Friday, August 31, 2007

Red Light, Green Light

Well, we made it through vacation hurricane free. The island was beautiful, the resort amazing, the beach pristine, the food delicious, and the room (suite actually, bigger than our first apartment) fabulous. When we could actually get into it, that is.

Days one, two and three were no problem. Day four was where our trouble started.

We rolled up from the beach late in the afternoon, put my key into the lock, and , uh oh, red light. Once again, except more slowly. Red light. More quickly. Red light. Tim tried his key. Red light. Slow. Fast. Jiggle handle. Kick door. Red light. Red light. Red light. Frayed nerve. Oh, and full bladder.

Luckily, the concierge happened by at that moment. Shaking his head (mentally at least, I'm sure) at the technologically challenged tourists, he tried both our keys and got...a red light. Chagrined, he offered to go to the office and reprogram our keys. Since the office was four flights down in an airless elevaator that moved with all the speed of a constipated trutle and one building away, we let him.

By the time he returned, Tim really had to use the bathroom and was bouncing around the hallway like a Dancing With The Stars reject. Fortunately, the new keys worked and disaster was averted. Oh well, these things happen. Everyday apparently.

The next morning after breakfast, I ran back to the room and, once again, I got the red light. With no concierge to rescue me, I made the long trek to the office where they reprogrammed my key (again) and had the nerve to actually be cheerful about it. Obviously, they liked to live on the edge.

Later that day, it was Tim's key that needed to be reprogrammed. We were starting to see red lights in our sleep!

The next day, they added to the degree of difficulty. The elevator was being used to transport bags of topsoil and palm trees to the rooftop garden, so now I had to walk up four flights of an outdoor stairwell in ninety-five degrees....twice.

Enough was enough. This time, I wanted a manager(or at least his head) and not some chipper concierge who didn't seem to understand why not being able to get into our room was a bad thing. After I recounted our saga in colorful detail that made those Bridezilla contestants look like Mary Poppins, he offered to give me new keys since reprogramming the old ones didn't seem to be working (ya think?????) .

Success at last! Green light!!! Our last two days, we had unlimited access to our room. It was enough to make us giddy with happiness(but really cut down on our exercise program). Of course, that was before the air conditioning broke down on our last day there......

Monday, August 20, 2007

Vacation, Round Two

Clearly, God does not want us to go to the beach again this summer.

Here we were, sorting through bathing suits, buying trashy novels and stockpiling sunblock fifty when it happened...Hurricane Dennis.

Now we had thought of hurricanes in the Carribbian when we planned this vacation. After all, we have gotten blown out twice before (Once apparently was not enough, but hey, we eventually got the point. It's not like we need a house to fall on us or anything, just a few palm trees). So we very carefully chose our destination. A place that was so unlikely to be affected by the hurricanes that just the mere thought sent our travel agent into gales of laughter...Grand Cayman.

We asked around, we got recommendations for restaurants, we surfed the net, we even got a book on the island. We received our travel documents, gathered up our passports, left an itinerary for our families...and then Mother Nature had a bad hair day.

We watched, with disbelieving eyes, as the hurricane headed straight for our dream vacation spot, the one we had spent so much time planning for (all right, the one our travel agent spent so much time planning for, but we spent a lot of time complaining and vetoing his ideas, so why split hairs?).

Fortunately, we had purchased insurance, so we were able to cancel without a penalty, but that left us right back at square one...wanting a vacation, but not sure where we wanted to go, just knowing we didn't want to go...there.

After we talked our agent down from the ledge (Since it was only a three story building, and he probably would have survived the fall, he surrendered fairly quickly. He was probably afraid we would follow him into the intensive care unit and there would be no possible chance for escape then), he began checking out possibilities.

Beach reservations the second week in August for the third week in August. Oh, yeah, and we'd like to borrow the crown jewels too to take with us.

As luck would have it (it was either luck, or our agent did something really bad that I don't want to know about...that way I can't be called upon to testify in court), we got the last room at a really great place(he says) on Turks and Caicos. Of course, he had to explain exactly where that is, since we were both absent the day that was taught in geography class (my grandmother never did trust that Jesuit education).

Anyway, we picked up our new tickets (our agent was trying to hide at a branch office, but we found him anyway) and take off first thing tomorrow morning for someplace we've never heard of, in a place we only recently found on a map for two weeks. I am not bringing my computer with me, so I will have to blog about it when I get back.

Anyone want to take bets on whether the hurricane doubles back and heads straight for us?

Friday, August 17, 2007

Barking Mad

This week, we are dog-sitting for a few months...er, weeks...er, days. He is a very cute and extremely friendly little Yorkie who likes long walks in the park, meeting new people, kissing (you learn to be on guard, or go through a lot of Listerine) and playing with his big, pink bear. What he doesn't like is being dognapped.

