix the problem at the beginning of this season, which is today. That way, I had time to set up the bleachers and send out the formal invitations. Now I just have to figure out how much to charge for the snacks.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Friday, April 20, 2007
My Car
Yesterday, I set out for the store to pick up some pork chops for dimer. I made it exactly three blocks.
Block one: going up the hill, my two-year old car which just had its regularly scheduled maintenance two months ago "slips" a little, like Ive hit an ice patch. Hmmm....probably not since it's sixty degrees. An oil slick??? Maybe. Oh, well, no biggie. Must get chops.
Block two: Uh oh, another oil slick? Had a tanker run aground in my suburban neighborhood? This time, it takes a second or two longer for the car to "catch" again, plus the little warning light on my dashboard blinks on and off. I'm begimning to suspect that something is not right here.
Maybe I pushed some button or hit some switch when I got into the car. Maybe it was like the time last year when I bumped the gear shift with my purse and put the car into manual shift mode. There I was driving down the street, engine revving like crazy and not really getting anywhere, cursing a blue streak. I made it halfway to the service center and had perfected a scathing monologue before I realized what I had done. I didn't even know the car had that option! Oh, well, live and learn.
So, gritting my teeth(when did it become necessary to have an advanced engineering degree to operate a car?) I pull over and examine the dashboard, hoping it will tell me what's wrong, but it is being coy. I talk soothingly and pat the dash encouragingly, telling the story of the little engine that could. I put the car in park, turn off the radio and rev the engine. I'm not sure what I'm listening for, but I've seen other people do this, and it seems to help. Yep, it sounds like a car allright.
Having exhausted my vast store of mechanical knowledge, I cross my fingers and proceed to block three. Slip, catch, thump, thump, thump. Warning lights flash frantically. I coast to a stop even though my foot is firmly pressing down on the gas. Something is definitely not right here. Maybe I didn't tell the little engine story correctly.
Suddenly, with a jerk, I shoot forward, hurtling toward the bumper of the car in front of me. Enough. Clearly, we were not meant to have pork chops for dinner. I briefly consider popping the hood and taking a look underneath, but I might break a nail and my day is going bad enough as it is. No sense piling one tragedy on top of another. Admitting defeat, I turn around and head back home, which, fortunately is downhill most of the way.
Several phone calls and a tow truck ride later, my car is at the shop and I am driving a loaner. ( A black PT cruiser, or Herman Munstermobile, as I like to call it). My service manager genially assured me that I would have my car back in no time, but the mechanic standing behind him, shaking his head and making faces didn't seem to back this up. Nor did the guy at the car rental counter who told me that he sees several other car owners on a regular basis. Maybe I can get invited to their weekly get-together. I'll bring the pork chops.
Block one: going up the hill, my two-year old car which just had its regularly scheduled maintenance two months ago "slips" a little, like Ive hit an ice patch. Hmmm....probably not since it's sixty degrees. An oil slick??? Maybe. Oh, well, no biggie. Must get chops.
Block two: Uh oh, another oil slick? Had a tanker run aground in my suburban neighborhood? This time, it takes a second or two longer for the car to "catch" again, plus the little warning light on my dashboard blinks on and off. I'm begimning to suspect that something is not right here.
Maybe I pushed some button or hit some switch when I got into the car. Maybe it was like the time last year when I bumped the gear shift with my purse and put the car into manual shift mode. There I was driving down the street, engine revving like crazy and not really getting anywhere, cursing a blue streak. I made it halfway to the service center and had perfected a scathing monologue before I realized what I had done. I didn't even know the car had that option! Oh, well, live and learn.
So, gritting my teeth(when did it become necessary to have an advanced engineering degree to operate a car?) I pull over and examine the dashboard, hoping it will tell me what's wrong, but it is being coy. I talk soothingly and pat the dash encouragingly, telling the story of the little engine that could. I put the car in park, turn off the radio and rev the engine. I'm not sure what I'm listening for, but I've seen other people do this, and it seems to help. Yep, it sounds like a car allright.
Having exhausted my vast store of mechanical knowledge, I cross my fingers and proceed to block three. Slip, catch, thump, thump, thump. Warning lights flash frantically. I coast to a stop even though my foot is firmly pressing down on the gas. Something is definitely not right here. Maybe I didn't tell the little engine story correctly.
