My parents have recently decided to give the whole retirement thing a shot, and are renting a place for the winter in Florida. Kind of like a test run (my sister, brother and I are making book on whether this little experiment will end in murder, suicide or divorce. Right now, the smart money is saying divorce by the middle of December, although we can't rule out the possibility of death completely.)
One of the many details that needed to be taken care of prior to the move was their cable/internet. Since the condo they are staying in comes with cable, my mother contacted Comcast and suspended their service at home, not realizing that while she wouldn't need cable, she would still need the internet service to get her e-mail.
Since it seemed like it would just be easier to take care of this myself than explain it to her for the 100th time, I offered to call Comcast and get it straightened out. Big mistake.
Here is how it went:
I dialed the 800 number, pressed 1 for English, pressed 2 for internet, pressed 2 again, listened to a commercial, listened to another pitch regarding billing, listened to them give me the number to call to reach them (duh! How could I be listening to this message unless I had just dialed that number?), entered my phone number, finally got a real person on the line, told them what I needed to do and...
They told me that my call had gone to the office of the state I was calling from. What I needed to do was call the office in Pennsylvania and talk to them, since that is where my parent's had the cable service. And so they transfered my call...back to the main 800 number.
I pressed 1 for English, pressed 2 for internet, pressed 2 again, listened to a commercial, listened to....well, you get the picture, except this time, I entered my parent's phone number and spoke with someone in Pennsylvania who told me that they could not help me, because what I needed to to was call the office in Florida and talk with them since that is where my parent's needed the service. And so they transfered my call...back to the 800 number.
I pressed 1 for English, pressed 2 for internet, pressed 2 again...but when I had to enter the number, I was in trouble. I didn't have a phone number for them in Florida, but the PA guy said I could just punch in the zip code which I did have. Turns out that was not an option. (Perhaps he was just trying to get rid of me?). Anyway, ten minutes later, I ended up back in Virginia.
I tried reasoning with the operator(after I had pressed 1, 2,2 and so on...again). They were all the same company. Surely, they must have the number for the office down in Florida. Maybe they could even (dare I suggest it?!) transfer me directly to that office and bypass the 800 number?
Apparently not. Their advice? Get a Florida phone book, pick any number at random from the city they lived in and enter that to talk to the Florida office (Naturally, I had to point out that if I had a Florida phone book, I would just look up the number for the local Comcast office. FYI, the operator's don't appreciate either irony or sarcasm.) Anyway, back I went to 1-800- you are screwed.
Eventually, somewhere around hour two, I did manage to reach the Florida office, and, after punching and listening to the same thing for the eighty-second time, they told me that I would have to set up a new account since the old account was in a different state, then call PA and have them release her e-mail address, then call Florida back and have them assign the address to the Florida account. (I was beginning to realize why people went to satellite TV, got a hotmail account, and sat at Starbuck's with their laptops where the wireless is free). I guess nobody told these people that THEY ALL WORK FOR THE SAME COMPANY!!!!! Oh, and by the way, we would have to go through the whole process again in the spring. Charming.
Anyway, two days and two thousand hours spent on the phone with Comcast in FLorida and Pennsylvania later, the Comcast guy showed up to install the cable modem in the condo (and almost got himself pitched into the ocean from a fourth floor balcony by my father who didn't quite get the difference between internet modem and wireless modem), my mother got a hotmail account (courtesy of my sister and her ability to control my mother's computer by remote control), and I unplugged my phone and began looking up sanitariums that didn't have cable, internet or e-mail addresses.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
But She Never Said, "I Told You So..."
After sitting in traffic last Thanksgiving for over six hours (for what is normally a less than four hour trip), we decided to be smart this year and travel back early on Saturday instead of waiting for Sunday. Apparently, fate had another plan.
Since my sister-in-law, Rose, had her car, and Tim and I had ours, I decided to travel back with Rose and her dog, Murray, the first half of the trip, then, when her ears were bleeding from listening to me talk for two hours, I would switch cars and make Tim listen to me for the second half of the trip.
We had been following Tim for less than a half hour when he suddenly pulled off the road (which was barely enough time to complain about how much we ate and how fat we were). Puzzled, we pulled up behind him on the shoulder only to find that his left front tire had gone flat. Surprisingly, he was taking it quite well (only three or four curses, and no kicking the tire, car or roadside debris).
After emptying a can of Fix-A-Flat into the tire and having it hiss and foam back out at us from a slit near the bottom, we decided to call roadside assistance and see if we could get the tire replaced (250 miles on a doughnut? Please. Just the thought of having to drive two miles on the highway while keeping it under sixty was making Tim break out in a cold sweat.)
So there we sat, Tim, Rose, Murray and I (foul mood, bad back that was out, sore throat and clogged sinuses, and needing a bathroom -- and Rose, Murray and I were not in happy places either), when Tim's brother, Tom, came along and pulled in as well to commiserate. (Wohoo! a tailgate party!)
Fortunately, help arrived within twenty minutes (which was what Rose had optimistically predicted). That was the good news. The bad news was that there was not a replacement tire to be had within a, well, 250 mile radius. Great. Another six hour trip. Our happy places now were in the land of Far, Far Away.
Thirty minutes later, we were on the road again, but this time I was with Tim and we had convinced Rose and Tom to go on ahead of us (Rose was the hardest sell, wanting to follow us in case we had problems with the doughnut, but we finally insulted her enough and got her to go on ahead. In retrospect, it was like watching the last lifeboat from the Titanic head for the horizon while we danced to the final verse of "Amazing Grace".)
