The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From the Tree

My sister, Pat, always says I am technologically challenged. That my be so, but I come by it honestly. My parents both have issues with technology too.

Case in point: my mom and her ipod.

Now, generally speaking, my mom is usually pretty savvy with anything that makes music. She uses her computer to scan, do arrangements, burn CDs and even compose her own music. She had Bose speakers before Hammacher even suggested to Schlemmer that they put it in their catalogue. But the ipod is her Waterloo.

When she first got one, she insisted I download my entire library, including things like Meatloaf's Bat Out of Hell and Rocky Horror Picture Show . Okay, can't imagine those songs making her "most frequently played" list, but, whatever.

Throughout the next few months though, she'd casually toss out comments like: love that Bohemian Rhapsody or Tim Curry still sounds the same in Spamalot as he did in Rocky Horror.

Surprised, I finally asked her how often she listened to those songs.

"Oh, whenever they come on," she replied blithely.

But they don't just come on. You have to choose them. I kind of thought you'd be sticking more to the 1940's stuff or classical or tenors playlists.

"I hear those too...in between."

Huh?

"Well, I use my ipod when I walk or when we have a dinner party, and since I don't want a playlist to run out, I just put it on shuffle."

Mouth agape, I could only stare at her as I tried to block images of her 70 and 80 year old friends rocking out to "I'm Just a Sweet Transvestite" or "Paradise by the Dashboard Light".

Patiently, I explained that the standards playlist was 9 1/2 hours long and that if either her walks or her parties were running that long, she seriously needed to : A. consider signing up for a marathon and B. finding some new friends who didn't have quite so much time on their hands.

I showed her again how to select a playlist, but as far as I know, she is still hitting the "shuffle all" and a whole new generation is learning the words to "The Internet is for Porn" from Avenue Q.

Second case in point: my dad and voicemail.

My dad has had a cell phone for years. He has his address book and contacts, he accesses his voicemail, no problem. Get rid of the answering machine at home and replace it with voicemail from the carrier? Big problem.

The first day they connected the new line down in Florida, I took him through how to access his messages: see, just like with the answering machine, if the light is blinking, it means you have a message. You press star and 99 and enter your code and Voila! there are your messages. From outside the condo, you call the number and press * when you hear the message. Simple.

Yeah, for the first five minutes. AT&T called to say the phone was working and somehow the guys cell number got mistaken for the condo number. He wasn't the only one confused when he was called to see what the messages were. Of course, my father had already called my brother to give him this wrong number too, so for all I know, my brother and this guy have developed a relationship by now.

Then, the phone service went out. My dad called and they told him it would be a few days before they could fix it (hmmm, where have I heard that before). He called to tell me that since he couldn't get his voicemails, everyone would have to call him on his cell.

Once again, I tried to explain the concept of voicemail, and that he could still access it from his cell phone and that, yes, his messages would still be there.

"Oh, okay."

Yeah, now try saying that like you've understood at least a portion of what I just said. Think of it as having the machine at the phone company. Even if your actual phone doesn't work, the machine still does.

"Yeah. Okay. Got it. Doesn't matter too much anyway because your mother and I are going away for the weekend, so we won't be using the phone there."

But you can still get any voicemails. Right?

"Yeah. Uh, right."

The next day, he called me from the road to tell me that the AT&T had called him and the phone was working again. The bad news was that when he tried to access his voicemail, it didn't work. The guy must have screwed something up when he worked on the line. If I needed them, call his cell, not the condo.

Okay, so many things wrong with that. A. why would I call the condo when I know you are not there? and B. the voicemail and the line are two separate things. We went over this, remember?

"Well, I couldn't have dialed the wrong number, because I have it programmed into my phone."

I hung up and called to test it....and got the voicemail.

So Pat, yes, I may have issues, but I was doomed from the start. I never had a chance because I got it from both sides. As they say, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. And since Mike seems to be fairly challenged as well, I guess that means you are the milkman's daughter!

Little Lady

Recently, Tim and I went shooting--clays, something that we've done maybe a dozen times before. Due to his bad back and my lifelong aversion to breaking a sweat, or a nail, it's pretty much the only "sporting" activity we can both enjoy.

Although we keep threatening to find a place near home to do this, so far we've only ever done it when we are on vacation. Oh, not our beach vacations. That would interfere with the whole lie-around-like-a-beached-whale-and-have-people-bring-you-food-and-drinks theme we've so painstakingly perfected over the years. It would also probably make seagulls an endangered species. Wait a minute...hmmm...

No, no, we go shooting when we find ourselves on some weekend getaway vacation in the mountains. It's probably more fitting anyway. Shooting really is more of a mountain, or more accurately hills, sport. You know, like back in them thar hills where Jed was shootin' at some food. Where men are men, John Wayne is a god and women are, well, little ladies.

No matter how many times we go, it's pretty much the same story every time.

Tim, by virtue of being a man, is outfitted with vest, protective ear and eyewear and an impressively large weapon within seconds of setting foot inside the hallowed walls of the "shooting academy". This is usually, disgustingly accompanied by a great deal of grunting, back slapping, good ole boy, testosterone driven manly camaraderie and a serious dialogue on the merits of skeet vs. clays vs. trap (puhleeze, as if there actually is a really big difference. This is not big game hunting on the African veld compared to huntin' possum).

I, on the other hand, am subjected to their highly suspicious and skeptical regard like I somehow got lost on my way to the beauty parlor and ended up in man-land by mistake. I can almost smell the wood burning as they ponder whether I am actually going to try and shoot (try being the operative word in their minds) or more likely, run screaming for the nearest mall at the first loud bang. I am pretty sure that they are secretly taking bets on whether I will cry before or after trying unsuccessfully to load my gun with those big ole nasty bullet thingies.

I am tempted to ask them if they've ever heard of Annie Oakley, but something tells me this isn't an "Annie Get Your Gun" type of crowd and it would only irrevocably confuse them if I suddenly broke into a chorus of "Anything you Can Do, I Can Do Better".

Once it is established that I really do intend to shoot (no easy task), we head out with our "trapper", who is, pretty much without exception, an older gentleman wearing a baseball cap and chewing something that I prefer to believe for my own piece of mind is Hubba Bubba Bubble Gum...only brown.

Invariably, he will courteously offer to help me with my gun, which is probably meant to ensure I don't clobber myself with the barrel by a careless flip of my foolish, empty, little head. And if by chance we have a golf cart, I'd better beat him to the punch by securing my gun in the holder before I receive a three minute lesson on the magic of velcro. Velcro? Really? Imagine that! Show me again how it works. Go-oool-ly!

Tim, of course, just lets him keep digging his hole deeper and deeper. No way is he drawing any of the eventual fire for a perfect stranger.

And so we get to the first stand where one of two things happens. Either I am waved off to the side so my big, strong, he-man husband can shoot first and show little old me(picture much eyelash batting here) how it's done, or, and this is worse, it's "ladies first".

In dulcet tones implying patience a saint would lust after, I am guided through the basic
mechanics of loading, aiming and firing a gun. I am all but patted on the head and told not to worry if I can't hit anything; it's not like anyone is expecting me to be able to hit even the broad side of a barn. After all, I'm only a girl.

Our trapper this time even tried standing at my elbow so he could sight down the barrel with me. I believe he began to realize his error when I all but growled, "back off" and threatened his manhood with the butt of my rifle, but I was still, clearly, the "little lady".

Even after blowing the clays at the first stand clear out of the sky (they are always the easiest), I was still the recipient of a fairly patronizing amount of "help" while Tim was blithely allowed to blow clays out of the sky right and left with a gruff and cursory, "you know what to do" that was more statement than question. Yeah, cause he just looks so much like the great white hunter.

Here Tim, try to hit these next ones over your shoulder while using a mirror and riding a unicycle. Great shot! Knew you could do it!

Okay, little lady, now when you see the big orange disks flying through he sky, you just try and see if you can come close, okay? I'll even help you. Start here and end there, okay? And don't worry, I'll help you with the bullets so you don't mess up our pretty little hands with that nasty black gun powder.

I was pretty sure I could make his shooting look accidental, but Tim talked me out of it.

Despite holding my own with Tim, I don't think I made any impression on our trapper until the tenth stand. There, despite his skepticism and to his (and my) utter confoundment, I took down two clays as they crossed with a single shot.

And then I left to get my massage and a pedicure.

The Lady or the Tiger

When I was little, I read a story called "The Lady or the Tiger" in which a young man had to choose one of two doors to open. Behind one was a beautiful woman whom he would immediately wed. Behind the other, a half-starved, man-eating tiger. This week, Verizon was that young man, and they were about to poke the tiger.

Two weeks ago when we lost our phone service, I called Verizon and was told the soonest they could send someone out would be the following Thursday between 8am and 5pm.

Thursday, I received a pre-recorded message saying that regrettably, they were unable to keep the scheduled appointment and would have to reschedule for Friday between 8am and 5pm. They knew my time was valuable, so please make sure that someone was home for the technician in case they needed to get into the house. Honestly, they didn't sound the least bit regretful. Poke, poke.

Nor did it seem like they valued my time if they expected me to sit around for two full days waiting for someone who never showed up.

That's nine hours each day, eighteen hours total that I was supposed to become a prisoner under house arrest by Verizon. 1080 minutes that I obviously had nothing better to do with my time than sit arount waiting for the doorbell to ring and God help me if I happened to be in the bathroom at the time because then they would have to reschedule! Which they did anyway. Poke, poke, poke.

At 5:15 when they failed to show up or even call this time, I called them, and, after yelling, "Agent" into the phone two dozen times, I got to speak with Cherize. She tried to placate me by telling me that the technician was still out, they worked until 7, so my repair would still be done...probably. So why was I told 8-5? What happened if I left at 5 and they came out at, say, 5:01? Did I have to reschedule, or did they come down the chimney like Santa, repair my phone, eat my cookies and hot cocoa and then ascend back up the chimney?

I demanded to speak to a supervisor.