Suddenly, with a jerk, I shoot forward, hurtling toward the bumper of the car in front of me. Enough. Clearly, we were not meant to have pork chops for dinner. I briefly consider popping the hood and taking a look underneath, but I might break a nail and my day is going bad enough as it is. No sense piling one tragedy on top of another. Admitting defeat, I turn around and head back home, which, fortunately is downhill most of the way.
Several phone calls and a tow truck ride later, my car is at the shop and I am driving a loaner. ( A black PT cruiser, or Herman Munstermobile, as I like to call it). My service manager genially assured me that I would have my car back in no time, but the mechanic standing behind him, shaking his head and making faces didn't seem to back this up. Nor did the guy at the car rental counter who told me that he sees several other car owners on a regular basis. Maybe I can get invited to their weekly get-together. I'll bring the pork chops.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Easter Mass
Every year when we go away for Easter, my mother insists we go to mass on Sunday. Somehow, this is always more complicated than it should be.
Year one: Vegas. Step one: find a church that offers an actual service that is not a drive-thru (this was my mother's rule; the rest of us were willing to negotiate on this point). Step two: Hope they have a mass in English that does not interfere with our feeding schedule (again, my mother. All you can eat buffet........knowing when to sit and when to stand; is there really a choice here?) Step three: getting there on time ( my mother is the maverick in the crowd; she wants to get a good spot in church, everyone else wants to get a good spot at the Treasure Island pirate show).
With all of these big issues decided, we set out for the church, which, according to the guy at the hotel, is only few blocks away. Yeah, right. And the odds are really in your favor at the casinos. Add to this the fact that every five feet there is someone handing us flyers, complete with pictures, advertising strip clubs, and we are really in a spiritual kind of place when we finally arrive at the church.
Naturally, our journey has taken us so long that by the time we arrive, the little church is jam packed, and we end up standing in the entryway along with two hundred of our closest friends in eighty degree weather. So much for step three. Fortunately, most of them brought their small children who managed to out-talk and out-cry the speaker system. We could barely hear the trumpet player, let alone the priest. So much for step two. One out of three isn't bad.
Year two: San Diego. My mother was not about to do a repeat of the previous year. She got everyone up and moving early. She insisted we take the car. She carefully selected our seats. Everything was going according to plan until.....wait. There were two churches in the same building? Were we in the right one? Where were half of the people going? Should we follow those who were leaving, or those who were staying?
Luckily, we chose to remain and have people stand in front of us, blocking any view of the priest, the altar, the entire front of the church. We also lucked out by picking the high mass and got to spend the last half hour listening to the people from the other chapel stand outside and visit with each other right next to our open door. This year, they actually did manage to drown out the trumpet player completely.
Year three: Florida. Once again, we were there early. We got seats with an unobstructed view. We were not near any open doors or windows. We could hear every word that was spoken, every note that was sung. Unfortunately, these were not positive things.
To put it kindly, the singer was not an American Idol finalist. In fact, he seemed to be from the William Hueng school of voice. There was also, as it turned out, no chance of the congregation drowning him out since about ninety percent of us were clearly visitors and and had never heard the songs before.
We had never heard the prayers or readings before either since we were attending a Malkite Church. A fact they failed to put on their sign out front, thereby luring in unsuspecting out-of-towners who think all Catholic churches are the same.
Mass began. Half of the congregation sat, half stood. Then, half knelt, half sat. Some finally gave up and just planted themselves for the duration. Others got up and stood in the back, the better to make a quick getaway. People frantically thumbed through hymnals trying to find out where we were and what we should be doing. The sign of peace was near the beginning, not the end. There were two collections and two homilies. Prayers started out sounding the same, and then halfway through, changed into something else. Confusion reigned.
Forty-five minutes later, we were back outside wondering if we had fulfilled our Easter Sunday obligation or if we should stick around for the Spanish mass or Arabic mass and see if those groups had a clue.
Maybe next year, we should find a nice Temple or Mosque to visit. The whole Catholic thing does not seem to be working for us.