Several hours of Christmas music later (which was not making our day either merry or bright), we were finally nearing the end of our journey. Only an hour and a half to go. Tim was holding it together pretty well, although there had been one or two tense moments such as when a carload of senior citizens passed us (and I'm pretty sure they flipped us off) doing a speedy sixty in a sixty-five zone. But the worst moment came when we were passed by a Winebego--towing a car! I never thought it was possible for someone's skin to simultaneously turn white and red until I looked over at Tim, who was clenching his teeth and the wheel with equal force.
Just as we were discussing where we should have dinner, it happened. The right front tire went flat. As we coasted to the side of the highway for the second time that day, and discovered that that tire too was beyond help, I waited for it. I was sure it was coming any second now. The Rumplestiltskin dance.
But there was no stamping. No spewing of cuss words. No disappearing through a whole in the ground, never to be seen again. Amazingly, Tim calmly called roadside assistance and ordered a tow truck. (Meanwhile, I was wondering who this stranger was and what he had done with my husband. Had he been switched out for a Stepford husband, or had aliens taken over his body? Would a pod shoot out of his stomach at any moment and attack me?)
While I was still pondering the possibilities, Rose pulled up behind us once again ( she had stopped for a bathroom break--for her and the dog-- and shrewdly stayed some miles behind us, anticipating this very thing). After transferring our luggage to her car, we all sat and waited for the cavalry to arrive. Which he did one and a half hours later (after he finished watching his movie--no sense everyone having a bad day).
By then, darkness had fallen, Rose and Murray had fallen asleep and Tim had fallen into the long anticipated but expected foul mood (there he was... the guy I married!).
After a truly speedy trip to the dealer (Who knew a flatbed tow truck could do eighty?) Rose drove us home where we went to the diner for dinner (and I got moldy bread with my tuna sandwich---the perfect end to the perfect day). It had only taken us eight and a half hours to make that four hour trip.
Before she left to go home though, Rose made one final prediction...on the price of the tires. Tim disagreed. Two days later, after speaking with the dealer, we found out that, once again, Rose was right!
Since my sister-in-law, Rose, had her car, and Tim and I had ours, I decided to travel back with Rose and her dog, Murray, the first half of the trip, then, when her ears were bleeding from listening to me talk for two hours, I would switch cars and make Tim listen to me for the second half of the trip.
We had been following Tim for less than a half hour when he suddenly pulled off the road (which was barely enough time to complain about how much we ate and how fat we were). Puzzled, we pulled up behind him on the shoulder only to find that his left front tire had gone flat. Surprisingly, he was taking it quite well (only three or four curses, and no kicking the tire, car or roadside debris).
After emptying a can of Fix-A-Flat into the tire and having it hiss and foam back out at us from a slit near the bottom, we decided to call roadside assistance and see if we could get the tire replaced (250 miles on a doughnut? Please. Just the thought of having to drive two miles on the highway while keeping it under sixty was making Tim break out in a cold sweat.)
So there we sat, Tim, Rose, Murray and I (foul mood, bad back that was out, sore throat and clogged sinuses, and needing a bathroom -- and Rose, Murray and I were not in happy places either), when Tim's brother, Tom, came along and pulled in as well to commiserate. (Wohoo! a tailgate party!)
Fortunately, help arrived within twenty minutes (which was what Rose had optimistically predicted). That was the good news. The bad news was that there was not a replacement tire to be had within a, well, 250 mile radius. Great. Another six hour trip. Our happy places now were in the land of Far, Far Away.
Thirty minutes later, we were on the road again, but this time I was with Tim and we had convinced Rose and Tom to go on ahead of us (Rose was the hardest sell, wanting to follow us in case we had problems with the doughnut, but we finally insulted her enough and got her to go on ahead. In retrospect, it was like watching the last lifeboat from the Titanic head for the horizon while we danced to the final verse of "Amazing Grace".)
Several hours of Christmas music later (which was not making our day either merry or bright), we were finally nearing the end of our journey. Only an hour and a half to go. Tim was holding it together pretty well, although there had been one or two tense moments such as when a carload of senior citizens passed us (and I'm pretty sure they flipped us off) doing a speedy sixty in a sixty-five zone. But the worst moment came when we were passed by a Winebego--towing a car! I never thought it was possible for someone's skin to simultaneously turn white and red until I looked over at Tim, who was clenching his teeth and the wheel with equal force.
Just as we were discussing where we should have dinner, it happened. The right front tire went flat. As we coasted to the side of the highway for the second time that day, and discovered that that tire too was beyond help, I waited for it. I was sure it was coming any second now. The Rumplestiltskin dance.
But there was no stamping. No spewing of cuss words. No disappearing through a whole in the ground, never to be seen again. Amazingly, Tim calmly called roadside assistance and ordered a tow truck. (Meanwhile, I was wondering who this stranger was and what he had done with my husband. Had he been switched out for a Stepford husband, or had aliens taken over his body? Would a pod shoot out of his stomach at any moment and attack me?)
While I was still pondering the possibilities, Rose pulled up behind us once again ( she had stopped for a bathroom break--for her and the dog-- and shrewdly stayed some miles behind us, anticipating this very thing). After transferring our luggage to her car, we all sat and waited for the cavalry to arrive. Which he did one and a half hours later (after he finished watching his movie--no sense everyone having a bad day).