Not even bothering to conceal her relief at getting rid of me, Cherize informed me that she would have one of them call me back within two hours. Pardon me? Call me back? Was she kidding?!!? How many people's lives was Verizon screwing up that a whole team of supervisors was going to be tied up for the next two hours with disgruntled customers? That has to be some kind of record. Big poke.

Well, evidently, they were more screwed up than Cherize realized, because three hours later, I still hadn't been called back. It actually took three days for the supervisor to call me back. But I get ahead of myself.

Friday night, I called back, again, and got someone even less helpful than Cherize, who told me that all the supervisors had gone home for the day.

Gritting my teeth, I asked what hours the supervisors worked. She didn't know.
Well, if she didn't kmow what their hours were, how did she know they'd all gone home? Uh....
Furthermore, if there were no supervisors, who was in charge? Who did she call in case of emergency? Umm...the dispatcher?
So you have a dispatcher who is in charge? No.
Then why would you call her? Because it says to.
Fine. Let me speak to the dispatcher. I can't
Why? I'm supposed to say that a supervisor will call you back.
But they won't. So let me speak to the dispatcher.
They're not in charge. Then who is in charge? Umm...

And so we came full circle. I eventually had to give up, but not before Janelle was as frustated as I was. Huge poke.

By Saturday, I no longer believed anyone would show up, ever, and I was right. At 3:39, I again got the pre-recorded, "we're sorry but... So I called, and this time, wonder of wonders, I actually got a supervisor (a mistake on their part, I'm sure).

No, we were still scheduled for Saturday, she assured me. Then why did I get the recorded message? She didn't know(go figure). Maybe she knew why I'd been bumped for the last three days? Medical emergencies. Really? That many, huh? Fine. I have a medical emergency. If my phone is not fixed, MY HEAD IS GOING TO EXPLODE!!!!! Is that enough of a medical emergency for you?

Apparently, it wasn't, because not only didn't anyone show up on Saturday, they never even scheduled us for Sunday, and when I looked up our trouble ticket online, I found we had been rescheduled for Tuesday!!! Arrgh!!! Enormous, humungous poke.

Monday morning, bright and early, I was once again on the phone. By now, I had talked to Larry, Moe, Curley, Dopey, Unhelpful and Cranky, but I was undaunted.

This new operator told me that I was definitely having my phone repaired that day . Yeah, I'm sure the guy was going to show up...right after Elvis stopped by for a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich.

No, no, she assured me. This was the first day a work ticket actually went out, so we really were on the schedule. The next sound she heard was a loud pop as my head finally exploded.

At 5:30, as I was putting away groceries (no way was I sitting home one more minute), a guy from Verizon knocked on my door. Was it actually the repair guy coming to restore our service? No. It was a member of the sales team canvassing the neighborhood offering a special promotion if we would switch our cable and internet to Verizon along with our phone service.

Guess who he found behind the door. The Lady or the Tiger?

Out Of Touch

Within the last two weeks, I have had issues with pretty much every single communications device I own.

First, it was my blackberry. I never saw it coming. We had just celebrated our first anniversary in June, and I thought everything was fine.

Oh, sure, we'd been having some problems lately. The battery wasn't holding a charge quite like it should, the wheel was a little slow to respond at times, and, okay, so maybe I wasn't getting my messages in a timely fashion any more. But, hey, nobody's perfect.

I tried to overlook these things. After all, we'd been around the world together and had shared so many memories. Our first trip to London and the search for a phone store after the sales woman had put the SYM card in backwards. Our trip to China where it did double duty as both my alarm clock and my only link to Tim who was in India. Our many, many hours of playing BrickBreaker while Tim was busy talking to everyone in the world besides me while we were at dinner/the beach/the pool, in a car/plane/boat. Ahhh. Good times.

But alas, all good things must come to an end, and ours finally came two weeks ago when I dropped my beloved blackberry and watched in horror as the rollarball bounced across the floor after the wheel cracked in two.

Numbly, I gathered up the pieces with trembling fingers while I tried to stifle the wail of despair that had gathered in my throat. Devastated at the thought of losing my dear companion, I sought immediate medical attention with someone who has been through more blackberries in a year than pairs of socks in a lifetime...Tim.

With bated breath, I watched as he managed to snap the pieces back on, but I knew it was only a temporary reprieve. A week later, I had to bow to the inevitable and replace my blackberry...which was easier said than done.

The first three stores did not carry the same model, and, since I have a contract, they could only replace my model with the exact same one...unless I wanted to pay $300. Uh, gee, no thanks.

The fourth store didn't have my model either, but if I waited two months, I could get the newest model which they heard was gonna be real cool. Just like the iphone, only better because it was made by them. Oh, sure, wait two months? No problem. Just give me your phone in the meantime. No? You don't want to be without a phone for two months? Wow. Imagine that!

Finally, I drove downtown (which I really, really, really hate to do) and got a replacement. Without any of my information able to be transferred. Without the ability to send text messages. Which I did not discover until I left the store and was on my way to Pennsylvania.

And so, the following week, I had to go back downtown (did I mention that I really, really, really hate to go there?) and have them fix my new blackberry, which also has a slow wheel and can't hold a decent charge. We were not off to a good start.

While this was going on, I was also having my little "issue" with Verizon (and no, we still don't have service).

And, as if all this wasn't bad enough, my computer is also in critical condition. Even my sister couldn't patch it up, although she spent most of one weekend trying.

The screen has a blue/green line running down the center, the CD drive won't work anymore, every time I use it, I get an error message and, even though I've clicked "report error" until my finger is ready to fall off, microsoft doesn't really care ( I actually think this is just a placebo message, and the only place a message is sent is to the recycle bin). Oh, and it is slower than dial-up. As a matter of fact, I believe pony express would be a faster way to deliver and receive information.

I don't want to do it, especially not so soon after losing my blackberry, but I know I'm going to have to put it out of it's misery. After all, it is over five years old, which is like one thousand in computer years. It has been my good and faithful companion as I learned to surf the net, do a power point presentation and download music for my itunes library. It is keeper of all my information...names, addresses, phone numbers, pictures, videos and documents.

Two dear friends in as many weeks. I may never recover. (Sob!)

And did I mention, I still don't have service for our house phone?

Have A Nice Day

Two days ago, I spotted a Verizon truck in our neighborhood...and we have not had service since.

It started innocently enough. First, there was intermittent static on the line. I blamed the cordless phone that I had left out in the rain. I switched phones. Static was still there. I tried the land line. Static was still there. I blamed the weather conditions outside and waited to see if it was cleared up by yesterday morning. Nope. Still had static. Only now, there was no dial tone either.

So I called Verizon(on my cell phone).

Like everyone else these days, they have an automated system. Now, I always swore that I would not use a computer until it could talk to me like on Star Trek. That day has arrived. A calm, pleasant sounding woman's voice asked me a series of questions that required yes or no answers.

Yes, I wanted the English version. No, I didn't have a question about my billing. Yes, I was calling about a problem with my phone. No, it was not the number I was calling from (duh). Yes, I wanted it fixed (double duh). No, I did not have a dog or locked fence which would present a problem. Yes, I wanted to schedule an appointment(duh again). No, I did not want them to text me updates on the status of my order which I would be charged for (and I'm not paying for days I have no service either, so there. I volunteered that bit of info on my own, but it didn't seem to mean anything to her). Yes, I wanted them to call me the day before the guy came out. (And, yes, my patience was coming to an end).

Before I had a meltdown though (funny, I don't remember the computer on Star Trek being nearly this annoying), Ms. Verizon told me that she would put me on the schedule for a service visit. But first.....

Had I checked to see that it wasn't our phone in the house? I should go around and plug each phone into a different jack to make sure it wasn't the phone. Then, if I still had the problem, I should find the box where the line comes into the house, take a screwdriver, take off the cover and check to see if the problem is there. Oh, but don't do this if it is raining or thundering and lightening. That could be dangerous. YA THINK???

Okay, so basically, after twenty minutes of trying to get someone whose job it is to come out and fix a problem which I'm pretty sure they caused in the first place, I am now supposed to strap on a tool belt and fix it myself to save them the trouble. And what happens if the problem isn't here? Will I then find myself up a pole wearing a hardhat and leather gloves? And am I supposed to do all this while I put them on hold, or should I call back and watch another twenty minutes of my life go down the drain?

Apparently, the automated system doesn't understand when you add a few expletives in with the yes and no answers. They switched me to a live person.

"Donna" (names have been changed to protect the stupid), wanted to know what number I was calling about. Then, I had to verify the name and address on the account to make sure it was really me (do they actually have people who are trying to scam them into fixing other people's phones?). Ms. Verizon hadn't made me do that, but I wasn't about to waste more time questioning someone who probably didn't know the answer anyway and didn't understand sarcasm.

She tried to lead me through the same series of yes and no questions I had already answered, so I cut to the chase: My phone isn't working and I want someone to come out and FIX MY PHONE!!!!! And, no, I am not going to the mainframe and repairing it myself.

Wisely, she moved on. Okay, the first available service tech could come next Thursday. Next Thursday? Next Thursday? As in one week from now? Are you serious? She was serious.

Begging and pleading didn't get me an appointment any sooner either. Neither did telling her that this was the reason why everybody hated the phone company and they were losing customers to Comcast. Or that it was their fault to begin with since we hadn't had any problems before their guy worked in the neighborhood the day before. Apparently, this was nothing she hadn't heard before.

Resigning myself to my fate, I refused her offer of a text message to let me know the status of my job(what is it with these people, do they not charge us enough to use the phone as it is?) and gave her a number where they could reach me if they could come out sooner.

"Is that your home phone or cell?" she asked.

"Seriously?" I asked incredulously. "Do you get why I am calling? It's because my home phone is NOT WORKING!!! If you could call me on my home phone, we would not be having this conversation."

Well, was there another number they could reach me at?

Why? Were you planning to screw up my cell phone too since that is also on the Verizon network?

Then, after a five minute disclaimer on how if the problem wasn't with the mainframe, they would have to charge me for the visit (oh, what a shocker. You've figured out another way to get more money out of me. Tell me, what is the cost difference between having your guy fix it as opposed to me fixing it myself? Is there any difference? I'm guessing there isn't.), she wished me a good day.