Year one: Vegas. Step one: find a church that offers an actual service that is not a drive-thru (this was my mother's rule; the rest of us were willing to negotiate on this point). Step two: Hope they have a mass in English that does not interfere with our feeding schedule (again, my mother. All you can eat buffet........knowing when to sit and when to stand; is there really a choice here?) Step three: getting there on time ( my mother is the maverick in the crowd; she wants to get a good spot in church, everyone else wants to get a good spot at the Treasure Island pirate show).
With all of these big issues decided, we set out for the church, which, according to the guy at the hotel, is only few blocks away. Yeah, right. And the odds are really in your favor at the casinos. Add to this the fact that every five feet there is someone handing us flyers, complete with pictures, advertising strip clubs, and we are really in a spiritual kind of place when we finally arrive at the church.
Naturally, our journey has taken us so long that by the time we arrive, the little church is jam packed, and we end up standing in the entryway along with two hundred of our closest friends in eighty degree weather. So much for step three. Fortunately, most of them brought their small children who managed to out-talk and out-cry the speaker system. We could barely hear the trumpet player, let alone the priest. So much for step two. One out of three isn't bad.
Year two: San Diego. My mother was not about to do a repeat of the previous year. She got everyone up and moving early. She insisted we take the car. She carefully selected our seats. Everything was going according to plan until.....wait. There were two churches in the same building? Were we in the right one? Where were half of the people going? Should we follow those who were leaving, or those who were staying?
Luckily, we chose to remain and have people stand in front of us, blocking any view of the priest, the altar, the entire front of the church. We also lucked out by picking the high mass and got to spend the last half hour listening to the people from the other chapel stand outside and visit with each other right next to our open door. This year, they actually did manage to drown out the trumpet player completely.
Year three: Florida. Once again, we were there early. We got seats with an unobstructed view. We were not near any open doors or windows. We could hear every word that was spoken, every note that was sung. Unfortunately, these were not positive things.
To put it kindly, the singer was not an American Idol finalist. In fact, he seemed to be from the William Hueng school of voice. There was also, as it turned out, no chance of the congregation drowning him out since about ninety percent of us were clearly visitors and and had never heard the songs before.
We had never heard the prayers or readings before either since we were attending a Malkite Church. A fact they failed to put on their sign out front, thereby luring in unsuspecting out-of-towners who think all Catholic churches are the same.
Mass began. Half of the congregation sat, half stood. Then, half knelt, half sat. Some finally gave up and just planted themselves for the duration. Others got up and stood in the back, the better to make a quick getaway. People frantically thumbed through hymnals trying to find out where we were and what we should be doing. The sign of peace was near the beginning, not the end. There were two collections and two homilies. Prayers started out sounding the same, and then halfway through, changed into something else. Confusion reigned.
Forty-five minutes later, we were back outside wondering if we had fulfilled our Easter Sunday obligation or if we should stick around for the Spanish mass or Arabic mass and see if those groups had a clue.
Maybe next year, we should find a nice Temple or Mosque to visit. The whole Catholic thing does not seem to be working for us.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Yard Work
My grandparents on both sides were quite the gardeners. Flowers, plants, fruits, vegetables; they grew it all. I, on the other hand, have been known to kill silk flowers, and my mother holds the record for fastest kill: a poinsetta plant left on the porch for fifteen minutes one Christmas eve. Apparently, this was one genetic trait that was not passed down. Prematurely gray hair, yes, green thumb, no.
So with spring in the air (actually manure from everyone else on the block putting down fresh mulch), I hired a service to do some yard work. They would supply the mulch, I would supply the flowers, and within a few short hours, we would have a beautiful yard right out of Better Homes and Gardens.
Eight thirty in the morning, a truck pulled up and dropped off thirty bags of mulch. By 8:45, three men were digging and weeding and scrubbing at the brick planters. I happily got in my car and went off to Home Depot to get my flowers, thinking of how easy this was going to be.
Not being able to tell a tulip from a petunia, I got a cart and looked around for someone who could give me some helpful advice. Unlike in the commercial, where customers are greeted by smiling workers who not only advise them, but actually help them build the additions onto their homes, I could only find one cashier who was hiding inside her glass booth and looked more like Grumpy or Sneezy than Happy.