By then, darkness had fallen, Rose and Murray had fallen asleep and Tim had fallen into the long anticipated but expected foul mood (there he was... the guy I married!).
After a truly speedy trip to the dealer (Who knew a flatbed tow truck could do eighty?) Rose drove us home where we went to the diner for dinner (and I got moldy bread with my tuna sandwich---the perfect end to the perfect day). It had only taken us eight and a half hours to make that four hour trip.
Before she left to go home though, Rose made one final prediction...on the price of the tires. Tim disagreed. Two days later, after speaking with the dealer, we found out that, once again, Rose was right!
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
iTouch... Not Intended For Mature Audiences
Last week, we bought my mom an itouch to replace her dying first generation ipod. It was a tough sell.
"Look, you can get on the Internet." "Why? I have a laptop." "You can use it as an alarm clock." "I have an alarm clock--your father." "You can keep your Christmas card list in it." Yawn. Time to bring out the big guns: "You can download pictures of your grandchild." Bingo! We have a winner.
In retrospect, I should have kept my mouth shut.
Clearly more excited about it than she was, I charged it as soon as we got home only to find after two hours that it was fully charged, but not working. Used to the regular ipods and nanos, I was a bit perplexed, but still fairly optimistic.
I tried syncing it with my computer and itunes library, but it was still not giving me anything other than the full battery screen and a zzt zzt noise. (Hmm. I can see the headlines: Woman electrocuted by itouch. Film at 11.)
Not nearly as optimistic, I tried the website. No help there (seriously, they really should have an over forty section there--a basic "dummy" handbook with large print. Oh, and a warning label on the box in big red letters: Do Not Attempt to Use Without the Help of a Teenager).
Definitely pessimistic now, I tried the helpline. An hour later, beyond pessimism and progressing quickly into totally ticked off, I was back in the store where the guy was as perplexed as I was (he was only the manager though and clearly over forty, not a "tech guy". Good to know: Avoid asking the store manager for help.), but he got the home screen simply by connecting the thing to one of their mac's.
The tech guy(who looked to be about twelve), came over and explained that I probably needed to upgrade a certain program on my computer and sent me a link (BTW, he was also perplexed, but unconcerned--probably because it didn't happen to his itouch-- by the lack of the home screen when it was fully charged.)
Returning home, I began downloading stuff that they estimated would take twenty minutes. What they neglected to say was that that was in dog years. Six hours, fourteen dozen times of Tim saying,"Something must be wrong. This download should only take a few minutes.", and many gray hairs later, the programs necessary to install before installing the necessary program finally finished downloading.
Pathetically, Tim and I greeted each finished section with cheers and did the final five countdown with more gusto than when Dick Clark ushered in 2000 (we would have played Prince's Party Like it's 1999 , but, ironically, we still couldn't download my library.)
Next morning, bright and early, I began the download process again. Three hours later...I was wishing it was five o'clock, so I could start drinking! Finally, finally, the new upgrades were complete. With weary anticipation, I plugged in the itouch and...it still wouldn't sync because the computer was reading it as a camera!!!!!!
After I managed to unclench my fist from around the itouch and back away from the window I was seriously thinking of hurtling it through, I once again called the helpline. Oddly, the girl on the other end seemed to see nothing unusual about a nine hour download time, and was sure she could solve the problem. Oh, and she was cheerful as well as optimistic. I hated her from "hello".
After leading me through a series of right and left clicks, the problem was solved (although I did have a brief moment of satisfaction when I clicked on one particular thing, told her what the screen said and, after a brief pause, she said, "Oh. It's not supposed to say that." Another pause. "Maybe I can fix it. I think." Not so optimistic now, are we? he he).
Eventually, it was up and running. Since they do not include an instruction booklet (it is online, of course and only takes thirty-six hours to download:) ) I decided to learn by trial and error. Excited by each new function I discovered during the next week, I showed it off to my fourteen year old nephew, who, after having it in his hands for less then three seconds, was expertly whizzing through the home screen, searching for album covers and connecting to the Internet.
Like I said. Clearly, this device needs a rating: for kids only.
"Look, you can get on the Internet." "Why? I have a laptop." "You can use it as an alarm clock." "I have an alarm clock--your father." "You can keep your Christmas card list in it." Yawn. Time to bring out the big guns: "You can download pictures of your grandchild." Bingo! We have a winner.
In retrospect, I should have kept my mouth shut.
Clearly more excited about it than she was, I charged it as soon as we got home only to find after two hours that it was fully charged, but not working. Used to the regular ipods and nanos, I was a bit perplexed, but still fairly optimistic.
I tried syncing it with my computer and itunes library, but it was still not giving me anything other than the full battery screen and a zzt zzt noise. (Hmm. I can see the headlines: Woman electrocuted by itouch. Film at 11.)
Not nearly as optimistic, I tried the website. No help there (seriously, they really should have an over forty section there--a basic "dummy" handbook with large print. Oh, and a warning label on the box in big red letters: Do Not Attempt to Use Without the Help of a Teenager).
Definitely pessimistic now, I tried the helpline. An hour later, beyond pessimism and progressing quickly into totally ticked off, I was back in the store where the guy was as perplexed as I was (he was only the manager though and clearly over forty, not a "tech guy". Good to know: Avoid asking the store manager for help.), but he got the home screen simply by connecting the thing to one of their mac's.
