Last week, I visited my family in Pennsylvania. While I was there, my father ran over to my brother's house every day to take care of his four cats while my brother (Mike) was out of town on vacation. At one point, one of the cats went "missing" outside and all I could think of is...here we go again. How do we tell Mike this time?
Growing up, we'd always had a cat or two, but Mike wanted a bird (Hmm. Cat, bird...Sylvester, Tweety...pretty much everyone but Mike could see where this was going.), so he begged until my parents gave in.
Sure enough, the cat took one look at the bird and said, "Aww, for me? And it's not even my birthday." And then proceeded to do her level best to make him a distant memory.
If we didn't hang the cage from the ceiling, it was commonplace to enter a room and find the cat on top of the cage, sticking her paws through the bars and calling, "Her birdie, birdie, birdie."
Summer was the best season for that poor little thing because Mike could hang the cage in a cool, shady corner of the front porch and the cat was more interested in terrorizing easier prey like Alvin, Theodore and Simon. It worked well until the fourth of July, or the beginning of the end for the bird as we like to call it.
Every year, my dad and Mike would set off a few small fireworks on the street in front of our house. In a one-in-a-million, couldn't repeat it if we tried moment, one of the "rockets" went astray and shot sideways, just missing my mom's head as she sat on the porch steps, but zooming through the cage before crashing and dying.
It's hard to say who was more upset by the incident, my mom, the bird, Mike or my dad, but at least two of them survived without any deep psychological scars.
Long story short, little Polly was sent to a better home where his life was not constantly in danger of being snuffed out by a cat or an exploding device. Sadly, no one thought to add exterminator to the list and while my friend was at work one day...
With the resilience of youth, Mike moved on and a few years later adopted a stray cat. On a good day, this poor old thing looked like Rocky after going sixteen rounds with Apollo Creed. But he was sweet and loyal, and quite the guard dog as it turned out.
Nobody, but nobody got into our yard without Fred's approval. We had to escort unwary guests from their cars where he had them trapped or have them wait for one of us across the street as he patrolled back and forth across our lawn, tail up, chest thrust out and emitting a low growl, daring them to try and get past him.
No matter how many times we tried to convince him otherwise though, he always viewed the mailman as an enemy agent, bent on carrying out an evil plot that only Fred could foil. Day in, day out, this man took his life in his hands as he strove to fulfill his sworn duty, until one day when he had enough.
As reported by a neighbor, who gleefully watched the whole thing go down, the mailman brought along some protection in the form of his German shepard, stood across the street from Fred, who stuck out a claw and drew a line in the dirt, and ordered the dog to "sic 'em".
As the dog charged, Fred yawned, calmly inspected his cuticles, and when the behemoth got close enough, swiped his paw, nine-inch nails extended, across the dog's nose (or what used to be his nose). The dog cringed, whined, tucked his tail between his legs and bolted back to the mailman who, panic-stricken, threw the mail up in the air and man and dog took off up the street never to be seen again (seriously, we had to collect our mail from the neighbor for the next year and a half).
Fred the brave finally accepted a challenge one day that he lost (I believe it was with a semi) and my dad took him to the vet for one final visit.
Ten or fifteen years later, at a family dinner, we were reminiscing about our childhood when the subject of family pets came up. Naturally, we recounted the story of Fred, concluding that it had been a sad day when we'd had to put him down.
"What do you mean?" Mike interrupted, confusion written across his face. "Dad took Fred to live on a farm in the country."
Yeah, where he frolics with the Easter Bunny and Santa brings him a big bag of catnip every Christmas. Hellooo. The only farm Fred went to is the big one in the sky.
"Mike," I chided him, "you did not have a good track record with pets. Fred, your bird..."
"Wait. What happened to my bird? Didn't we give him to a good home?"
Yeah. On a farm.
Luckily, this time the cat returned and we didn't have to tell Mike that his cat had joined Fred and the bird on their farm.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Don't Help Me!
The other day, I was packing for myself and the dog (who were going to Pennsylvania for a few days) and Tim (who was going on a business trip for a few days), doing laundry, ironing, and straightening up before the cleaning lady came on Monday, when Tim decided to help me.
I am sure the judge will rule in my favor with a verdict of justifiable homicide.