So I set off into the jungle of plants and flowers on my own, hoping for the best. I sniffed, I touched, I read signs. I started loading up my cart with pretty flowers in colors that would match the house. Then, I stumbled across something I never expected to see...an employee. Quickly, I grabbed him before he could disappear back into the maze of carts and racks and begged for help. Would these plants survive both the cool spring and blistering hot summer?
How much water did they need and how often? More importantly, could they survive the family curse?
Ten minutes later, after I finished putting all those flowers back, I reloaded my cart with new flowers that didn't match the house as well, but had a better chance of survival. Ten minutes after that, I emptied them out of the cart onto a flatbed cart that would hold the amount of flowers I needed and would only take me one trip to the car. And ten minutes after that, I had a car that looked like a float in the Rose Parade, and clogged up my sinuses for the next two days.
Arriving home, I unloaded the car and discovered the men had moved on to the back yard. They had weeded the front within an inch of its life, yet left untouched some scraggly looking green things and one lone petunia from last year, as well as a totally dead shrub. I guess I wasn't clear about ripping out pretty much everything.
I brought the guy who seemed to be in charge up front and tried, despite the language barrier to explain to him (again) what I wanted done. He nodded very agreeably and quickly disposed of the offending matter while I separated the containers of flowers and arranged them in the flower beds. Hmmmm, I definitely needed more flowers. I had used up my entire haul and didn't have any left for the backyard.
Okay, back to the Home Deopot for more flowers. Load the cart, unload the cart. Load the car, unload the car. Hadn't I hired people so I wouldn't have to do any work?
Haul the flowers around the house to the back only to discover that I may have been a bit too clear about ripping things out because the one flower bed was missing the big, leafy plants that had been growing there for the past five years. Apparently they looked less healthy than the dead bush. Once more, the team leader nodded agreeably while I gestured, spoke slowly and used small words (I know that this does not help me understand another language any better when I am in a foreign country, but I was getting desperate. I even considered running inside and watching a few episodes of Dora the Explorer to see if she could help me).
In the end, I decided it was better for my blood pressure to give up and go back to the store for more flowers. Fifteen minutes later I returned to find that, thankfully, no more perfectly healthy plants had been ripped out. We were, however, missing a strip of grass that ran between one of the flower beds and the fence. That whole area was now one giant flower bed!!! I've seen less carnage in horror movies. This was way beyond Dora's abilities now.
Concerned for the remaining grass and our dogwood tree, I decided to keep a closer eye on the guy doing the weeding. A few minutes later, head guy wanted to show me how nice the planted flowers looked, so I followed him over to the flower bed I where I had spent a considerable amount of time painstakingly arranging the flowers in groups, according to color. Proudly, he pointed to where he had transfered the flowers into the bed, spreading them out in a widely random pattern, mixing and matching colors. He gave me the thumbs up sign and a broad smile, clearly pleased with his artistry.
Shockingly, he was surprised when I didn't hug him and shower him with praise.
Next year, I'm contacting a clairvoyant and seeing if I can channel either one of my grandparents for an afternoon.
So with spring in the air (actually manure from everyone else on the block putting down fresh mulch), I hired a service to do some yard work. They would supply the mulch, I would supply the flowers, and within a few short hours, we would have a beautiful yard right out of Better Homes and Gardens.
Eight thirty in the morning, a truck pulled up and dropped off thirty bags of mulch. By 8:45, three men were digging and weeding and scrubbing at the brick planters. I happily got in my car and went off to Home Depot to get my flowers, thinking of how easy this was going to be.
Not being able to tell a tulip from a petunia, I got a cart and looked around for someone who could give me some helpful advice. Unlike in the commercial, where customers are greeted by smiling workers who not only advise them, but actually help them build the additions onto their homes, I could only find one cashier who was hiding inside her glass booth and looked more like Grumpy or Sneezy than Happy.
So I set off into the jungle of plants and flowers on my own, hoping for the best. I sniffed, I touched, I read signs. I started loading up my cart with pretty flowers in colors that would match the house. Then, I stumbled across something I never expected to see...an employee. Quickly, I grabbed him before he could disappear back into the maze of carts and racks and begged for help. Would these plants survive both the cool spring and blistering hot summer?