The tech guy(who looked to be about twelve), came over and explained that I probably needed to upgrade a certain program on my computer and sent me a link (BTW, he was also perplexed, but unconcerned--probably because it didn't happen to his itouch-- by the lack of the home screen when it was fully charged.)
Returning home, I began downloading stuff that they estimated would take twenty minutes. What they neglected to say was that that was in dog years. Six hours, fourteen dozen times of Tim saying,"Something must be wrong. This download should only take a few minutes.", and many gray hairs later, the programs necessary to install before installing the necessary program finally finished downloading.
Pathetically, Tim and I greeted each finished section with cheers and did the final five countdown with more gusto than when Dick Clark ushered in 2000 (we would have played Prince's Party Like it's 1999 , but, ironically, we still couldn't download my library.)
Next morning, bright and early, I began the download process again. Three hours later...I was wishing it was five o'clock, so I could start drinking! Finally, finally, the new upgrades were complete. With weary anticipation, I plugged in the itouch and...it still wouldn't sync because the computer was reading it as a camera!!!!!!
After I managed to unclench my fist from around the itouch and back away from the window I was seriously thinking of hurtling it through, I once again called the helpline. Oddly, the girl on the other end seemed to see nothing unusual about a nine hour download time, and was sure she could solve the problem. Oh, and she was cheerful as well as optimistic. I hated her from "hello".
After leading me through a series of right and left clicks, the problem was solved (although I did have a brief moment of satisfaction when I clicked on one particular thing, told her what the screen said and, after a brief pause, she said, "Oh. It's not supposed to say that." Another pause. "Maybe I can fix it. I think." Not so optimistic now, are we? he he).
Eventually, it was up and running. Since they do not include an instruction booklet (it is online, of course and only takes thirty-six hours to download:) ) I decided to learn by trial and error. Excited by each new function I discovered during the next week, I showed it off to my fourteen year old nephew, who, after having it in his hands for less then three seconds, was expertly whizzing through the home screen, searching for album covers and connecting to the Internet.
Like I said. Clearly, this device needs a rating: for kids only.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Assault of the Batteries
This week, my parents came to visit for a few days. Since Tim's birthday was yesterday, and my mom's is the second week in December, it was the perfect time to go shopping.
First up, my mom. Her old ipod's battery (first generation) recently died, so we went to the Apple store to upgrade her to something a little more current: the itouch, which is kind of like going from the Model T to a spaceship.
After the sales staff finished laughing themselves silly at her old ipod, and it was packed off to the Smithsonian to sit next to the T-rex, we took her new one home to charge it before I downloaded her music onto it.
Less then two hours later, it was fully charged according to the giant picture of the battery on the screen, but it wouldn't work. At all. It just kept taunting us with the full battery symbol.
I pushed every button (actually, there are only two, but I pushed them many, many, many times in every possible combination.) Nothing. Then my father tried every possible combination. Still nothing. (I grabbed it before my mother could go through the same useless ritual, since I was already on my last nerve and my Valium supply was low.) I even hooked it up to my computer and tried to sync it, hoping I could fool it into actually working. Once again, nothing.
I got on the Apple website and found the same picture listed there (Yeah. That was a huge help. It told me that it was fully charged and to sync it with my computer. Well, duh!), but no explanation of what to do to move on. In other words...nothing.
I tried calling the Applecare helpline, but my cordless phone battery died before I got to speak to a live person. (Great. One device fully charged, one that can't hold a charge, and they are teamed up against me. I soooo love modern technology.)
Long story short (not really, since I am already planning another blog with the whole agonizing ipod story), I ended up going back to the store.
Meanwhile, back at the mall, I had bought Tim a digital camera for his birthday, along with two rechargeable batteries and a charger which we had also plugged in to charge (the kitchen counter was beginning to look like a Radio Shack display case at this point). Excitedly, we watched the charger light up, indicating higher and higher percents of the full charge (we obviously don't get out much if we considered this our evening's entertainment. For New Year's Eve, we might go really crazy and plug in a couple of cell phones to see which one has more bars after an hour:) ).
Anyway, we did manage to tear ourselves away from this fascinating and mysterious display long enough to go have dinner (and a trip to the Apple store), and when we returned...magic! The solid light on the charger indicated a full battery. Popping it into the camera, we turned the camera on and...nothing! We were now two for two. We popped it back into the charger, just to check and see if we had misread the symbol. Nope. Full battery.
Since we didn't know at this point whether it was the battery or the charger at fault (it couldn't possibly be us), we opened the second battery and began to (hopefully) charge it. Two hours, and much cursing later, we had another fully charged battery (maybe). With bated breath, we popped it into the camera and...success at last! Well, one out of three wasn't so bad.
Feeling much abused by all the new battery operated devices from Hell, I finally tumbled into bed somewhere near midnight. Tiredly, I reached for my alarm clock to turn it on. But wait. Something was wrong. It was not 3:30 in the morning, and the year was definitely not 1999. Picking up the clock, I discovered, upon further inspection that it hadn't been Tim trying to mess with me that had screwed up my alarm clock (so I put down the pillow I was planning on beating him with). It was just that the clock had...you guessed it...a low battery! (I swear you can't make this stuff up!)