Too late.

Prophet of Doom

Growing up with my dad, or the "prophet of doom", as we affectionately call him, no activity was ever considered safe.

Horseback riding. Before the words even finished my mouth, he would produce a newspaper article about some Olympic caliber rider who had been sitting on a horse since before she was born and then, one day...Bam! Her horse threw her, stepped on her head and dragged her for sixteen miles back to the barn over cactus strewn terrain.

Bike riding. Did I hear about the kid who was hit from behind by a semi and it took twenty surgeons forty-eight hours to separate him and his bike from the front grill of the truck?

Swimming. Hadn't I seen Jaws ? They didn't just pull that idea from thin air. You know, that was based on fact. Why just the week before, a swimmer was eaten by a shark in New Jersey and spit back out somewhere off the coast of Maine.

Driving. The man could find stories about car accidents that would make those drivers ed scare tactic films look like cheery little feel-good Disney movies.

Nothing was off limits. No activity no matter how big or small was ever safe. The man must have had a disaster file the size of the Matterhorn tucked away somewhere that was alphabetized, cross-referenced and indexed to provide horror stories at the drop of a hat.

It was bad enough when he was an insurance adjuster, but when he became a forensic photographer, things really went from bad to worse.

Danger, death and destruction even lurked in a seemingly harmless everyday activity like mailing a letter. Did I see the story about the woman who got a paper cut on her tongue from licking a stamp and ended up dead because of the infection that set in from the glue that they used? That, of course was after she had had both legs and one arm amputated to try and save her. See? He had pictures.

Not that this stopped anyone in our family, including him. He was the one who first put us up on the the back of a horse and taught us to ride bikes. He even taught us to drive (but that's a whole other repressed memory blog). He just couldn't help himself from sharing grisly stories. It was sort of like an involuntary reaction on his part, like a doctor tapping you on the knee and having your leg kick out.

Announce you were getting out of bed in the morning and he couldn't stop himself from pointing out all the pitfalls associated with letting your feet touch the floor. He just wanted to make sure you understood the risks and possible damage involved in, oh, everything.

During the years that my mother, brother, sister and I all took up skiing, he almost lost his mind. I'm pretty sure he had to work overtime scouring the newspapers and radio and TV news shows looking for deadly ski accidents.

Thank God there was no satellite TV back then. I'm pretty sure he would have been willing to learn Korean just to apprise us of some poor schlub on the other side of the world who had been foolish enough to strap two sticks of wood to his feet and plunge down the side of a mountain taking out dozens of other skiers, shrubs and trees before stopping when he became embedded in the side of a barn.

My sister is still trying to push him over the edge with her hobbies of motorcycle riding and collecting tattoos. He can wax poetic for a good hour or more on either subject without breaking a sweat. The History Channel could come to him if they ever decide to produce a show on the greatest motorcycle crashes ever. He has so many examples, he scoffs at the idea of using Evil Knievel as taking the easy way out.

As for the tattoos...we're waiting for her skin to shrivel up and fall off or for her brain to start seeping blue and green ink, whichever comes first.

Pat just smiles, ignores his predictions of gloom and doom, and moves on to her next hair-raising adventure.

I, on the other hand, still have nightmares of disfigured zombies lurching after me chanting, "see what happens when you wear sneakers with ties instead of velcro?" as I frantically seek the shelter of a padded room.

The only ray of sunshine here though is that I live 250 miles away, so fortunately I don't have to hear those grim tales too often. Or you would think.

Now, Tim has apparently decided to pick up the banner.

Recently, we were on a small plane with only one other passenger and, even knowing of my fear of flying (part my father, part a really, really bad flight 25 years ago, and part watching all the airplane disaster movies in the 70's), Tim turned into my father.

As we prepared to take off from a small airport in Colorado, Tim and the other gentleman proceeded to discuss, in detail, how, just a few months earlier, at that same airport, on that same runway, in a plane that same size, three pelicans had, er, merged with the plane on take-off and taken out one engine, half the cockpit and one third of the cabin.

Unable to revert to my usual method of dealing with this kind of unwanted information (clapping my hands over my ears, shutting my eyes and babbling, "I can't hear you.Lalalalalala.") in polite company, I simply glared at Tim and asked if maybe the two of them would like to go swimming after the plane landed and maybe discuss the recent spate of shark attacks along the coast.

Some things you can't escape no matter how hard you try.

Fool Me Twice

In laboratories all over the world, rats are trained to do things like run through mazes based on a system of reward and punishment. Ring the bell, get the cheese. Do the wrong thing, get zapped. Their furry little brains soon tell them how to avoid getting zapped.

Tim and I, on the other hand, are apparently not as bright as those lab rats.

After the whole winter coat shopping debacle last fall, you would think we would have learned our lesson. But noooooo.

When Tom and Beth told us they were taking the kids back-to-school shoe shopping, what did we do? Did we say, "Sorry, we're busy"? Noooo. Did we plead illness or a sudden trip? Noooo. Did we at least tell them to start without us? Nooo.

Instead, we drove out to the mall on Labor Day weekend, along with every parent with school age children, teenagers with their friends, retired people with their grandchildren, and visiting tourists with their cameras. In short, pretty much the entire population of the DC Metro area. And they all needed school shoes. (Didn't these people know they were supposed to be home barbecuing?)

I had the feeling that as lab rats, we'd have been demoted to testing sleep medications for ending up in another painful shopping situation. Again.

And if fighting the crowds wasn't bad enough, we had to deal with three different shoe departments: men's and women's for the two older kids and children's for the two "littles".

Somehow, Tim contrived to head off to the relatively sane world of men's and women's with the two "bigs", and Beth and I (and later Tom, who I suspect tried to escape it altogether) got the fun-filled task of trying to find appropriate shoes that met with the "littles" approval. (As parents, Tom and Beth really had to do this, but I'm pretty sure that by not sneaking off to the restroom for an extended "visit",I had slipped even lower on the lab rat job scale and would probably be lucky if I was even considered smart enough to be a crash test dummy rat.)

Our niece, with me in tow, quickly headed for the ugliest, tackiest, Vegas-showgirl style shoes to be had. With their neon sparkles and multi-colored spangles, they looked like they had been designed by a drunken monkey with a bedazzler and a bad attitude.

Firmly placing the blame on the fashion challenged heathens at the school and their silly "appropriate school shoe" policy (that I totally made up), I commiserated with her even as I steered her away from a pair of satin polka-dot open-toed shoes with two-inch heels.

"If it was up to me," I sighed, shaking my head, "I'd let you have them, but the school wouldn't let you into class with shoes like that." Hehehe.

Wistfully petting all the shiny, cool shoes, she eventually settled for a pain of black Juicy Couture ballet flats(the Jimmy Choo of kid's world)....and pink and blue plaid flats...and brown loafers...and silver and pink sneakers, all courtesy of the very "helpful" saleslady who was clearly working on commission.

Seeing her eyes drift toward the $400 Prada boots (wow, something even more expensive than Juicy!), Beth and I fixed her with a glare that threatened death if she even leaned in their direction, and we moved on to finding shoes for our nephew.

Unlike his sister, the Imelda Marcos of first grade, he had more interest in climbing the shoe racks than actually trying on the shoes. There followed fifteen minutes of, "No, you may not swing from that bar, this is not a playground." and, "I said walk around to make sure the shoes fit, not race around like your pants are on fire and someone is chasing you with a can of gasoline" and, "Hanging upside down from the chair while singing Disney songs is not helping get the shoes on your feet."

Finally though, six hours later (okay, it was really only about an hour, but it felt like six), he had a pair of brown loafers and, not to be outdone by his sister, a pair of gold sneakers (do all children have such appalling taste?).

By this time, Tim and the "bigs" were back with their purchases, looking a lot better for the wear than we were (I'll bet he didn't once have to pull either one of them out from under the display tables.).

As we headed off with enough shoes to open our own shop, I wondered if this fulfilled our obligation for the year, or if winter coats were again in our future. Somehow I have the feeling we will be getting zapped again.

More Merry Airport Misadventures

Despite nearly being attacked by a barracuda (although I'm sure he went back to his little barracuda friends and claimed I attacked him) , we had a wonderful time in Grand Cayman. And since we had an early evening flight, we even got to spend the entire last day there, soaking up the island and buying a few souvenirs (gotta get that magnet!)

The return trip, however...

Get there two hours early, they told us. Check-in, security lines, these things take time, even at smaller airports, they told us. There could be traffic, they told us. "They" were wrong.

No traffic, no lines, actual people to check you in and take your bags (imagine that!), it was a dream come true. Until we got into the terminal with one hour and forty-five minutes to kill. Then it was a nightmare.

First of all, there were about 100 seats and 200 people. Everytime a flight was called, a new round of musical chairs began. As one set of people raced for the tarmac, another raced for the empty seats, leaving in their wake a path of squashed toes, bruised shins and banged heads. Wow. Fun and games.

Those poor unfortunate souls who were too slow to get a seat were condemned to wander until the next announcement, mentally assessing the lucky winners and trying to figure out which ones were headed to New York vs. Georgia (okay, that one was a no-brainer, but some were tougher, like Missouri vs. Iowa).

Although we were among the lucky ones to have seats, Rose and I chose to join the crowds wandering in and out of the shops in the terminal, which took all of five minutes. There were a grand total of two tacky souvenir shops (I know. Tacky and souvenir are redundant), two over-priced watch and jewelry shops (in case you absolutely, positively could not leave the island without that Rolex), one shop which sold nothing but rum cakes (thirty different flavors. It was sort of like Baskins and Robbins for adults.), and a bar that boasted a line of people that stretched from one end of the terminal to the other (I believe the ratio is two rum cakes equal one drink, although some people were trying to speed things along by eating rum cake while they stood in line for a drink. Hmm, not a bad idea.)