How much water did they need and how often? More importantly, could they survive the family curse?
Ten minutes later, after I finished putting all those flowers back, I reloaded my cart with new flowers that didn't match the house as well, but had a better chance of survival. Ten minutes after that, I emptied them out of the cart onto a flatbed cart that would hold the amount of flowers I needed and would only take me one trip to the car. And ten minutes after that, I had a car that looked like a float in the Rose Parade, and clogged up my sinuses for the next two days.
Arriving home, I unloaded the car and discovered the men had moved on to the back yard. They had weeded the front within an inch of its life, yet left untouched some scraggly looking green things and one lone petunia from last year, as well as a totally dead shrub. I guess I wasn't clear about ripping out pretty much everything.
I brought the guy who seemed to be in charge up front and tried, despite the language barrier to explain to him (again) what I wanted done. He nodded very agreeably and quickly disposed of the offending matter while I separated the containers of flowers and arranged them in the flower beds. Hmmmm, I definitely needed more flowers. I had used up my entire haul and didn't have any left for the backyard.
Okay, back to the Home Deopot for more flowers. Load the cart, unload the cart. Load the car, unload the car. Hadn't I hired people so I wouldn't have to do any work?
Haul the flowers around the house to the back only to discover that I may have been a bit too clear about ripping things out because the one flower bed was missing the big, leafy plants that had been growing there for the past five years. Apparently they looked less healthy than the dead bush. Once more, the team leader nodded agreeably while I gestured, spoke slowly and used small words (I know that this does not help me understand another language any better when I am in a foreign country, but I was getting desperate. I even considered running inside and watching a few episodes of Dora the Explorer to see if she could help me).
In the end, I decided it was better for my blood pressure to give up and go back to the store for more flowers. Fifteen minutes later I returned to find that, thankfully, no more perfectly healthy plants had been ripped out. We were, however, missing a strip of grass that ran between one of the flower beds and the fence. That whole area was now one giant flower bed!!! I've seen less carnage in horror movies. This was way beyond Dora's abilities now.
Concerned for the remaining grass and our dogwood tree, I decided to keep a closer eye on the guy doing the weeding. A few minutes later, head guy wanted to show me how nice the planted flowers looked, so I followed him over to the flower bed I where I had spent a considerable amount of time painstakingly arranging the flowers in groups, according to color. Proudly, he pointed to where he had transfered the flowers into the bed, spreading them out in a widely random pattern, mixing and matching colors. He gave me the thumbs up sign and a broad smile, clearly pleased with his artistry.
Shockingly, he was surprised when I didn't hug him and shower him with praise.
Next year, I'm contacting a clairvoyant and seeing if I can channel either one of my grandparents for an afternoon.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Florida Trip
Just got back from our trip to Florida, and despite my father's dire predictions, no one sat on the runway for 19 hours, got stranded in Dogpatch, had a close encounter with a bedbug, or lost their luggage. Well, okay, we did lose our luggage, but it was on the way home and it wasn't one of his bags. But one out of four isn't bad. You have to be optimistic.
Day one: We land an hour ahead of my parents and sister, which gives us just enough time to hike the twenty miles from our baggage claim area to their baggage claim area. Fortunately, I was able to multi-task during the trip, shedding my winter layers of sweaters and jacket, dragging two bags, and calling our alarm company to find out why they had dispatched the police to our home an hour earlier.
Naturally, they immediately put my fears to rest. Yes, the police had been sent and the alarm reset. Oh, I wanted to know if someone had broken in? Well, uh, probably not or the police would have notified us... or them... or something like that. Anyway, they were having a hard time hearing me on my cell, so I should call back later...or maybe I should call the police.....or something like that. Couldn't I just run home and check it out myself?
Okay, this was not good, but I was going to be optimistic. Everything was going to be fine. All of our possessions were not currently for sale on E-bay.
I was able to stay in this happy place until we went to get our rental car. Which wasn't there. Reservation? Try the other counter. No, not this counter. That one over there. Oh, yes, here is the problem. We gave the car to someone else. Don't worry, we'll give you another car. You can fit five people and all your luggage into a mini-Cooper, right?