Needless to say, next year, I am giving them both something that does not require batteries. I can't think of what that might be, but I have a whole year to figure it out.
First up, my mom. Her old ipod's battery (first generation) recently died, so we went to the Apple store to upgrade her to something a little more current: the itouch, which is kind of like going from the Model T to a spaceship.
After the sales staff finished laughing themselves silly at her old ipod, and it was packed off to the Smithsonian to sit next to the T-rex, we took her new one home to charge it before I downloaded her music onto it.
Less then two hours later, it was fully charged according to the giant picture of the battery on the screen, but it wouldn't work. At all. It just kept taunting us with the full battery symbol.
I pushed every button (actually, there are only two, but I pushed them many, many, many times in every possible combination.) Nothing. Then my father tried every possible combination. Still nothing. (I grabbed it before my mother could go through the same useless ritual, since I was already on my last nerve and my Valium supply was low.) I even hooked it up to my computer and tried to sync it, hoping I could fool it into actually working. Once again, nothing.
I got on the Apple website and found the same picture listed there (Yeah. That was a huge help. It told me that it was fully charged and to sync it with my computer. Well, duh!), but no explanation of what to do to move on. In other words...nothing.
I tried calling the Applecare helpline, but my cordless phone battery died before I got to speak to a live person. (Great. One device fully charged, one that can't hold a charge, and they are teamed up against me. I soooo love modern technology.)
Long story short (not really, since I am already planning another blog with the whole agonizing ipod story), I ended up going back to the store.
Meanwhile, back at the mall, I had bought Tim a digital camera for his birthday, along with two rechargeable batteries and a charger which we had also plugged in to charge (the kitchen counter was beginning to look like a Radio Shack display case at this point). Excitedly, we watched the charger light up, indicating higher and higher percents of the full charge (we obviously don't get out much if we considered this our evening's entertainment. For New Year's Eve, we might go really crazy and plug in a couple of cell phones to see which one has more bars after an hour:) ).
Anyway, we did manage to tear ourselves away from this fascinating and mysterious display long enough to go have dinner (and a trip to the Apple store), and when we returned...magic! The solid light on the charger indicated a full battery. Popping it into the camera, we turned the camera on and...nothing! We were now two for two. We popped it back into the charger, just to check and see if we had misread the symbol. Nope. Full battery.
Since we didn't know at this point whether it was the battery or the charger at fault (it couldn't possibly be us), we opened the second battery and began to (hopefully) charge it. Two hours, and much cursing later, we had another fully charged battery (maybe). With bated breath, we popped it into the camera and...success at last! Well, one out of three wasn't so bad.
Feeling much abused by all the new battery operated devices from Hell, I finally tumbled into bed somewhere near midnight. Tiredly, I reached for my alarm clock to turn it on. But wait. Something was wrong. It was not 3:30 in the morning, and the year was definitely not 1999. Picking up the clock, I discovered, upon further inspection that it hadn't been Tim trying to mess with me that had screwed up my alarm clock (so I put down the pillow I was planning on beating him with). It was just that the clock had...you guessed it...a low battery! (I swear you can't make this stuff up!)
Needless to say, next year, I am giving them both something that does not require batteries. I can't think of what that might be, but I have a whole year to figure it out.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
For Everything...There is a Season?
Our niece's birthday is at the end of September, and this year, she wanted ice skates.
Since the Halloween decorations had been out in the stores from about the middle of August and at least one major department store began decking the halls in mid September, I figured ice skates would be no problem. I was wrong.
Footlocker, Sports Authority, Dick's Sporting Goods, Target, Ski Chalet; they all looked at me like I had lost my mind. Ice skates? In September? Uh uh. But if I wanted flip flops, I was in luck. Still tons of those available, and new shipments arriving daily!
I eventually ended up going online where, thankfully, there is no such animal as "seasonal merchandise".
So now it is November, and the last time I looked, that qualified as the beginning of the winter season. The mornings are getting colder, the days cooler. Perfect time for buying kid's winter coats, right? Wrong again!
The perfect time was apparently last month when it was eighty-five degrees.
After wandering around the first store on our list, unable to find winter gear (shouldn't it be relatively easy to spot it among the shorts and sleeveless tops?) we finally had to ask where they were hiding it.
Giving us one of those pitying "really, you waited this long to buy winter coats" looks, the salesperson directed us to the clearance racks. Thinking this was an aberration, we trundled down the mall corridor to the next store...and once again ended up at the clearance racks.
After visiting about three dozen more children's departments/stores, we were waving the white flag and considering making the suggestion to Tim's brother that they move to Florida. I'm pretty sure Howard Carter didn't have this much trouble discovering King Tut's tomb (although at this point, we were feeling pretty much cursed--either that or we were cursing a lot--is that the same thing?)
All we wanted were a couple of jackets the kids could wear to school. Was that asking so much? It's not like we had our hearts set on matching coats made of carefully blended virgin Tibetan wool from a yak named Edna and double-cocooned silk from a Chinese worm named Dwayne!
Finally, after visiting about three dozen children's departments/stores, we found it...the Holy Grail. One pink coat in our niece's size, and a whopping two in our nephew's (thankfully, neither one of them was pink). Snatching them up, we ran to the register and purchased them before any other poor unfortunate soul who had been lulled into a false sense of complacency by the summer-like temperatures found them.