While we joined the fray and purchased those last-minute, must-have T-shirts and baseball caps(it was either that or eat rum cakes until we went up a size), Tim plugged in his ipod, closed his eyes and tried his best to pretend he was back on the beach. Every few minutes, he would open one eye and glare at someone for inching a bit too close to our empty seats, then resume singing along with Billy or Bruce (which is probably what had people keeping their distance more than the glaring).

At last our flight was called and we boarded our plane for Miami and another two hour layover...only this time without the pizza and hot dogs.

Turns out that in order to make up for not opening the food stands early in the mornings, they close them early in the evenings, which really cuts down on your options. Oh, and the flight was delayed, so we actually had a three hour layover (yea us!).

But we knew none of this as we deplaned, went through immigration, collected our bags (the last ones off the plane, naturally), stood in line at customs, schlepped our bags over to another terminal, stood in line for security and then finally found our gate where there were 200 people and only 100 seats (wait. This seemed familiar. Where had I seen this before?)

At this point though, we didn't care about the seats as much as we cared about our stomachs (the rum cakes were looking pretttty good right about now). From our trip down, we knew our food choices were limited, but we were okay with pizza and hot dogs for dinner.

Except that as we (and thirty other people) approached the stand, one of the employees closed the security gate and announced that the restaurant was closed.

Sparing a longing glance at the fortunate people on the other side of the bars (Wow. I couldn't believe I was actually envious of someone about to choke down airport pizza), we all turned and headed for the hot dog place... which was also closed.

Now in a panic, we all surged toward the final choice before raiding the newsstand for Snickers and M&M's, Chinese. I was beginning to feel like I was caught in a cattle stampede, only I was one of the cattle! Food. Must get food.

Fortunatley (or unfortunately since the only thing worse than airport pizza is airport Chinese food) we made it through the gate just in time. In retrospect, we might have been better off on the other side.

Surly employees slopped bottom-of-the-barrel, over-steamed Chinese leftovers onto styrofoam plates with all the culinary style of a prison chow line.

"Next," they snapped. "What do you want?"

Well, let's see. My choices are chicken and mushrooms without the chicken, beef and peppers without the peppers, or steamed veggies that look like they've been scraped off the bottom of someone's shoe. Tough choice, it all looks so good. Ah, but I can have all the steamed white rice I want with water, I mean broth, over it? Today is my lucky day. Load me up. Them's eats!

Needless to say, we were a bit hungry and cranky by the time we finally got home, along with being on a sugar buzz from too many Twizzlers.

Vacation Fun

I have always been pretty lucky when it comes to travel.

On our Alaskan cruise when things got really rough and people were hanging over the side of the ship, I was bellying up to the midnight buffet. In Morocco when others were popping immodium like candy, I was actually eating candy. At the Great Barrier Reef when the crocodile showed up on the beach for a little luncheon snack, I was on the other side of the beach snacking on lunch.

Last month though, my luck started to run out.

On vacation in Grand Cayman, I was the only one who wanted to go to Stingray City. Every time I tried to bring it up, Tim and Rose would hold up their hands and say,"Steve Irwin." (crocodile hunter guy)

Okay, how about snorkeling at the lagoon? "Steve Irwin"

Glass bottom boat? Even they couldn't use Steve Irwin as an excuse there. "Three hours sucked out of our day to watch fish? Have fun. Be sure to take lots of pictures." Party poopers.

And so we spent our days lounging on the beach and lolling in the surf (not that I'm complaining, mind you.).

Until day two, that is, when the fish showed up.

At first, there were one or two white fish (about six inches long) swimming past us in the crystal clear water. Okay, not the most comfortable feeling when you don't know a trout from a great white, but no one else seemed to be panicking so...

And then, suddenly, there were more. Like three dozen. All surrounding us. Well, mostly me. Just hovering and staring and making little fish bubbles. I think they thought I was one of them, only bigger. Maybe a giant albino white fish goddess and they had come to worship.

Now we were feeling very uncomfortable. In a heartbeat, Rose threw Tim in front of her like a living shield and quickly backed away toward the shore leaving me to the mercy of the swarm. Thanks. (Actually, the only reason I didn't do the same thing was because she beat me to it.)

As their leader, I was fortunately able to command them to disperse peacefully, but anytime I stood still for longer than a minute the rest of the week, there they were again (and me without my self-tanner) staring and bubbling.

But at least they were harmless. Unlike the stingray who showed up days three through seven. If Mohammed won't got to the mountain...

This fellow decided that he needed to bond with us too.

"Watch out!" one of the other beachgoeers warned us that first afternoon. "There's a ray headed toward you!" Huh?

We zigged, he zagged. We ended up a lot closer than we wanted to be. He glided and twitched his tail.

Suddenly, I was not so anxious to visit with a stingray. Eventually, he settled down and buried himself in the sand, so that all you could see were his eyes and the tip of his very long, very barbed tail. Not reassuring.

I spent the rest of the week jumping at every rock or piece of driftwood on the ocean floor, waiting for his daily glide-by and tail twitch.

Sea life if sooo much cuter in a Disney movie when they are all singing and playing seashells like drums.

And them came the piece de resistance.

Bobbing about happily in six feet or so of water (I was not going to step on Mr. Ray.), I kicked Tim accidentally.

Even as I apologized, my brain was registering the fact that he was on my right, but I had definitely kicked something on my left. Hmmm. Before I could figure out how this was possible, Rose shrieked, "Hey, a really big fish just came toward me."

And as Tim scoffed at her and chided me for not knowing the difference between flesh and blood and a rock (yeah, like they feel the same. Puh-leeze. How dumb does he think I am?), a guy a few feet away yelled, "Barracuda!" and pointed towards us (Hah! I knew it wasn't a rock!).

As we hastened toward shore in a recreation of the fourth of July shark scene in Jaws, we looked and, sure enough, there it was. A nice, big, three-foot long barracuda. Staring and chomping some wicked-looking teeth.

Like Mr. Ray, Barry visited us daily, staring and chomping, and like with the white fish, Tim once again became a human shield (this time it was me, and I not only got in back of him, I climbed him like a tree - I did not want to become lunch!). Although Barry didn't seem to hold a grudge against me for kicking him, I wasn't taking any chances. When he showed up for his daily visit, I got out.

Eventually, our fun in the sun ended and we came back home to the states and headed for Denver.

Ahh. Good old Denver. 5,280 feet above sea level. 5,280 feet above stingrays and barracudas. 5,280 minutes (four days) of altitude sickness.

Headache, nausea, upset stomach, dizziness, sleepiness. The first two days there, all I saw were the four walls of our hotel room. Good thing I brought my camera and bought a guide book and map. I got misty-eyed just thinking of Barry and Mr. Ray.

Drink lots of water, the room service waiter told me. Drink lots of water the housekeeping staff told me. Drink lots of water Tim told me. Drink lots of water everyone told me. So I did. And it helped. Then, I only had headache, dizziness and 5,280 trips a day to the restroom. Not fun.

Eventually, I got the symptoms down to a few hours of dizziness a day and only 3,000 trips to the bathroom. And then it was time to go home.

Thank God. This travel stuff was killing me.

Getting There Is Not Half the Fun

Over the last few weeks, I've logged a lot of air miles. About 15,000 to be exact (sort of). First up, our trip to the Bahamas via Miami.

I'm pretty sure the pioneers crossed the plains in their covered wagons in less time and with less aggravation. Couple hundred Dakota warriors coming at you with bows and arrows? Punishing heat, choking dust, having to hunt for what little food there is? Don't make me laugh.

At least they didn't have to get up before 3am to be at the airport by 4am for a 6am flight to sit for three hours at another airport in Miami to then fly another two hours to stand in a customs line for one hour only to finally, finally get to the hotel to be told that the room wouldn't be ready for another three hours. Hey, no problem, we'll just hang around the pool in our grungy, travel-rumpled clothes and sweat. No, really. It'll be a fun way to kick off the vacation.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I forgot to mention the absolute ball we had checking in and boarding our flight.

Because it was an international flight, we couldn't do curbside check-in where there were only a dozen people in line. Oh no, we had to go inside with the rest of the four thousand half-asleep people and jostle for position in the line, er lines, at the counters.

American Airlines apparently decided it would be a real hoot to watch everyone try to form lines for the machines with no roped-off maze, no arrows, no signs, not even a measly trail of breadcrumbs for help. It was like trying to find a parking space at the mall two days before Christmas with a final "everything-must-go" blowout sale in progress. It can be done, but it isn't pretty.

Then, you had to drag your bags over to a separate counter for tags which necessitated joining yet another unruly line with even more unruly people. One woman finally appointed herself crossing guard and tried to direct the flow. "This side is baggage check-in, that side is for ticketing. There are three windows open, but only one line." Yeah. She was real popular. It's never wise to tick off a sleep-deprived mob.

But, we finally did make it to the third and final line-- the baggage drop-off line (well, the final line in the checking-in process, not the final, final line. We still had two more lines to go through before that happy event.) We added our bags to the mountain of luggage that continued to grow at an alarming rate since there was only one person putting it on the conveyor belt (Gee-- a Friday in August. Perhaps the airline could have looked into their crystal ball and foreseen that there might have been just a few people going on vacation?), and sprinted for the security line.

By some miracle, we made it to the gate as the plane was boarding and even managed to grab a cup of coffee from one of the stands (no actual food, it was apparently too early to be selling food. Wouldn't want to interrupt anyone's beauty sleep by having them actually be at the airport early when only ninety-seven flights were leaving with no food aboard).

The flight crew evidently didn't realize (or care) that they were dealing with sleep-deprived, hungry, teensy bit cranky people and greeted us with a twenty minute diatribe on the do's and don't's of air travel.

"You must sit down quickly. Do not try to put things into the overhead and hold up the line. Step out of the aisle and wait until their is a break in the line to do so. You must slide your bag in wheels first. If you have two bags, you must put one under the seat in front of you. If you are in a bulkhead seat, you may not have a bag, a purse, a briefcase, a newspaper, a drink, etc. at your seat. It must all be stowed in the bins above. You must fasten your seat belts and leave them fastened even when the captain has turned off the sign. You may not use the lavatory up front if you are in coach. You must use the ones in the rear of the plane."