He watched his mom pack. He saw her leave with two suitcases. And yet, when we showed up to "rescue" him, he decided, deep in that fuzzy little brain, that we were stealing him from his mom, and therefore,somebody must pay.

5pm A good long walk to tire him out (he was okay with that)

6pm A car ride (still okay as long as he gets to ride up front in his car seat. S-P-O-I-L-E-D)

6:30pm Arrive at our house. Cook dinner(hot dogs on the grill). The barking begins (maybe hot dogs were a poor choice)

7pm Feed dog; eat dinner. The barking continues. Knowing I, step-mommy dearest, won't give him "people food" (I dealt with the constipation and extremely unpleasant resolution to the problem last time, he targets Tim, the "weak link", to be the sole ( I wish) recipient of each loud, shrill yip amd yap.

7:30pm Still barking at Tim, jumping up on ottoman to go (psycho) mano a mano as Tim tries to watch TV.

8pm Barking continues. Now barking at counter where treats are, then barking at Tim.

8:30pm Bark! Tim's head explodes. Brain matter all over walls. I take dog for a long walk. Tim goes on hour-long, fruitless search for puppy training pads at CVS, Safeway, etc.

9:30pm We all return home. Barking resumes.

10pm Ten minute walk. Pees on car tire of neighbor while barking at another dog.

10:30 Bed. Barking stops. He has decided to forgive Tim. Kissing starts.

11pm Finally, kissing stops. Single woof.

11:11pm Single woof.

11:12pm Single woof.

11:13pm Single woof. (Okay, okay, we'll spill the top secret info. Just make it stop!)

11:15pm Worn out by the previous activities, he sleeps.

3:30am Woof! Doogie downers, anyone?

4am Woof! "Shut up!"

4:30am Woof! and kisses. "Go away!" Threats are issued.

5am Dogs next door bark. Guess who responds. Yelling. Cursing. Barking.

5:30am Woof! Dire threats are issued.

6am Neighbors bark. We respond. Again. Cursing. Threats. Again.

7am Everyone up! Time for a walk and breakfast.

7:30am Tim eats. Barking starts (continues?)

8am Tim showers. Dog hurls himself at shower door, bathroom door, bedroom door, whatever door is available and between himself and his target, barking all the while.

8:30am Tim leaves for work. Dog collapses on floor and goes to sleep. Rests voice for when Tim returns home.

7pm Tim returns home from work. Round two begins..........?!?!?

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Vacation, a.k.a. decisions, decisions

Our travel agent cringes when he sees our number come up on caller ID. Not only do we wait until the last minute, and we're not sure what we want, but we know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, we don't want that.

This year, we gave him explicit instructions: send us someplace good, keeping in mind we've already been to the beach for one week. Oh, and we want to leave in three weeks.

Two days later, he called with suggestions: a cruise, Russia, or Ireland.

A cruise. Before he could finish listing destinations and the tropical drinks Isaac would serve us at the Lido deck bar, I was vetoing that idea. Our last (and first cruise) memories from several years ago still have not completely faded.

Like being stranded at a resort with two hundred of our closest friends while the rain pounded down on the snowy white sand and picture perfect palm trees for four hours with one ping-pong table, two checker boards, three decks of cards and not nearly enough alcohol. A cab/bus/bike back to the ship? Not likely when the locals are all cozily tucked up at home with their satellite TVs.

Or spending two days at sea where, in order to obtain a deck chair, spa appointment or square inch in the pool, you had to hope the twenty people in line in front of you all fell overboard.

All in all, the whole experience was like being stuck in the Mutual of Omaha episode where the lions were all fighting over the same antelope carcass. No cruise.

Russia? Friends have told us it's beautiful...but I still prefer someplace where toilet paper is not considered a luxury and air conditioning isn't a good stiff breeze blowing down from Siberia. Russia. Nyet.

Ireland. A possibility. We haven't been there (together) in almost twenty years. Rain is a regular occurance which doesn't send people into hiding, and T.P. is as abundent as the Guiness.
A tour was arranged, and the details e-mailed to us.

The highlights were: 1. a morning at a whiskey factory, 2. an entire day at the Ring of Kerry, and 3. an afternoon at a wool mill/shop.

Translation: 1. you might as well send two vegans to a stockyard with sharp knives and a bottle of A-1, 2. Oh, goody. An entire day trapped in a car driving aimlessly through a bunch of hills that are all big and green. Coming from northeast PA, you can imagine how impressive that would be. Can't find those sights just anywhere. and 3. a whole shop full of wool sweaters? In August? Pinch me.

Ireland. Maybe in another twenty years.