As I was rushing around upstairs, trying to get everything done, Tim was working and dogsitting downstairs. Or so I thought. In actuality, he was trying to "help"me.
You see, we don't have a room in our house that we were able to "puppy proof" for our new little bundle of joy, but we do have a large space between the family room and kitchen where we've put a doggie "playpen". It is essentially an eight-sided plastic pen that has "joints" where each panel meets. When you unfold it from the box, you snap the joints until the pen resembles an octagon, then interlock the first and last pieces and ...ta da!...a safe place for the puppy when we go out.
For some reason that I will never understand even if I live to be 1000, Tim thought it would be a super idea to move the playpen so the floor could be cleaned (Wow. Gee, that has not occurred to me for the past nine Mondays that we've cleaned.). And the best way to do that? Unbend all the joints so that it resembles an amoeba, drag it across the floor to block the front hall, then bellow for help. Oh, and if you can bow out the plastic sides, you get to participate in the bonus round for the big jackpot.
"I don't know how to fold it up." He actually had the nerve to look offended by the poor, mangled piece of equipment.
Really? No kidding. Could have fooled me. Enlighten me. Why, exactly, were you messing with it at all?
"Well, how else can you clean the floor?" he asked, clearly mistaking my narrowed eyes, crossed arms and tapping foot as good signs.
"I know it's not as sophisticated as your method," I bit out as I waved him off and tried vainly to bend the recalcitrant plastic back to something, anything, resembling a known geometric shape, "but we each get on one side, pick it up and move it!"
"Oh. I was just trying to help since you're so busy." He attempted once more to return the to the scene of the crime.
I may have actually growled and bared my teeth at that point or perhaps it could have been the karate chops and kicks I was executing on the playpen with unnecessary roughness, or maybe it was simply fear that the dog would get caught in the crossfire, but he wisely retreated back to his TV and chair with the dog in tow.
"Don't." I panted as I threw my entire body weight against one particularly stubborn joint.
"Help." I gritted out, wondering how cheap plastic could take on the properties of iron and steel.
"Me." I finished, simultaneously pushing one side, pulling another, lifting a third and pressing down on a fourth.
I might have let him live if this had been his first offense, but it wasn't. It was just his most recent.
A week or two ago, I was cooking dinner when he decided to "help" me.
Just as I had the food, pots and pans lined up and ready to go, the dog informed me that she really, really, really had to go or her bladder would explode all over the kitchen. I returned from our potty call, to find Tim happily cooking dinner in the wrong pans, which would not normally have been an issue except that the pan he had seared the fish in was not oven-proof and the fish was going in the oven.
"What's your problem?" he demanded when I snatched the pan from him.
"My problem? Nothing, except that if we put that pan in the oven, I'm pretty sure that the non-metal parts will melt and/or burst into flame which will poison us and/or burn down the house. Call me crazy, but I'd rather not have the jello they probably serve in the ER for dessert!"
"How was I supposed to know you were using the oven?" he tried to defend his actions by going on the offense, but when my eyes crossed and smoke poured from my ears, he wisely retreated. Or so I thought. In actuality, he was trying to "help" me again.
As I turned from him to finish our dinner, which now involved washing additional pans, thank you very much, he decided to take out the garbage, totally disregarding doctor's orders that he not lift anything while recuperating from back surgery.
"What are you doing?" I shrieked, trying to grab the bag from him.
"I'm trying to help," he shot back, tugging the bag away from me.
"Don't." I ground out as I struggled to win the bizarre tug-of-war we were involved in.
"Help." I could smell the vegetables burning as we tussled our way out the back door.
"Me." I bellowed as the fish went from done to dry.
And that, your honor, is why I killed him.
I am sure the judge will rule in my favor with a verdict of justifiable homicide.
As I was rushing around upstairs, trying to get everything done, Tim was working and dogsitting downstairs. Or so I thought. In actuality, he was trying to "help"me.
You see, we don't have a room in our house that we were able to "puppy proof" for our new little bundle of joy, but we do have a large space between the family room and kitchen where we've put a doggie "playpen". It is essentially an eight-sided plastic pen that has "joints" where each panel meets. When you unfold it from the box, you snap the joints until the pen resembles an octagon, then interlock the first and last pieces and ...ta da!...a safe place for the puppy when we go out.