It was a long, tiring, frustrating day, but I have learned a few valuable lessons from it. One: buy in season (which basically means shopping for winter coats in September/October, bathing suits in January, and back-to-school clothing in July), and two: be out of town next year when it is time to shop for coats!
Since the Halloween decorations had been out in the stores from about the middle of August and at least one major department store began decking the halls in mid September, I figured ice skates would be no problem. I was wrong.
Footlocker, Sports Authority, Dick's Sporting Goods, Target, Ski Chalet; they all looked at me like I had lost my mind. Ice skates? In September? Uh uh. But if I wanted flip flops, I was in luck. Still tons of those available, and new shipments arriving daily!
I eventually ended up going online where, thankfully, there is no such animal as "seasonal merchandise".
So now it is November, and the last time I looked, that qualified as the beginning of the winter season. The mornings are getting colder, the days cooler. Perfect time for buying kid's winter coats, right? Wrong again!
The perfect time was apparently last month when it was eighty-five degrees.
After wandering around the first store on our list, unable to find winter gear (shouldn't it be relatively easy to spot it among the shorts and sleeveless tops?) we finally had to ask where they were hiding it.
Giving us one of those pitying "really, you waited this long to buy winter coats" looks, the salesperson directed us to the clearance racks. Thinking this was an aberration, we trundled down the mall corridor to the next store...and once again ended up at the clearance racks.
After visiting about three dozen more children's departments/stores, we were waving the white flag and considering making the suggestion to Tim's brother that they move to Florida. I'm pretty sure Howard Carter didn't have this much trouble discovering King Tut's tomb (although at this point, we were feeling pretty much cursed--either that or we were cursing a lot--is that the same thing?)
All we wanted were a couple of jackets the kids could wear to school. Was that asking so much? It's not like we had our hearts set on matching coats made of carefully blended virgin Tibetan wool from a yak named Edna and double-cocooned silk from a Chinese worm named Dwayne!
Finally, after visiting about three dozen children's departments/stores, we found it...the Holy Grail. One pink coat in our niece's size, and a whopping two in our nephew's (thankfully, neither one of them was pink). Snatching them up, we ran to the register and purchased them before any other poor unfortunate soul who had been lulled into a false sense of complacency by the summer-like temperatures found them.
It was a long, tiring, frustrating day, but I have learned a few valuable lessons from it. One: buy in season (which basically means shopping for winter coats in September/October, bathing suits in January, and back-to-school clothing in July), and two: be out of town next year when it is time to shop for coats!
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Celebrity
While visiting friends in Atlanta this past weekend, we played a game called "Celebrity". Each of the six of us wrote the names of fifteen celebrities (living or dead) on pieces of paper which we dropped into a bowl. Teams were then chosen by picking matching numbers out of a pile.
The purpose of the game was to draw papers out of the bowl, and using any descriptions or plays on words, get your partner to correctly identify as many celebrities as they could in one minute.
For better or worse, Tim and I ended up being partners.
This was definitely to our advantage for certain names: "Your cousin Peggy's dead sister (Helen of Troy) (I thought of going for historical context here, but the dead cousin angle was the better bet), or "Your favorite actor" (Danny Kaye) (I actually put that one in, hoping another team would get it and neither person would know who it was--he he.)
Then there were the times when it was clearly a disadvantage to be together. Neither one of us knew who Nora Cross was (yes, Pat, before you can post your anonymous, snarky comment, I know we are old.)
Also, despite my best efforts over the years to educate Tim with regard to the names of each and every star in Hollywood, I knew we were sunk when I pulled out Debbie Allen: "Dance teacher in Fame " (um, what?) "Phyllicia Rashad's sister" (Uh, something Rashad?). It was sort of like the Odd Couple episode where Felix and Oscar go on Password and can't get any of the clues. Needless to say, we ran down the clock on that one, and let's just say I can sympathize with Felix. (Everybody should know that pencils have graphite and not lead.)
Our fellow players were, of course, very helpful pointing out to me afterwards that if I had simply said Blank Does Dallas, Tim would have gotten it right away. (Of course! Why didn't I immediately think of a porn movie for my first clue? I feel so stupid!)
We did pull out a few that surprised even us though, like Tim Horton (we are still both a bit unclear on who he is), but his first name sure made it easier. And Ghengis Khan (I am sure the guys could have come up with a porn reference for this one too, but we chose to take the historical route, although if Tim hadn't gotten it from "an invading Mongol", I'm not sure where I would have gone with it since I don't know his sister's name.)
Overall, it was quite an eclectic mix of names with only a few repeats: Olivia Newton John "Let's Get Physical" (interestingly that seemed to be the first song the guys associated with her, but I'm sure it had nothing to do with the skin tight leotard she wore in the video. Right.)
George Washington "Father of our country" (Even the Canadian got that one right off the bat)And I think Robin Williams may have been mentioned more than once (but, oddly, I don't believe Mork from Ork was even used as a clue. Go figure.)
Tim and I tried our best, but we came in second, for which I blame his lack of Hollywood trivia (This is the man who once had dinner with Norman Lear and had to call me to ask me if he was anybody big. Um, yeah. Kind of.)
Anyway, I am already thinking up names for next time. Oh, and we will definitely be watching more ESPN and E! Television. There may even be a subscription to People Magazine in Tim's future.
The purpose of the game was to draw papers out of the bowl, and using any descriptions or plays on words, get your partner to correctly identify as many celebrities as they could in one minute.