Well, good morning to you too. Does anyone else remember the days when they actually welcomed you aboard and tried to make you forget that you'd just been herded like cattle and crammed into your six square inches of space like a sardine?

By the time they finished this speech, plus the required, "we'll be flying at an altitude of..." and "Join our sky miles credit card program..." (yeah, like that'll happen), we were getting ready to land. So much for the in-flight entertainment.

Getting off the plane, we made a beeline for the two food places open in the terminal where we had a choice of pizza or hot dogs. Ahhh. Breakfast of champions.

I couldn't wait for the flight back.

A Fractured Fairy Tale

I shouldn't have done it. I knew it would end badly. But I let myself by seduced by the dream. I let myself be blinded by the fairy dust. I bought my washer and dryer at Home Depot.

The avalanche of paperwork alone should have rung a warning bell in my head. Any sane person would have recognized it as a portent of bad things to come, but not me. I was too busy looking at the twenty percent off signs and being dazzled by their talk of rebates and quick delivery. I allowed myself to forget the past and dared to believe the glass slipper would fit this time.

Pick a day, any day, the salesman enticed me. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. Think of us as your fairy Godmother. We will wave our wand and make all your delivery dreams come true.

Giddily, I wallowed in the heady sensation of being all-powerful. I enjoyed the heady rush the freedom of choice gave me. My prince had come and he was wearing an orange vest. I picked Thursday.

On Wednesday afternoon, I got the call. My brand new washer and dryer would be delivered the next day. I was exstatic, I was euphoric, I was doomed to disappointment.

Thursday came, but there was no knock on the door, no ringing of the bell, no jangle of the phone heralding the much anticipated arrival of my new appliances. There was only the distant sound of a clock striking midnight.

Still not quite wanting to believe my coach had turned back into a pumpkin, I called Home Depot.

Oh, yes, they assured me, the order was done.

Done? You mean like my dream of you people actually getting something right for once?

They seemed surprised by hostility, and quickly shifted the blame to the manufacturer. Really, they stressed, we have nothing to do with the whole shipping and delivery process. The manufacturer sends it to a warehouse and a local delivery firm takes it from there. Honest. We just sell the stuff.

I could feel my coachman turning back into a big, fat rat with beady eyes and twitching whiskers.

So you sell stuff you don't have, promise delivery dates you can't control to unsuspecting customers and have no real way of tracking it beyond the date of purchase. Does that about sum it up? How about cancelling an order and giving a full refund? Is that something you can do?

I was quickly transferred to the shipping company where the dream continued to fade.

It wasn't their fault, they protested. They had nothing to do with the sale or delivery. They were just the manufacturer. They had tons of washers and dryers, all ready to go. They didn't need to track orders because that was not their job. It must have been the delivery service.

The four white horses once again became squeeky, little mice.

The shipping company proved to be no better at accepting responsibility than the other two. It couldn't be them, they said. They would never promise delivery and then not deliver.

When I pointed out that my caller ID proved otherwise, they fell back on the tried and true escuse that all rodents use: our computer is down, so I can't access your information.

Yeah, right. And the ugly stepsisters are posing for the cover of Sports Illustrated.

After much haggling and promising and threatening, I was assured my appliances would be delivered this Friday, but I'm not holding my breath.

Instead, I'm hunting for a certain queen who can whip up a few poisoned apples.

Faster and Easier? Don't Make Me Laugh

If computers are supposed to make shopping for items faster and easier, why does it take longer and make (my) life harder?

First case in point, buying a refrigerator.

Knowing which one I wanted, I hopped online, checked out a few places for the best price and ordered one. One. I got two. I sent one back. No problem, I was told, it was a simple computer mistake on their part and would not show up on my bill. It showed up on my bill.

I got online and tried to fix it, only to find that you can't fix it online. I called the place and spoke to a live person who had to hop on the computer and fix it, but first they had to find out where the problem was. This necessitated a copious amount of tapping and clicking and opening files and entering and reentering much information(wow, something worse than listening to twenty minutes of muzak), but finally, just when I was wishing I had decided to go with a cooler and coldpak, they thought they had solved the problem --a computer glitch(no, really? I was shocked!).

Of course, the computer wouldn't let them fix it at the moment, but I was assured that they would contact the credit card company and I would see a credit on my next bill. Oh yes, have your computer call my computer. That should solve everything.

Next up, buying a washer and dryer. Fool me once...

This time I decided to actually go into the store and purchase them in person. That would definitely be faster and easier. Besides, I had looked at them online to compare features and prices, but that was not a satisfactory substitute for actually slamming the doors and pushing all the shiny new buttons. And I really wanted to know what the actual difference was between 3.7 cubic feet and 4.0 cubic feet of space inside a round drum (as far as I can tell, it is about $200).


Did I say faster and easier? Not if there is a computer involved. First, the salesman had to log on, which seemed to require more passwords and codes than the entry gates to Fort Knox. Then, he had to check the availability of the items (more codes and passwords), the delivery location to see what the delivery fee would be (a complicated process which required a book as well as the computer), the available dates for delivery ( we consulted his calender, my calender, called the contractor and performed six hundred forty-two more key strokes), and, as if that wasn't enough, the dates of the autumnal equinox, the next full moon and the delivery driver's birthday to see if Jupiter was in line with Mars in the house of his rising sun.

Once all of this was entered, we could then get down to the actual information gathering: name, billing address, phone numbers (day, night, cell, work, childhood home, first apartment), e-mail addresses(mine, Tim's, my parents', brother and sister's, in laws), delivery address, name of person accepting delivery and his favorite color, accessibility to condo unit (apparently, they will deliver to the third floor without an elevator, but the fourth is pushing it just one step too far--what is that word you are mouthing?? Hernia???), credit card number, expiration date, security code, name of grade school I attended, first pet, best friend and shoe size.

Oh, but we weren't done yet. All of this information had to be previewed, tabulated, approved, printed out, reviewed and signed off on. This required much further diligent tapping of keys, jiggling of the mouse, an avalanche of computer printouts, and much stapling, folding and sealing. Pricewaterhouse doesn't go to this much trouble to tabulate the Oscar results!

Finally, after receiving a twenty-minute lecture on how to fill out the rebate forms (the instructions only took about two minutes, but they were repeated ten times to make sure I understood--hmmm, I wonder if it was the dazed look in my eyes or the slack jaw that gave me away?), I was on my way...to buy some furniture.

I didn't think it was possible, but this was an even more painful experience than the previous two. Some of the furniture was in stock at the actual store, some was in stock, but not on the premises, and some was catalogue and internet only, but they could do it on the store computer for me. And, as if that wasn't bad enough, it couldn't all be placed as one order. (Yeah, multiple computer glitches!!!)

To give the salesman credit, he tried his best to compensate for the inconvenience by working two computers at once. It was mesmerizing to watch, with a click click here and a tap tap there. Here a click, there a tap, everywhere a clicktap.

And there was even audience participation. It was credit card in, then credit card out(of the wallet), the discount card in, then the discount card out, the card with the address for delivery in, then the card with the address for delivery out. We turned ourselves around, repeated the whole process three more times, and that's what it was all about.

At last it was done though, and I was on my way. If I had known it would be that involved and taken that long, I would have packed a lunch and left a forwarding address.

Ah, but the saga doesn't end here. I returned home to get the confirmation e-mails from the store, only to find there were not two bedside tables listed, but one. One.

Maybe I could trade in the extra refrigerator for the other one.

Long Day's Journey Into Night

This week, I went to Florida with two friends. Just a quick trip down and back. Well, at least a quick trip down.

Coming back home though was another matter.

We arrived at our departure gate only to find that it had been changed and we had to walk to one further down the corridor.

And so the journey began. Had we known how it was going to progress, we probably would have opted to keep on walking. It would have been faster.

Within minutes, however, they started boarding. First class (not us!), zone 1, zone 2. Then, silence. Uh oh. This was not at all encouraging.

Three. Three. Call zone three. I gripped the handle of my suitcase more tightly, preparing to sprint toward the gate ahead of the unruly gaggle of chatty high-schoolers on a field trip, and the woman with the squalling child. Those kids may have been a lot younger, but I had more experience elbowing people aside. I also had a really big purse, and I wasn't afraid to use it.

Wait. There was something happening at the gate. The crowd there seemed to be getting larger instead of smaller. It almost looked like...But no. I couldn't be. And yet...Were zones 1 and 2 getting off the plane?

Yes, they were. As the ontime sign changed to delayed, there was a mad dash to occupy those oh-so-comfortable vinyl airport chairs. Securing three, we glumly slumped down and broke out the chocolate and cell phones.

A one-hour delay due to weather. Well, it was clear as a bell there so the rain must be in DC, right? Wrong. Sunshine and blue skies there too. So now they were delaying flights due to good weather? Gotta love those airlines.

One hour later, we got to repeat the whole fun-filled boarding process all over again (can't get enough of that ), and this time, they actually let everyone get on, closed the doors and took off.

The pilot filled us in on his flight plan. First, we would fly out over the ocean, then, just before we got to Europe, we would turn around, buzz a few cornfields in the midwest and finally head north. He wasn't kidding.

For the next four hours, we watched the sun set out of the left side of the plane, then the right, then the left and right again as the cast of High School Musical III, Journey to Nowhere, bopped up and down the aisles singing Happy Birthday to their own little Suzie Q eighty-seven thousand times.

Wishing I had asked for something stronger than water the one time the flight attendants had passed by, I prayed for a swift (too late) and merciful end to the torture. But it was not to be.

The pilot announced that there had indeed been a thunderstorm in DC (oh sure, because they had put it out there in the universe) and we were in a line for landing. He had even more good news too. Since we had circled Georgia and the Carolinas so long (seriously, with all this flying time, we could have been deplaning in Paris by now for a lovely meal at an outdoor cafe along the Seine and we were hovering over Georgia? ) we were running low on fuel and needed to land.

This was strictly a fuel and go stop he warned(promised?) us. We would not be deplaning. Then, provided he got clearance, we would fly right into DC (and if he didn't get clearance?)