It was definitely getting harder to be optimistic, but hey, it was snowing back home and it was 80 and sunny here. Except that it wasn't 80 in the car. It was about 40, and there was no way to shut off the airflow to the back, or even turn it down. From my seat in the middle, I could direct the air up into my face or down onto my legs, but I could not get the vents to shut. Turning the air down in front apparently resulted in sweltering conditions for everyone else, so I had a choice...get frostbite from the top down, or the bottom up. Good thing I left all that winter weather behind!
It's a short trip to the hotel though, a mere fifteen minutes, so I probably won't have to have anything amputated. Except that they are doing major construction in Miami and the bridge we want is closed, and there are so many cones and barriers and detours that it makes construction season in Pennsylvania look like a walk in the park. I have now lost all feeling in my extremities and therefore can't raise my arm to look at my watch, but this trip is definitely taking longer than 15 minutes.
Four U-turns and eight trips around the same turning circle later, we finally arrive at the hotel.
Naturally, our room isn't ready, but staying in my "winter clothes" to go have lunch and walk around South Beach doesn't seem like a bad idea. It may help me defrost faster. (Actually, after about a half hour in the Miami sun, I am not so much defrosting as melting, but the clothes do keep me from burning. Well, everywhere except for the few square inches that are exposed, which turn a lovely shade of fire engine red. Hmmm, frostbite and sunburn all within an hour of each other. Optimism is quickly becoming a thing of the past.)
Another trip back to the hotel in the rolling refrigerator. Three U-turns and only once around the turning circle. We get a room, a shower and head out for dinner. We decide to take cabs this time (yeah! I don't have to bring my coat and two sweaters). As we step out into the driveway, I discover that I should have brought my umbrella though. It is raining. Not a gentle, refreshing rain, but a downpour. Now I am having a hard time even thinking about being optimistic.
Since there are five of us, we need to take two cabs. My mother, sister and I get into the first cab, leaving Tim and my dad to catch the second one. Fifteen minutes later, Tim calls me. Where are we? They are at the restaurant already and waiting to be seated. Apparently, our driver decided to take the longest way possible. I probably should have been suspicious when I saw the sign that said "Welcome to Georgia".
Now I don't even know the word optimism. Day One of vacation is done. Tomorrow will be a better day. I'm........hopeful.
Day one: We land an hour ahead of my parents and sister, which gives us just enough time to hike the twenty miles from our baggage claim area to their baggage claim area. Fortunately, I was able to multi-task during the trip, shedding my winter layers of sweaters and jacket, dragging two bags, and calling our alarm company to find out why they had dispatched the police to our home an hour earlier.
Naturally, they immediately put my fears to rest. Yes, the police had been sent and the alarm reset. Oh, I wanted to know if someone had broken in? Well, uh, probably not or the police would have notified us... or them... or something like that. Anyway, they were having a hard time hearing me on my cell, so I should call back later...or maybe I should call the police.....or something like that. Couldn't I just run home and check it out myself?
Okay, this was not good, but I was going to be optimistic. Everything was going to be fine. All of our possessions were not currently for sale on E-bay.
I was able to stay in this happy place until we went to get our rental car. Which wasn't there. Reservation? Try the other counter. No, not this counter. That one over there. Oh, yes, here is the problem. We gave the car to someone else. Don't worry, we'll give you another car. You can fit five people and all your luggage into a mini-Cooper, right?
It was definitely getting harder to be optimistic, but hey, it was snowing back home and it was 80 and sunny here. Except that it wasn't 80 in the car. It was about 40, and there was no way to shut off the airflow to the back, or even turn it down. From my seat in the middle, I could direct the air up into my face or down onto my legs, but I could not get the vents to shut. Turning the air down in front apparently resulted in sweltering conditions for everyone else, so I had a choice...get frostbite from the top down, or the bottom up. Good thing I left all that winter weather behind!
It's a short trip to the hotel though, a mere fifteen minutes, so I probably won't have to have anything amputated. Except that they are doing major construction in Miami and the bridge we want is closed, and there are so many cones and barriers and detours that it makes construction season in Pennsylvania look like a walk in the park. I have now lost all feeling in my extremities and therefore can't raise my arm to look at my watch, but this trip is definitely taking longer than 15 minutes.