For better or worse, Tim and I ended up being partners.
This was definitely to our advantage for certain names: "Your cousin Peggy's dead sister (Helen of Troy) (I thought of going for historical context here, but the dead cousin angle was the better bet), or "Your favorite actor" (Danny Kaye) (I actually put that one in, hoping another team would get it and neither person would know who it was--he he.)
Then there were the times when it was clearly a disadvantage to be together. Neither one of us knew who Nora Cross was (yes, Pat, before you can post your anonymous, snarky comment, I know we are old.)
Also, despite my best efforts over the years to educate Tim with regard to the names of each and every star in Hollywood, I knew we were sunk when I pulled out Debbie Allen: "Dance teacher in Fame " (um, what?) "Phyllicia Rashad's sister" (Uh, something Rashad?). It was sort of like the Odd Couple episode where Felix and Oscar go on Password and can't get any of the clues. Needless to say, we ran down the clock on that one, and let's just say I can sympathize with Felix. (Everybody should know that pencils have graphite and not lead.)
Our fellow players were, of course, very helpful pointing out to me afterwards that if I had simply said Blank Does Dallas, Tim would have gotten it right away. (Of course! Why didn't I immediately think of a porn movie for my first clue? I feel so stupid!)
We did pull out a few that surprised even us though, like Tim Horton (we are still both a bit unclear on who he is), but his first name sure made it easier. And Ghengis Khan (I am sure the guys could have come up with a porn reference for this one too, but we chose to take the historical route, although if Tim hadn't gotten it from "an invading Mongol", I'm not sure where I would have gone with it since I don't know his sister's name.)
Overall, it was quite an eclectic mix of names with only a few repeats: Olivia Newton John "Let's Get Physical" (interestingly that seemed to be the first song the guys associated with her, but I'm sure it had nothing to do with the skin tight leotard she wore in the video. Right.)
George Washington "Father of our country" (Even the Canadian got that one right off the bat)And I think Robin Williams may have been mentioned more than once (but, oddly, I don't believe Mork from Ork was even used as a clue. Go figure.)
Tim and I tried our best, but we came in second, for which I blame his lack of Hollywood trivia (This is the man who once had dinner with Norman Lear and had to call me to ask me if he was anybody big. Um, yeah. Kind of.)
Anyway, I am already thinking up names for next time. Oh, and we will definitely be watching more ESPN and E! Television. There may even be a subscription to People Magazine in Tim's future.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Warning! Never Offend the Gods of Travel
Last Thursday, my friend and I made our bi-annual pilgrimage to NYC by train, and in the process, somehow offended the gods of travel.
Oh, things started out well enough. We got to the station early enough to have breakfast, we got two seats together that were not in the quiet car (which was a lucky break for everyone in the quiet car), and we arrived in Midtown with just enough time to have lunch before our 1:00 appointment (clearly, we live in great fear of missing a meal).
I should have known our luck was too good to be true. Maybe we weren't appreciative enough, or maybe we just took it all for granted. Either way, we were about to pay for it.
Going directly to our "usual" Italian restaurant, we discovered that it didn't open until 11:30. Hmmm. This was new. Oh well, no problem. We would just take a little walk around, do some window shopping and and still have time to stuff ourselves before 1:00.
Unfortunately, we soon found out that they considered that 11:30 time more of a guideline than a hard and fast rule. At 11:35, the door was still locked, and the waiters were all sitting at the tables folding napkins. At 11:40, they were unpacking bottles of wine from crates littering the main aisle. Meanwhile, we stood outside, tapping our toes, pointing to our watches and glaring at them through the glass windows, all to no effect. At 11:45, we gave up our intimidation tactics and decided to explore our other options.
Since this was a mostly high end shopping area (ever see Dolce and Gabbana haute couture on someone over one hundred pounds?) there weren't a lot of them. A few doors down, there was the Four Seasons (anyone for a thirty-eight dollar hamburger?), and next to that a sushi place (fifty dollars for a plate of raw fish?). On the other hand, we could go to the take-out place (Yummy. Pre-packaged sandwiches fresh from yesterday!), or how about some chestnuts and hot dogs from the cart on the corner (yes, but what would we tell them at the ER when they wanted to know exactly what had caused the food poisoning?).
While all of this was tempting, we decided to give the Italian place one more chance, and this time, we weren't taking no for an answer. Returning to the restaurant, we banged on the door until one of the waiters (undoubtedly, the one who drew the short straw), grudgingly let us in and seated us at a tiny table in the front window.
After serving us bread and water, he informed us that the regular menu items would not be available for another five to ten minutes, and the specials for at least another ten after that. He then attempted to make his escape. The fool. Did he really think it would be that easy? Apparently, he had never dealt with women suffering from low blood sugar before (hey, it had been almost four whole hours since we had eaten!).
After a quick game of "torture the waiter", we did get our food (which I'm pretty sure they spit on), and made our appointment in time. Then, the gods struck again.
Emerging out onto Fifth Avenue at 4:20, we attempted to hail a cab to take us back to Penn Station for our 5:00 train. Since there were about ten cabs scattering the block waiting at the red light, we thought it would be easy enough. Wrong.
The first cab rolled down his window just enough to refuse us. The second cab pretty much had the same response. Odd. When the third cab inched away from us as we approached, we began looking around for the hidden cameras and Ashton Kutcher.