For some reason that I will never understand even if I live to be 1000, Tim thought it would be a super idea to move the playpen so the floor could be cleaned (Wow. Gee, that has not occurred to me for the past nine Mondays that we've cleaned.). And the best way to do that? Unbend all the joints so that it resembles an amoeba, drag it across the floor to block the front hall, then bellow for help. Oh, and if you can bow out the plastic sides, you get to participate in the bonus round for the big jackpot.
"I don't know how to fold it up." He actually had the nerve to look offended by the poor, mangled piece of equipment.
Really? No kidding. Could have fooled me. Enlighten me. Why, exactly, were you messing with it at all?
"Well, how else can you clean the floor?" he asked, clearly mistaking my narrowed eyes, crossed arms and tapping foot as good signs.
"I know it's not as sophisticated as your method," I bit out as I waved him off and tried vainly to bend the recalcitrant plastic back to something, anything, resembling a known geometric shape, "but we each get on one side, pick it up and move it!"
"Oh. I was just trying to help since you're so busy." He attempted once more to return the to the scene of the crime.
I may have actually growled and bared my teeth at that point or perhaps it could have been the karate chops and kicks I was executing on the playpen with unnecessary roughness, or maybe it was simply fear that the dog would get caught in the crossfire, but he wisely retreated back to his TV and chair with the dog in tow.
"Don't." I panted as I threw my entire body weight against one particularly stubborn joint.
"Help." I gritted out, wondering how cheap plastic could take on the properties of iron and steel.
"Me." I finished, simultaneously pushing one side, pulling another, lifting a third and pressing down on a fourth.
I might have let him live if this had been his first offense, but it wasn't. It was just his most recent.
A week or two ago, I was cooking dinner when he decided to "help" me.
Just as I had the food, pots and pans lined up and ready to go, the dog informed me that she really, really, really had to go or her bladder would explode all over the kitchen. I returned from our potty call, to find Tim happily cooking dinner in the wrong pans, which would not normally have been an issue except that the pan he had seared the fish in was not oven-proof and the fish was going in the oven.
"What's your problem?" he demanded when I snatched the pan from him.
"My problem? Nothing, except that if we put that pan in the oven, I'm pretty sure that the non-metal parts will melt and/or burst into flame which will poison us and/or burn down the house. Call me crazy, but I'd rather not have the jello they probably serve in the ER for dessert!"
"How was I supposed to know you were using the oven?" he tried to defend his actions by going on the offense, but when my eyes crossed and smoke poured from my ears, he wisely retreated. Or so I thought. In actuality, he was trying to "help" me again.
As I turned from him to finish our dinner, which now involved washing additional pans, thank you very much, he decided to take out the garbage, totally disregarding doctor's orders that he not lift anything while recuperating from back surgery.
"What are you doing?" I shrieked, trying to grab the bag from him.
"I'm trying to help," he shot back, tugging the bag away from me.
"Don't." I ground out as I struggled to win the bizarre tug-of-war we were involved in.
"Help." I could smell the vegetables burning as we tussled our way out the back door.
"Me." I bellowed as the fish went from done to dry.
And that, your honor, is why I killed him.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Sorry, Wrong Number
The criminal justice system in this country has it all wrong. If you want to really punish someone, make them deal with a customer service rep.
Oh, they seem to be helpful when you call (once you actually get a real, live person on the other end, you know, an hour and a half later), but it is really a diabolical plan to slowly drive people insane.
I imagine them carving notches in their headsets after "helping" some poor schlub. "Ha! Got another one Frank. That's 832 this week alone, and it's only Tuesday. I am so going to beat your record of 2000!"
I, unfortunately, am just another notch. And I didn't even know it this time for over a year.
It started out simply enough. We were moving, so I filled out forms, checked boxes, notified friends, relatives, people I don't even like, but am somehow on their Christmas card list... I cancelled the power, gas, cable and phone. I did it all.
The worst to deal with? Gas and phone. Why? Because they actually had to come out to both the old house and the new house. Therefore, I had to be there between the hours of....Ah yes, I remember it well.
So I was shocked a few months ago when I got a letter from Verizon saying that I hadn't paid my phone bill in over a year, and they were going to discontinue service. Concerned, I called them to find out what they were talking about since somebody named Verizon had been cashing my checks for the last twelve months.