At this point, we toyed with the idea of taking up a collection and bribing him to land anywhere close to DC if he couldn't land there. Dulles, Baltimore, even New Jersey for God's sake. Just somewhere in the northeast.

Passengers began peppering the flight crew with questions. What about connecting flights (this elicited a pitying look), how many planes were ahead of us in the line (this elicited a dismayed look), would we ever see our loved ones again, or should we look into real estate in Greensboro (this elicited the worst thing of all, an actual answer).

One crew member finally cracked and told us the crew was close to "timing out" on the number of hours they were allowed to work and if that happened...good-bye DC, hello Motel 6. I began googling hotels on my blackberry.

Fate finally smiled upon us though, and after a mere hour trapped inside a metal tube, inhaling jet fuel fumes with two hundred of our closest friends, some of which had thankfully brought along their screaming babies for a diversion, we were once again airborne.

Seven and a half hours after we began our two and a half journey, it finally ended (now I know how Gilligan felt). As we exited the aircraft past a bedraggled and surly crew, I turned on my blackberry and found that I had a message from my good friend in New Jersey asking if I wanted to hop on a plane this weekend for a fast trip down to Florida.

Really. You can't make this stuff up.

Oh Phone, Where Art Thou?

I have recently hit upon a new exercise program....sprinting for the phone.

We have two hard-lines, one upstairs and one down which we never use unless we happen to be standing next to them when they ring, and two cordless phones, one upstairs and one down which we always use so we don't have to exert any effort at all when they ring.

Unfortunately, this system only works when you can actually find the cordless phones.

Lately, I seem to have developed the habit of losing at least one of them for extended periods of time.

I will be travelling the house, happily chatting away while doing the laundry or the dishes or reorganizing a closet, and when the call ends, I simply put down the phone wherever I happen to be.

I tell myself not to forget it this time. I ask myself, "If I were looking for a phone, where would be the most obvious and logical place to look?" and then I put it there. Turns out it's not so obvious and I'm not all that logical, because I forget it more often than not, and then the hunt is on.

Usually, I don't realize it's missing until a call comes in and I can't hear the cordless ring. By then, I've moved on to another task, another room or another floor, and so I have to run for one of the hard lines before, God forbid, it goes to voicemail.

Now I would be perfectly fine with letting it do just that, but no one else in my life seems to be. The second it clicks over to voicemail, they all immediatly hang up and, as fast as their little fingers can punch the buttons, they call my cell phone.

This almost always necessitates another fifty yard dash since my cell phone is forever buried deep in my purse which is never in the same room or on the same floor as I am.

Back and forth I dash, stubbing my toes on door frames, banging my shins on couches and chairs and wondering why ten years of ballet as a child did not seem to have imparted the grace and coordination my parents hoped it would.

With no time to check caller ID before the call goes to voicemail and the whole nasty process repeats itself, I breathlessly answer the phone, gasping out a strangled "hello" only to find that I have practically killed myself to get a reminder from my dentist that my teeth need to be cleaned(Great, and due to your call, my toes need a splint too. Thanks ever so much).

Paging the cordless from the base is usually not an option because, nine times out of ten, it is either hiding too deeply within the bowels of the house to hear it, or the battery is dead.

Searching the house or trying to retrace my steps is only an exercise in futility and frustration. If I could hide our valuables half as well, we would never have to worry about being robbed.

Sometimes, it is in my closet, nestled amongst my sweaters on a cold winter day (did I think it was chilly?). Other times, it is stashed in the linen closet with Tin's shaving kit (was I planning on taking it on our next trip?). Once (or six times) , it was down in the basement hiding among the arts and crafts (maybe I thought I wouldn't lose it if it was decorated?). The best (or worst) temporary loss though took place recently.

For over a week, the cordless phone was MIA. It wasn't in any of the usual(or unusual) places. I paged, I searched, I offered St. Anthony(patron saint of things lost) money. I even cleaned out the fridge in the hope that I might find it buried in the back along with a half-eaten slice of cake from the Safeway. It was well and truly gone.

And every time the phone rang, I had to make a mad dash for it since our one remaining cordless phone was always on the other floor. I got more exercise that week than I've gotten in the last fifteen years. It got to the point where I could get to it by the middle of the second ring and I wasn't even winded!

Tim, however, did not seem to appreciate the health benefits of dashing for the phone, something about working hard all day and not wanting to run a mini-marathon at night. Whatever.

Just as we were about to finally call off the search, cave in and buy a new phone, Tim found it. Taking me by the hand Saturday morning, he gently led me to the back door and pointed out to the backyard where the grill sat...with the phone on top of it (I knew it had something to do with food!!!).

Surprisingly, it still worked even after sitting out all week in the intense heat and two or three rain showers. We tucked it back into it's little niche on the base and charged it, but I'm still doing my stretching exercises because I know it's only a matter of time before I'll be putting on my running shoes again.

Press One for English

Recently, Tim's sister got a sound system. It is a DVD/CD player, radio, and speaker system for the TV all rolled into one. And it only takes three remotes to operate it. Ahh. Progress.

A few weeks ago, Tim and I went over to try and help her hook it up (well, Tim went over to hook it up, I just went along to heckle him...it's my job).

He got it out of the box, and even managed to follow the seemingly idiot-proof picture directions for hooking it up. It wasn't until he turned it on that the trouble began.

Oh, it started out user-friendly enough, encouraging Tim to choose which language he preferred, number one for English, numero dos for espanol. He pressed one for English.

A woman's voice flowed out from the speaker welcoming him, and assuring him that she would guide him through the start-up process.

And then she switched to Spanish.

Perplexed, Tim pushed the buttons to stop, then exit, then restart. And got Spanish again.

He hit some more buttons. And got Spanish again. Caramba!

He said some not very nice words, but surprisingly they had no effect on the senorita and she continued to hable en espanol.

I believe that it was at this point that the dog decided to enter the fray. Somehow, he thought that jumping up and french kissing Tim repeatedly would make everything better. It didn't (some people are just determined to be foul for no reason whatsoever).

Concern for Tim's pressure, her dog and her TV (although not necessarily in that order), prompted Rose to insist that she didn't need the system hooked up that day, but Tim was not giving up yet.

He re-read the directions, fiddled with the connections, the buttons, the knobs and the remotes. Nada.

I heckled (it was my job, after all), the dog barked, Rose soothed, and Tim cursed (some of it in Spanish--the extent of his Spanish language skills-- so the machine could understand). Still nada.

Eventually, dinnertime approached and Tim had to admit temporary defeat. He turned off the system, unplugged it, and with a muttered, "hasta la vista" and final black look, left the apartment.

This past weekend, we finally returned, but brought our twenty-two year old nephew with us. As Tim explained the problem, our nephew nodded once, walked over to the machine, switched one of the cables around and "Termine" Done. No problemo.

So now Rose can listen to her TV programs as though she is a member of the studio audience...if only she could remember how to work the three remotes.

Of Rocks and Strings and Sealing Wax and Other Fancy Stuff

The other night at dinner, my niece and I were discussing the plot of a book which involved a small town museum, and I was reminded of the one my mother and I visited on our Alaskan cruise.

Pulling into port on that fine July morning, we reviewed our options. We could stay aboard ship and relax in the spa, then maybe pop into the casino for an enjoyable hour or so, we could visit the town and spend time exploring the cozy little shops and restaurants, or we could hike up the road to petroglyph beach to view actual prehistoric rock carvings.

Since it was a lovely thirty-five degrees and raining, we, of course, elected to go with option number three.

Shrugging our fleece-lined coats on over every other item of clothing we owned, we set out for the far side of town and the beach.

As we slogged up the mud-drenched road, we encountered a couple of fellow shipmates, and thought to double-check our direction. "Petroglyph beach?" we enquired, peering through the downpour, and pointing up the hill.

Exchanging what they surely thought to be a surreptitious glance, they nodded, "Yes, just keep going up the hill. Oh, and stop at the museum," and hurried past us.

Huh. That didn't seem too encouraging. Had we detected a bit of a smirk?

Gamely, we continued schlepping up the increasingly steep and winding trail, eventually passing a few more poor, drenched souls.

"Petroglyph beach?" we gasped out, feebly raising trembling fingers to point upwards.

"Oh, yes," they responded cheerily (too cheerily), "you're almost there. Be sure and visit the museum on the way too." And they rolled past us back toward civilization.

Okay, they really looked like they were smirking.

But, on we trudged, ever upward (where exactly was this beach, the North Pole?), and, not soon enough, we saw a sign (and by sign, I mean piece of wood nailed to a tree with the word "museum" carved into it) indicating we had arrived at the recommended destination.

Approaching the museum (and by museum, I mean extra-large detached garage buried in the wilderness) we paid our $1 entrance fee and went in.

We were greeted by a chorus line of fifty Barbie dolls in crocheted dresses representing the fifty states. Okay...moving on. There was a dented typewriter from the 1920's, a rusted outboard motor from the 50's and a giant pine cone from the woods.

But wait, there was more. Magazines from the 70's, someones beat-up old shoes and an entire box of assorted buttons and wooden spools that had once held thread.

Yes, those were definitely smirks we had seen.

After picking our way past the displays of moose antlers, rocking chairs without seats and the remains of what used to be aluminum lawn furniture, we decided we had seen enough of the collection (and by collection, I mean stuff they hadn't been able to sell at the community yard sale), and resumed our sojourn to petryoglyph beach.

Upon reaching our final destination and gazing down at the three rocks with fish and circles carved into them (did they say prehistoric or pre-school?) we became nostalgic for the museum's treasures.

Slipping and sliding our way back downhill to the dry comforts of our staterooms, we couldn't resist doing as those before us had done though.

Passing the poor fools straggling up the mountainside, we smiled smug little smiles, nodded encouragingly toward the mountain's peak and suggested they stop by for a visit to the "must-see" town attraction---the museum.

Blah, blah, blah

Recently, a friend and I were talking about our most embarrassing moments (and, believe me, there have been a lot !)

