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.