"Oh no," said the guy who answered the phone after sixty-two hours of listening to a pre-recorded message telling me how important my call was and that I would be helped shortly. "Not your phone at your current address, your phone at your old address.
What?!!? Wait. So many issues with what you just said, I'm going to have to put you on hold while I try to keep my head from exploding.
After I counted to ten in three languages, meditated to center my chakras and gobbled handfuls of Advil, I felt a bit better prepared to deal with yet another customer service rep. In retrospect, I probably just should have saved myself the aggravation and taken up skydiving...without a parachute.
Okay, so you are aware that we've moved, right?
Yes.
And you understand that moving means leaving one place and going to live in another, right?
Uh. I guess.
And we switched all of our billing for our phone, cell phones, etc. to the new address, right?
Yeees.
So how is it possible that we are being billed for our old number? And, by the way, since when do you let people go a full year without paying their bill? And where were you sending those supposed bills for the last year since you clearly have our new address and the post office forwards mail from the old address for a full year? Perhaps they were sent by carrierr pigeon and the birds kept getting eaten by the neighborhood cats before they could slip the bills into the mailbox? Or maybe you sent them to our other old address where we lived fifteen years ago?
Um. So you're saying you cancelled service at that address?
No, we're just really nice people and decided to pay the new owner's phone bill for a year. We're also paying their gas, electric, cable and water bills too. OF COURSE WE CANCELLED SERVICE!!!
Um. Do you have an invoice number for that?
And that is the last thing I remember before seeing a light at the end of a tunnel and hearing a distant voice shouting, "Clear!"
Oh, they seem to be helpful when you call (once you actually get a real, live person on the other end, you know, an hour and a half later), but it is really a diabolical plan to slowly drive people insane.
I imagine them carving notches in their headsets after "helping" some poor schlub. "Ha! Got another one Frank. That's 832 this week alone, and it's only Tuesday. I am so going to beat your record of 2000!"
I, unfortunately, am just another notch. And I didn't even know it this time for over a year.
It started out simply enough. We were moving, so I filled out forms, checked boxes, notified friends, relatives, people I don't even like, but am somehow on their Christmas card list... I cancelled the power, gas, cable and phone. I did it all.
The worst to deal with? Gas and phone. Why? Because they actually had to come out to both the old house and the new house. Therefore, I had to be there between the hours of....Ah yes, I remember it well.
So I was shocked a few months ago when I got a letter from Verizon saying that I hadn't paid my phone bill in over a year, and they were going to discontinue service. Concerned, I called them to find out what they were talking about since somebody named Verizon had been cashing my checks for the last twelve months.
"Oh no," said the guy who answered the phone after sixty-two hours of listening to a pre-recorded message telling me how important my call was and that I would be helped shortly. "Not your phone at your current address, your phone at your old address.
What?!!? Wait. So many issues with what you just said, I'm going to have to put you on hold while I try to keep my head from exploding.
After I counted to ten in three languages, meditated to center my chakras and gobbled handfuls of Advil, I felt a bit better prepared to deal with yet another customer service rep. In retrospect, I probably just should have saved myself the aggravation and taken up skydiving...without a parachute.
Okay, so you are aware that we've moved, right?
Yes.
And you understand that moving means leaving one place and going to live in another, right?
Uh. I guess.
And we switched all of our billing for our phone, cell phones, etc. to the new address, right?
Yeees.
So how is it possible that we are being billed for our old number? And, by the way, since when do you let people go a full year without paying their bill? And where were you sending those supposed bills for the last year since you clearly have our new address and the post office forwards mail from the old address for a full year? Perhaps they were sent by carrierr pigeon and the birds kept getting eaten by the neighborhood cats before they could slip the bills into the mailbox? Or maybe you sent them to our other old address where we lived fifteen years ago?
Um. So you're saying you cancelled service at that address?
No, we're just really nice people and decided to pay the new owner's phone bill for a year. We're also paying their gas, electric, cable and water bills too. OF COURSE WE CANCELLED SERVICE!!!
Um. Do you have an invoice number for that?
And that is the last thing I remember before seeing a light at the end of a tunnel and hearing a distant voice shouting, "Clear!"
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
I Am Officially Old
As we celebrated out 24th wedding anniversary last month, Tim held my hands, gazed deeply into my eyes and said, "Do you realize that your parents were only two years older than we are now when we got married?"