I would have to say, the hands-down winner for me occurred when Tim and I were on vacation (and naturally, it was all his fault. No, really.)

The hotel was fabulous, the room was great, the beach wonderful. Life was bliss. Until day two when I tried to use the hair dryer and Tim tried to use the internet.

The dryer was one of those wall-mounted units, but not the normal kind. This one looked more like a vacuum attachment with its ribbed, (semi) flexible hose and rectangular nozzle. I wasn't sure whether I should dry my hair or hunt for dust bunnies under the bed.

It also had one setting, fry, which not only referred to your hair, but also the skin on your hand holding the dryer. It was enough to make Vidal Sassoon want to shave his head.

Being moderately (okay, okay, obsessively) fond of my hair, not to mention wanting to avoid a trip to the ER for treatment of third degree burns, I made a trip to the drug store where I purchased the only dryer they had. It was about the size of my palm, but sounded like a jet was taking off in the bathroom.

Hmmmm. So my choices were: having a really bad hair day, or going deaf. I started learning sign language.

Tim's internet problem was a much easier fix. He called the front desk and they told him they would send somebody up. Done.

It was when our two solutions collided that my moment occurred.

After a hard day of lounging on the beach and frolicking in the water (well, not so much frolicking as floating and lounging there too -- wouldn't want to expend too much energy), we returned to the room where I hopped into the shower and Tim hopped onto the phone.

As I stood there in my underwear, aiming what amounted to a hand-held police siren or air horn at my head, Tim opened the bathroom door, stuck his head in, and interrupted his call long enough to say, "Blah, blah, blah." He then popped out, shutting the door behind him before I could react.

Now normally, I would just ignore whatever he had to say if it interfered with my beauty regimen. After all, what could possibly be more important than my hair? But, judging from the expression on his face, this had seemed to be a matter of some concern.

Heaving a sigh, I shut off the dryer, flung open the bathroom door and barrelled out into the little hallway snapping, "What did you say?"

And came face to face, or rather face to torso with the tech guy kneeling on the floor who was trying to fix Tim's internet connection problem.

Apparently, "Blah, blah, blah," translated into: "Don't come out of the bathroom unless you want to share way too much personal information with a complete stranger."

The next day, after I was talking to Tim again, we went looking for another hair dryer.

Failure to Communicate

Every spring, we have our gutters cleaned out and all our brick work power washed and sealed. (Tim and I used to do it ourselves, but in the long run, we figured hiring someone else to do it was cheaper and easier than hiring divorce lawyers.)

When I called this year, the guy told me they would come on Monday...or Tuesday...maybe Wednesday. Definitely no later than Wednesday (and I thought the cable company was bad for giving me an eight hour window?).

Monday came, they didn't. But Tuesday morning, seven am, we heard a clattering up on the roof. Since it wasn't December, I knew it had to be either the work crew or some really big squirrels and not a jolly old elf. Rushing outside, I found an army of workers scurrying to and fro over the roof, filling large green garbage bags with debris.

As I went to join the crowd of neighbors that had gathered to watch the spectacle (it's amazing what passes for entertainment in this neighborhood), I spied the boss and approached him.

Figuring it had been about a week since I had talked to him, I wanted to make sure he remembered everything I wanted done. As we toured the yard, he nodded vigorously in agreement as I pointed to the porches, the walks, the patio and the driveway.

Yes, yes. Power-washed.

And sealed.

Yes, yes. And sealed.

But make sure you aim the power washer away from the pool so that all the dirt doesn't end up in the pool.

Yes, yes. Away from the pool.

And the cabinets need to be moved off the back porch before you power wash because they are wood (well, fake wood from Target, but definitely not water-proof).

Yes, yes. Move the cabinets.

Okay then, I'll be here if you need anything.

Yes, yes. No problem.

Problem. Big problem. Problemsssss. Plural.

Ten minutes later when I went out to wash down the patio furniture, the "crew" had been reduced to one guy who was not much bigger than an elf (I am 5'4" and I looked like Sheena, queen of the Amazons next to him), who was happily aiming the power washer toward the pool.

He then proceeded to turn it toward the cabinets, which were still sitting on the back porch.

Okay,what we had here was a failure to communicate.

Foolishly, I tried to correct the situation. Using a combination of pantomime, charades and a voice that would make Ethel Merman flinch, I got him to redirect the power washer, and assure me that he would have help moving the cabinets. I just didn't realize at the time that the "help" would be me.

As we hefted the cabinets, one by one, and carried them off the porch, I tried to figure out where everything had gone so horribly wrong. I was distracted from my musings though when my coworker decided to push the dirty water off the porch and into the cabinets we had just moved out of harm's way. What did he have against my poor cabinets?

Eventually though, the power-washing was finished and we were able to tackle the whole issue of sealing everything that had just been cleaned.

Yes, yes. Everything sealed. The crew will come and do it.

Uh, uh. I fell for that once before, and had the calluses and sore muscles to prove it. Besides, I had an appointment and had to leave for about a half hour.

Once again, I tried to convey, in detail, what needed to be done, and once again, we had that same failure to communicate.

When I left, he was busily sealing the brick from the gate to the patio. When I returned, he was gone and he had sealed the brick from the gate to the patio. Period. Didn't touch the patio, the driveway, the front walks, the porches. Just sealed the one walkway and left.

Trying to keep my head from exploding, I called the boss and did my best to explain why he wasn't going to find a check in the mailbox.

Yes, yes, he assured me, it would be finished the next day.

And it was. Or at least the rest of the walks were. But not the patio or driveway. That happened on day three and day four along with a lot of teeth gnashing and hair pulling.

Maybe I should just look into divorce lawyers for next year after all.

Would You Believe It If I Told You....

Pool service people think I'm dumb. There can be no other explanation for the lame excuses they have consistently given me for our heater not working.

Excuse#1: the wind
It keeps blowing out the pilot light. Yeah, must be that gale force wind we have blowing daily through the neighborhood. You know, the one that picks up houses and drops them on people wearing ruby slippers.

Besides, the heater is in an enclosed space. Aha! They seize on this detail like it's the last truffle in the Godiva box. That's why the wind is blowing it out. It can't go through the area, so it gets trapped in that enclosed space and just keeps going back and forth, back and forth, subjecting the pilot light to an inescapable barrage of air.

Okay, so how exactly does the wind get in there in the first place? Does it climb over the fence, or perhaps it stops short of the fence, then executes a series of ninety degree turns to gain access. Gee, you'd think if it was smart enough to get in, it could figure out how to get out.

Excuse #2: the thermostat
The actual pool temperature is too close to the preset temperature for it to turn the heater on. Yeah. Seventy-five is real close to ninety-two (I don't think of it as a pool so much as a giant hot tub).

I'm glad these people aren't doctors. I can see it now: "No need to worry. Your temperature is only 102. That's not anywhere near 104, which would be dangerous. Just go home and relax. Hey, maybe your thermometer is broken!"

Then again, perhaps I'm just imagining the blue skin and goosebumps the size of baseballs.

And finally, excuse #3: the control panel isn't working
You mean the thing that gives the date, time and temperature? The think that controls the lights, filter pump and cleaner? That thing? Nope. Working fine. How do I know? Well, when I press the filter pump button, the pump works, and when I press the buttons for the lights, they come on. Oh, and the date and time are correct. Now, I'm no rocket scientist, but I'd say that means it is working.

Any more excuses? No? Fresh out? Gosh, and I was so enjoying our little game.

Fortunately, our new pool company has not tried to fob me off with those same old dumb excuses. When I called them last week about the heater not working, they came right out, looked at it and figured out a way to resolve the problem quickly and easily...replace the heater!

I'm sorry I asked.

You've Got (No) Mail

Whenever we travel, we stop the mail. It's easy to do online, even for someone as technologically challenged as I. It is basically point and click and the only information you need is your address. They even give you a handy dandy little pull down calendar to help you select the stop and start dates. Only someone who could not find their head with both hands and a flashlight could screw it up.

Apparently, our post office has just such a person working there.

Since Monday was the holiday, we put the stop date for Tuesday.

The mail was delivered Tuesday. My sister-in-law took it in for us.

The mail was delivered Wednesday. Our neighbor took it in for us.

So much for selecting a stop date.

Since we were not arriving home until late Friday night, we chose Saturday as the start-up date and for all accumulated mail (all two days worth --gee, get the forklift) to be delivered.

Saturday came, but no mail.

Monday came. Still no mail.

So much for the start-up date.

Tuesday morning, I went to the post office.

There were two people behind the desk helping customers and only one person in line. Jackpot!!! Oh lucky day!!! This would not suck more than a few minutes out of my life:)

Twenty minutes later, the two people behind the desk were still helping the same two customers and now there were about fifteen people in line.

Near as I can figure, one of the people was sending a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle to Romania, piece by piece, and the other person was engaging the clerk in an in-depth discussion on registered mail vs. standard mail vs. certified mail, etc.

Finally, after ten more minutes of listening to the mind-numbing, excruciatingly tedious transactions taking place, one of the clerks finished and beckoned to the guy in front of me.

He was not happy. None of us were happy. A low murmur of discontent began to travel down the line which had now swelled to about twenty people.

"Next disgruntled customer," barked the other clerk.

Huh? Oh, he meant me. Give the man a gold star in reading body language.

Sliding my license across the desk, I explained that I wanted to pick up my mail which was supposed to have been delivered two days earlier.

"Hmmph. 'Supposed to' is the key word there," he grumbled, sliding off his stool. "Oh, did that sound sarcastic?" he asked sarcastically, as he disappeared into the back room.

Wow. And he thought I was disgruntled.

Meanwhile, the first guy called up the next customer and proceeded to lecture the person and the room at large about the proper etiquette involved in shipping a package.

Okay, did nobody here have their Wheaties this morning? At this point, we all began to shift nervously and mentally practice diving for safety under the nearest table.

My guy stomped back, sans license, and pointed to an unmanned station farther down the counter. "We don't have your mail. Big surprise. Wait there and someone will be out to help you."

No problem. I was planning on getting as far away from you as possible anyway.