As the light changed, we decided to walk over a block or two and try our luck there. Coming upon a cab just letting people out, we went to jump in, but the driver yelled something in a language neither of us spoke and took off. Now, it was getting really weird. Maybe we should be looking for a tourism office and bowing down before it, trying to appease the gods instead of hailing cabs. The next cab didn't even slow down, but I think it veered toward us a bit before zooming off.
This was pretty much the pattern for the next twenty-two blocks until we reached the station at 4:50, hot, sweaty and a little bit cranky from doing the two minute mile, only to discover a long line of cabs happily letting people out and picking new people up as though it were the most normal thing in the world.
Fortunately, we made our train, but the gods were not through with torturing us yet. The only two seats together were at a table for four with an older gentleman who alternated between telling us jokes even older than he was (and I'm guessing he entertained the troops at Valley Forge with the same jokes) and paying us what I'm sure he considered to be compliments, but which would probably get him sued in the workplace.
By the time we realized what we were dealing with, every available seat on the train was taken (don't think we didn't look), and, of course, he stayed on until the very end of the line.
I'm still not sure what we did wrong, but next time, I'm not taking any chances. I am going to find the nearest tourism office to Penn Station and pay a visit before trying to eat or catch a cab. Maybe I'll even buy one of those I love New York T-shirts or baseball caps just to be on the safe side.
Oh, things started out well enough. We got to the station early enough to have breakfast, we got two seats together that were not in the quiet car (which was a lucky break for everyone in the quiet car), and we arrived in Midtown with just enough time to have lunch before our 1:00 appointment (clearly, we live in great fear of missing a meal).
I should have known our luck was too good to be true. Maybe we weren't appreciative enough, or maybe we just took it all for granted. Either way, we were about to pay for it.
Going directly to our "usual" Italian restaurant, we discovered that it didn't open until 11:30. Hmmm. This was new. Oh well, no problem. We would just take a little walk around, do some window shopping and and still have time to stuff ourselves before 1:00.
Unfortunately, we soon found out that they considered that 11:30 time more of a guideline than a hard and fast rule. At 11:35, the door was still locked, and the waiters were all sitting at the tables folding napkins. At 11:40, they were unpacking bottles of wine from crates littering the main aisle. Meanwhile, we stood outside, tapping our toes, pointing to our watches and glaring at them through the glass windows, all to no effect. At 11:45, we gave up our intimidation tactics and decided to explore our other options.
Since this was a mostly high end shopping area (ever see Dolce and Gabbana haute couture on someone over one hundred pounds?) there weren't a lot of them. A few doors down, there was the Four Seasons (anyone for a thirty-eight dollar hamburger?), and next to that a sushi place (fifty dollars for a plate of raw fish?). On the other hand, we could go to the take-out place (Yummy. Pre-packaged sandwiches fresh from yesterday!), or how about some chestnuts and hot dogs from the cart on the corner (yes, but what would we tell them at the ER when they wanted to know exactly what had caused the food poisoning?).
While all of this was tempting, we decided to give the Italian place one more chance, and this time, we weren't taking no for an answer. Returning to the restaurant, we banged on the door until one of the waiters (undoubtedly, the one who drew the short straw), grudgingly let us in and seated us at a tiny table in the front window.
After serving us bread and water, he informed us that the regular menu items would not be available for another five to ten minutes, and the specials for at least another ten after that. He then attempted to make his escape. The fool. Did he really think it would be that easy? Apparently, he had never dealt with women suffering from low blood sugar before (hey, it had been almost four whole hours since we had eaten!).
After a quick game of "torture the waiter", we did get our food (which I'm pretty sure they spit on), and made our appointment in time. Then, the gods struck again.
Emerging out onto Fifth Avenue at 4:20, we attempted to hail a cab to take us back to Penn Station for our 5:00 train. Since there were about ten cabs scattering the block waiting at the red light, we thought it would be easy enough. Wrong.
The first cab rolled down his window just enough to refuse us. The second cab pretty much had the same response. Odd. When the third cab inched away from us as we approached, we began looking around for the hidden cameras and Ashton Kutcher.
As the light changed, we decided to walk over a block or two and try our luck there. Coming upon a cab just letting people out, we went to jump in, but the driver yelled something in a language neither of us spoke and took off. Now, it was getting really weird. Maybe we should be looking for a tourism office and bowing down before it, trying to appease the gods instead of hailing cabs. The next cab didn't even slow down, but I think it veered toward us a bit before zooming off.
This was pretty much the pattern for the next twenty-two blocks until we reached the station at 4:50, hot, sweaty and a little bit cranky from doing the two minute mile, only to discover a long line of cabs happily letting people out and picking new people up as though it were the most normal thing in the world.
Fortunately, we made our train, but the gods were not through with torturing us yet. The only two seats together were at a table for four with an older gentleman who alternated between telling us jokes even older than he was (and I'm guessing he entertained the troops at Valley Forge with the same jokes) and paying us what I'm sure he considered to be compliments, but which would probably get him sued in the workplace.
By the time we realized what we were dealing with, every available seat on the train was taken (don't think we didn't look), and, of course, he stayed on until the very end of the line.
I'm still not sure what we did wrong, but next time, I'm not taking any chances. I am going to find the nearest tourism office to Penn Station and pay a visit before trying to eat or catch a cab. Maybe I'll even buy one of those I love New York T-shirts or baseball caps just to be on the safe side.
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