Four U-turns and eight trips around the same turning circle later, we finally arrive at the hotel.
Naturally, our room isn't ready, but staying in my "winter clothes" to go have lunch and walk around South Beach doesn't seem like a bad idea. It may help me defrost faster. (Actually, after about a half hour in the Miami sun, I am not so much defrosting as melting, but the clothes do keep me from burning. Well, everywhere except for the few square inches that are exposed, which turn a lovely shade of fire engine red. Hmmm, frostbite and sunburn all within an hour of each other. Optimism is quickly becoming a thing of the past.)
Another trip back to the hotel in the rolling refrigerator. Three U-turns and only once around the turning circle. We get a room, a shower and head out for dinner. We decide to take cabs this time (yeah! I don't have to bring my coat and two sweaters). As we step out into the driveway, I discover that I should have brought my umbrella though. It is raining. Not a gentle, refreshing rain, but a downpour. Now I am having a hard time even thinking about being optimistic.
Since there are five of us, we need to take two cabs. My mother, sister and I get into the first cab, leaving Tim and my dad to catch the second one. Fifteen minutes later, Tim calls me. Where are we? They are at the restaurant already and waiting to be seated. Apparently, our driver decided to take the longest way possible. I probably should have been suspicious when I saw the sign that said "Welcome to Georgia".
Now I don't even know the word optimism. Day One of vacation is done. Tomorrow will be a better day. I'm........hopeful.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
The Great Apartment Search
My sister-in-law recently accepted a new job in our area, so we spent the weekend helping her search for an apartment here in town, along with my other sister-in-law and five year old neice.
Since we live in a large, metropolitan area with literally hundreds of apartment buildings, it should be easy, right? Go to any grocery store and there are free books the size of the Oxford English Dictionary listing all the possibilities. Choose a price range, an area, the ammenities you want, check out a couple for comparison and voila, you have a new home. Yeah. Right. In Fantasyland maybe.
In the real world, you load everyone in the car and drive to your first choice, try to figure out the code to punch into the call box so that you can actually get into the building(God forbid they would list the leasing office number on a plaque and make it easy for you, after all you are only trying to give them your money), fill out a form, collect floorplans, go over pricing, give them your license, take a guided tour of every nook and crany of the building, mention you have a dog....uh oh. Danger Will Robinson!!!!!!!
A dog. What breed? How many pounds? Now your choices are limited. No big dogs. No problem, he weighs only 10 pounds. No aggressive breeds. Safe again, he's a Yorkie, but he thinks he's a doberman, does that count? No apartments above the second floor in this building. Why? Apparently, that is all their little doggie bladders can handle. Oh, and then there are the additional fees, including monthly rent for FIdo. Guess the little guy will have to stop slacking off and go out and get a job.
You have a car too? More monthly fees! You want heat, water, air conditioning in the summer? That'll cost you. You didn't think the astronomical rent covered any of that, did you?
On to the other choices in the book, but we were getting smarter. We'd pull up and I would hop out (avoiding the whole circus clowns out of the minicar compounded by a carseat thing), crack the secret leasing office code, cover the "doggie issue", then give the others the thumbs up or down signal. Forms, floorplans, pricing (adding in generous amounts for both dog and car), license, tour and out.
This building allowed dogs up to the fifth floor (apparently, the dogs living here had bigger bladders), that building allowed them on any floor (I don't even want to think about the size of their bladders!). This building had an underground garage, that building had a separate but attached garage and the one building had the garage across the street(single women returning home late at night concerned about their safety were encouraged to park in the tow away zone in front of the building. They won't really tow you as long as you are gone by six a.m.)
Some places had walk-in closets that were bigger than the living room/dining room area, some had closets so small you would have to go to the additional storage area offered on each floor (for a fee, of course) to choose your outfit for the next day and hope you could fit it into the closet without crushing it, and some had two or three closets, but spread out througout the apartment, offering a different kind of challenge.
We were beginning to feel like Goldilocks. Did the apartment exist that was "just right"? Up, down, in, out. They all began to blur together after awhile. Which one had the doggie park? Was it the one on the second floor with the balcony that overlooked the garbage bins, or the one on the fifth floor with the hallway that smelled like cabbage? Maybe it was the one that had the rooftop pool the size of a standard bathtub?