"Sir. Sir," he snapped loudly, catching sight of an elderly man who had just entered and gotten into the still increasing line, "come up and go to that window (same one as me). You don't have to wait in line since you were already here. Next! Let's go!"

Casting apologetic glances at the two dozen people ahead of him, the man complied. He needn't have worried though. Everyone was too scared to complain what with visions of being on the six o'clock news swimming around in their heads. They all stood there, wide-eyed, watching the clerks as though they were lions that had escaped from the zoo just before feeding time.

"What're you here for?" the elderly man whispered to me out of the side of his mouth.

"I'm trying to pick up accumulated mail," I whispered right back.

"Good luck," he snorted under his breath. "I wouldn't hold out much hope if I were you."

Our conversation was interrupted by a woman who came bustling out with my license and a garbled explanation about how my mail was not there, but at "the other office" and she would call and make sure delivery started immediately, but just in case, here was a number I could call to try and get my mail.

While I wavered between disbelief and frustration, one of the other clerks began haranguing some poor woman at top volume about how he had to ask certain questions about her package and to please let him do his job.

That decided me.....I didn't need my mail that badly. It was probably just a lot of junk mail anyway.

I practically ran for the nearest exit. Next time we go away, I'm going to have a mail slot installed in the front door so that I don't ever have to go to the post office again.

Days of the Iguana

At our hotel in Puerto Rico, there were two big attractions: the ten huge iguanas that live on the grounds and the three hundred retired NFL players who were there for a convention.

Actually, the iguanas were the bigger attraction.

Actually, the iguanas scaring the crap out of the NFL players was the biggest attraction. You can't believe how fast a three hundred plus pound guy can move when startled by a twenty pound, five foot long reptile.

Wednesday afternoon, the pool was jammed, and pretty much every chair was taken. Until the first iguana showed up.

Tim and I spotted him sitting on top of one of the statues poolside. At first, he just sort of blended in and most people didn't realize he was even there.

Then, apparently he got hot and needed to take a quick dip in the pool to cool off. That is when people noticed him. He went in one side and everyone else at that end of the pool went out the other. It was kind of like a scene from Jaws: water churning, legs flying, arms flailing, rafts overturning. All that was missing was the theme music and the harpoon.

By the time he got out and was nonchalantly sitting in a planter happily munching on the flowers, the panic had subsided, testosterone once again reigned supreme and the post-game commentary had begun.

"Did you see the size of that thing?!" "I didn't know they got that big." "They don't bother me." (yeah, right, and that is why you jumped up on your chair) "They're plant-eaters, right?" (until they decide you look tasty) "Man, he was huge!" (yes, I believe we covered that) "He can't hurt you, can he?"

On Thursday, the second guy (even bigger) made an appearance. As a group of us stood on the sidewalk watching him watching us, a woman came barrelling through totally oblivious to the fact that these big, hulking guys were not huddling behind a garbage can to discuss the next play. I don't think I've ever seen anyone jump that high without a trampoline.

The best reaction we ever saw though was the guy in the pool. As his wife reclined on a raft in the near empty pool, he gazed lovingly into her eyes and murmured endearments as he gently propelled her around. Life was beautiful and true love was in the air...

Until the iguana swan between his legs from behind and bobbed up on the opposite side of the raft. Then it was every man for himself. He abandoned that raft like it was the Titanic and he had just gotten the last seat on the lifeboat. Had he been on land, I'm pretty sure he would have set a new record for rushing.

I'm also pretty sure he ended up in divorce court. All because of a cute little iguana who just wanted to frolic in the water.

The Five Stages of Grief

Several thousand years ago, a Greek guy traveled many miles with an important message, then dropped dead. This event gave birth to the word marathon.

Last week, my blackberry traveled many miles to Puerto Rico filled with several important messages, then dropped dead. This event gave birth to a lot of words, most of them having four letters.

At first, I was in denial. I turned it off, then on again. I took out the battery and blew off the imaginary dust. I plucked out the SYM card and blew on that too just for good measure. I gave it to Tim who did all of these things over again.

I moved on to anger. I shook it, hit it and seriously considered chucking it out the window of the car onto the freeway.

From there, I segued into the third stage -- bargaining. I begged, I pleaded, I cajoled. I tried to do a nine day novena in nine minutes. Nada. My blackberry was D.O.A.

Panic began to set in. What if my friends or family needed to reach me that week? What if the alarm went off at the house and the alarm co. needed to get ahold of me (this has happened more than once)? More importantly, what if Pottery Barn was having a big sale or Overstock.com was having a free shipping weekend? Arrrrgh!!!

Tim tried to calm me down, assuring me that we could find a Verizon store somewhere on the island and get help (or maybe he said psychiatric hospital, I wasn't really paying attention to him at this point).

Upon arriving at the hotel, he headed for the registration desk and I beelined it for the concierge, pretty much plowing over anyone too slow to get out of my way.

"Is there a Verizon store nearby?" I gasped out.

The girl gave me a sympathetic smile. "Sorry, no."

I breathed deep and tried again. "Is there one anywhere ?"

"Not on Puerto Rico." She took a slight step backward. Smart girl.

"You have no Verizon store, cart, stand, anything, anywhere or the entire island?" I wanted to make sure I nailed it down to the letter before I took the final plunge off the deep end.

"No. We only have one company that was part of Verizon, but they don't offer Verizon service or help their customers."

Gee, another dysfunctional communications company. What are the odds???

"Is there anywhere you can recommend that I go for help with my blackberry?" I persisted.

"Sorry." No, she wasn't. She was still able to get her e-mails, phone calls and text messages. I, on the other hand, wouldn't be receiving any good luck because I couldn't forward the dancing leprechaun on to eighty-six of my closest friends in the next ten minutes.

Stage four, depression, kicked in and we weren't even checked in yet.

And to make matters worse, Tim had decided to travel light and only brought his blackberry with him. No second or third phone, no laptop. No contact at all with the outside world except for his blackberry. What had he been thinking!!!

One blackberry for the two of us? Right. Like I was ever going to get a crack at it. He would rather give me some other less vital part of him like a kidney or maybe half his brain.

And so, acceptance gradually set in. I visited the business center almost daily, but it wasn't the same. I had to fight for my thirty minutes of computer time with the rest of the other poor blackberryless fools. I would have been better off sticking a message in a bottle and waiting for low tide some days, and I don't even want to address the phone issue.

Tim, meanwhile, chatted away at the pool, the beach, the restaurant. He e-mailed and opened attachments with no time constraints or someone trying to look over his shoulder. He even googled a few times. He took his blackberry everywhere with him (yes, even the bathroom). So much for sharing.

Even now that we are back home and my blackberry is somewhat up and running (Puerto Rico is definitely off our list of vacation spots), I am still not through with the stages of grief. I think I may have found a sixth and seventh that were not on the original list. And every time my blackberry beeps and I get a voice message that was left last Tuesday or Wednesday, I go right back to the beginning and have to start all over again.

Service With a Smile

I have come to the conclusion that people in the service industry fall into either one of two basic categories: surly, embittered miscreants who make Oscar the Grouch look like Mother Theresa, or bubbly, over-enthusiastic do-gooders who are a cross between Mr. Rogers and Cheerleader Barbie.

After dealing extensively with both, I have decided that I definitely prefer Type One.

They make no pretense of trying to help or even understand the problem. I know that when I am done talking to them, I will need to crack open a fresh bottle of Advil and eat lots of ice cream to lower my blood pressure (Really. It is a scientific fact. Although, they probably don't mean you should eat the whole half gallon in one sitting.).

I feel justified in hopping on my broom and borrowing liberally from Don Rickles stand-up act. And when it is all over, I know that the person I am dealing with is just as aggravated and ticked off as I am.

I feel vindicated and somewhat satisfied.

And then there are the type twos.

They want to be my friend and share with me. They explain, in excruciatingly painful detail, everything. They pretend to be my advocate, my mentor and my therapist all rolled into one. Insults bounce off their cotton candy wall of niceness like a rubber ball off concrete. They are always calm and reasonable.

Which makes me just itch to slap them.

Like the Verizon guy.

After talking to six, count 'em six type ones,who kept transferring me because they couldn't be bothered to actually help me, I got Mr. Verizon.

"Of course, I'll be able to help you," he enthused. "But first, let me give you my direct dial so if you ever need anything, you can just pick up the phone and I'll be there for you."

Great. And can you do it without sounding like a really bad commercial from 1955?

"Oh, I see the problem. Your credit card expires next month and you haven't entered the new info yet," he gently chided me.

"Yes, I know," I gritted out, "but I haven't received the new card yet and that doesn't explain why my automatic payment scheduled for tomorrow won't go through."

"Weeeell. By golly, you're right," he responded, unfazed by my less than friendly tone. "Let me see..."

I could hear him humming a happy little tune as he clicked merrily away on his computer.

Grrrr.

"You know, it can take a full month after you register for the automatic payments to start," he explained as though I were a particularly slow two year old. "It says that right on the site when you sign up."

"Yes, I know," I snapped. "I signed up two months ago, and everything was working fine until now."

"Uh oh. I see the problem now," he crooned. So do I, and I'm talking to it. "It looks like you switched the last two digits on your credit card when you entered it." He actually make a tsk-tsk sound!

"Oh really?" That was it. The gloves were coming off. "Then maybe you can explain to me how the payments went through for the last two months without a problem? Did you perhaps give me two months free, or did someone there pay it out of the goodness of their heart, just to be a nice guy? And, by the way, I have more than one phone on that card and amazingly those charges went through just fine too. How do you explain that?"

As I paused for a quick breath before I finished eviscerating him, he jumped in.

"Well now," he said using the tone of voice one uses when confronting a rabid dog, "I don't know how you're mistake got through like that, but don't you worry. I've fixed it so you won't have this problem again."

My mistake? My mistake? My mistake???!!!

I think I may have actually blacked out for a moment there, because when I came to, he was thanking me for calling and telling me to make sure to call him when I got my new card so that he could change the expiration date for me.

Yeah. I don't think so. That is one mistake I won't be repeating.