After another two days of: this one is toooo big, that one is tooo small, this one is toooo hot, that one is tooo cold, we finally found one that was just right. The beach!

Friday, August 3, 2007

Lessons in Home Repair

We must have eighteen different screwdrivers, four different hammers, two wrench sets, two drills and enough various other tools to fill three tool boxes. Bob Villa, eat your heart out!

What we don't have is the desire to use them all. Oh, sure, over the years we've done some minor home repairs (my specialty is changing light bulbs), but there are certain things we just won't tackle like plumbing (although my other specialty is Drano. Oh, I can also fix a running toilet, but I usually pretend I can't and make Tim do it), or fix electrical stuff.

This is when you call in the experts, open your checkbook and take out a second mortgage on your house.

All I want is to explain the problem, have it fixed, be told (briefly and succinctly) what they are doing, and then send them on their way so they can go yacht shopping or whatever it is they do with the small fortune they receive for fifteen minutes work.

What I get is lessons in home repair. So far this year, I think I have earned the equivalent of a bachelor's degree.

For example, the guys working on our sound system felt it necessary to remove the sub woofer from the ceiling, show me its inner workings and explain, in excruciatingly minute detail how to adjust it.

Right, I can see it now. We'll be sitting there one night watching Bruce Willis save the world (again), and Tim will turn to me and say, "Hon, I think the sub woofer's a bit off. That last bomb blast could have been more powerful." And, of course, I'll strap on my tool belt, climb right up there and "Bam!" more sub in the woofer.

Or the plumber who insisted last week that I not only watch what he did, but that I take part in it. End result, I can now disassemble the entire shower and faucet in the guest bath, mess with the strength and temperature of the water and reassemble it in fifteen seconds flat. (Wait, this skill might actually come in handy if someone overstays their visit or otherwise ticks me off. Hmmm.)

Or this morning, the guy who came to look at our outdoor lights which have the unfortunate tendency to blink out every night in a random order. (A good swift kick can usually get them back on, but I'm looking for more of a long term and less painful --for me-- solution. And yes, I checked the bulbs -- my specialty, remember?")

First, I had to stand in the ninety-five degree sun and watch as he dug through the flower bed to uncover the wires. Then, I got a crash course in testing the electrical power with a handheld device.

"See," he told me, "it's a ten point five. That's good." (Like I would know what's bad?) Then, he proceeded to drag me around, checking lights, stripping wires and fixing connections all the while lecturing on the finer points of Ben Franklin and his marvelous discovery.

Once again, I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to do with this knowledge. Hang a shingle out front? Teach at a trade school? Write a how-to book?

And after all of this, all I can say is: Thank God we don't have a septic tank system, because that is one lesson I never want to learn, and something tells me that with my luck, whoever I called would be sure to have a spare pair of hip waders handy!

Wednesday, August 1, 2007

Dry Cleaning and Fruit

Our dry cleaner loves us. Maybe it's the truckload of clothes we drop off each week. I figure by now, we have put several of his children through collage and purchased him at least one new car.

This is why he gives us fruit.

Apparently, he owns a farm where he spends his Sundays in bucolic bliss planting and harvesting a variety of fruits and vegetables.

Then, he spends his Mondays doling out the bounty along with the claim checks. Sort of like when you go to the movies and spend $18 on a bag of popcorn and $26 on two candy bars and they throw in the soda for free.

Some Mondays it's ten pounds of apples, others it's peaches and a watermelon, and still others it's some strange looking, unidentifiable squash, I think.

A few weeks ago, it was a tomato. One perfect, ripe, juicy tomato that just fit in the palm of my hand.

It was also a holiday, and we had some running around to do. So Tim and I took our tomato, and off we went.

First, I held the tomato. Then, I put it on the center console, but it rolled. Tim suggested my purse (tomato puree, anyone?), or the glove box (baked tomato?). I worried about out poor little tomato (I worried about it ending up all over my white shorts or the bottom of my flip-flops).

I found a shady nook for it when we ran into the CVS. I tucked it away carefully when we ran into the mall. I put it in the cup holder as soon a Tim finished his soda. I protected that tomato (and the leather seats) from harm. Until our last stop.

Tim's sister was returning home after being out of town for the weekend. It had been a long trip filled with traffic, road construction, and more traffic, so we decided to meet her, help her unload some boxes and then go to dinner.

When we got out of the car, I took my precious tomato that I had guarded so closely all day and handed it to her while I reached for the dog.

"A gift for you, after your long trip," I said, tongue in cheek, "to help you feel better."

"Thanks," she replied. And, without really looking or missing a beat, she squeezed what she thought was a stress ball... all over herself and the garage.

And to think I was worried that that poor little tomato would end up all over my shorts.