While we were trying to sort it all out, weighing things like square footage, proximity to work, safety issues and price, my neice was using her own system. Food. Most of the leasing offices offered bowls of mints, which she sampled freely, determined to get one of each color. Some offered cookies, while still others had beverages. (FYI, the pink mints tasted good, but the white ones are the best, and most of the cookies are butter and not really worth trying. They are on the dry side).
Feet aching, heads spinning we finally cried, "Uncle" and came home. And that is when the e-mails and phone calls began. Special pricing was suddenly being offered, there were deals to be had. There was no respite to be had from "The Great Apartment Search". And just think, if she was anything like her brother, my sister-in-law would move every few years and allow us to share in the fun multiple times. Now I remember why we live in a house.
Since we live in a large, metropolitan area with literally hundreds of apartment buildings, it should be easy, right? Go to any grocery store and there are free books the size of the Oxford English Dictionary listing all the possibilities. Choose a price range, an area, the ammenities you want, check out a couple for comparison and voila, you have a new home. Yeah. Right. In Fantasyland maybe.
In the real world, you load everyone in the car and drive to your first choice, try to figure out the code to punch into the call box so that you can actually get into the building(God forbid they would list the leasing office number on a plaque and make it easy for you, after all you are only trying to give them your money), fill out a form, collect floorplans, go over pricing, give them your license, take a guided tour of every nook and crany of the building, mention you have a dog....uh oh. Danger Will Robinson!!!!!!!
A dog. What breed? How many pounds? Now your choices are limited. No big dogs. No problem, he weighs only 10 pounds. No aggressive breeds. Safe again, he's a Yorkie, but he thinks he's a doberman, does that count? No apartments above the second floor in this building. Why? Apparently, that is all their little doggie bladders can handle. Oh, and then there are the additional fees, including monthly rent for FIdo. Guess the little guy will have to stop slacking off and go out and get a job.
You have a car too? More monthly fees! You want heat, water, air conditioning in the summer? That'll cost you. You didn't think the astronomical rent covered any of that, did you?
On to the other choices in the book, but we were getting smarter. We'd pull up and I would hop out (avoiding the whole circus clowns out of the minicar compounded by a carseat thing), crack the secret leasing office code, cover the "doggie issue", then give the others the thumbs up or down signal. Forms, floorplans, pricing (adding in generous amounts for both dog and car), license, tour and out.
This building allowed dogs up to the fifth floor (apparently, the dogs living here had bigger bladders), that building allowed them on any floor (I don't even want to think about the size of their bladders!). This building had an underground garage, that building had a separate but attached garage and the one building had the garage across the street(single women returning home late at night concerned about their safety were encouraged to park in the tow away zone in front of the building. They won't really tow you as long as you are gone by six a.m.)
Some places had walk-in closets that were bigger than the living room/dining room area, some had closets so small you would have to go to the additional storage area offered on each floor (for a fee, of course) to choose your outfit for the next day and hope you could fit it into the closet without crushing it, and some had two or three closets, but spread out througout the apartment, offering a different kind of challenge.
We were beginning to feel like Goldilocks. Did the apartment exist that was "just right"? Up, down, in, out. They all began to blur together after awhile. Which one had the doggie park? Was it the one on the second floor with the balcony that overlooked the garbage bins, or the one on the fifth floor with the hallway that smelled like cabbage? Maybe it was the one that had the rooftop pool the size of a standard bathtub?
While we were trying to sort it all out, weighing things like square footage, proximity to work, safety issues and price, my neice was using her own system. Food. Most of the leasing offices offered bowls of mints, which she sampled freely, determined to get one of each color. Some offered cookies, while still others had beverages. (FYI, the pink mints tasted good, but the white ones are the best, and most of the cookies are butter and not really worth trying. They are on the dry side).
Feet aching, heads spinning we finally cried, "Uncle" and came home. And that is when the e-mails and phone calls began. Special pricing was suddenly being offered, there were deals to be had. There was no respite to be had from "The Great Apartment Search". And just think, if she was anything like her brother, my sister-in-law would move every few years and allow us to share in the fun multiple times. Now I remember why we live in a house.
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