And they say romance is dead.
Thinking he couldn't possibly be right, I did some quick mental calculations, pulled out our wedding album, double checked our birth certificates, and registered at Ancestry.com. I vividly remember my parents being old when we got married. There was no way they could have been as young as we are now.
I remember them regularly falling asleep on the couch, staying home on Friday and Saturday nights to watch TV, and needing glasses and a 3000 watt bulb to read anything. They didn't "get" why everyone from David Cassidy to Don Johnson was cool and Frank Sinatra and Van Johnson weren't. (Really?! Frank actually had teenage groupies? Aww. C'mon. You're making that up.) And they absolutely, positively did not share our appreciation of Aerosmith, Meatloaf or anybody who recorded a song after 1963.
I mean, yes, maybe we occasionally might possibly rest our eyes for a few minutes while watching TV, but we don't ever fall asleep. And perhaps we don't feel a pressing need to be out every weekend, especially if there is some kind of showdown on the Food Network or a really cool item shows up on Pawn Stars. As for reading glasses? Well, if they would stop "Micro"-ing everything these days, we'd be fine. Just because the microchip caught on doesn't mean they have to print everything in minuscule font.
We are still young, hip and cool. We not only know who Lady Gaga is, we have her on our ipods and at least one of us knows who Selina Gomez and Demi Lovato are. We still go to concerts (Okay, so our last concert was Marvin Hamlish and the last movie we saw starred the Chipmunks, but that still counts. Right?)
I actually had myself convinced that, despite hard evidence to the contrary, Tim was wrong, wrong, wrong. And then I went back-to-school shopping with our niece last weekend.
Now, years ago when the older kids first discovered Abercrombie and Fitch, I gritted my teeth and went with them. (Seriously? You want how much for a shirt that looks like the one I threw in the rag bag last week?) Ten minutes later, I stumbled out with a migraine and severely irritated nasal passages, swearing I would never, ever subject myself to that again.
But that didn't mean I was old. Sure the music was loud and the staff all between the ages of 16 and 16 1/2. Yes, the scent they pumped out with each beat of the music was nauseating, but that irritated lots of people, not just me. Pretty much every parent felt the same, and they were not all old like my parents were when I was in school.
So this weekend, when we took my niece to the mall, and she wanted to go to Abercrombie Kids, my initial instinct was to recoil violently and make Tim go it alone. Then I reminded myself that I am not old. Besides, this was the young kids store, so surely it would be more user friendly for parents and young aunts and uncles. So I grudgingly, but hopefully went in.
And that is when I discovered that I was old. Very old.
Not only did they play the worst music I have ever in my life heard, they played it at ear-splitting volume through sixty-seven thousand speakers that were tucked into every nook, crevice and corner. Standing next to a jet engine during take-off would be quieter.
Did they not realize that while that may be acceptable in their teenager store where the kids don't want their parents helping select clothes, it was the parents who were doing the shopping here? Seriously, who is going to give their eight-year old a credit card and say, "Go for it kid."?
I lasted as long as I could. Honestly. And it was the longest thirty seconds of my life. As I bolted for the door and the lovely, quiet heavy metal music playing throughout the mall, one of the sweet, young twelve-year-old sales clerks asked if she could help me find anything. (Of course, she had to repeat the question several times, finally using a megaphone before I could hear her over the cacophony of sounds).
"Yes," I bellowed back, without stopping my mad dash for freedom, "my sense of hearing."
We went to GapKids and finished shopping. Then, I picked up some brochures on retirement communities for Tim and myself.
And they say romance is dead.
Thinking he couldn't possibly be right, I did some quick mental calculations, pulled out our wedding album, double checked our birth certificates, and registered at Ancestry.com. I vividly remember my parents being old when we got married. There was no way they could have been as young as we are now.
I remember them regularly falling asleep on the couch, staying home on Friday and Saturday nights to watch TV, and needing glasses and a 3000 watt bulb to read anything. They didn't "get" why everyone from David Cassidy to Don Johnson was cool and Frank Sinatra and Van Johnson weren't. (Really?! Frank actually had teenage groupies? Aww. C'mon. You're making that up.) And they absolutely, positively did not share our appreciation of Aerosmith, Meatloaf or anybody who recorded a song after 1963.
I mean, yes, maybe we occasionally might possibly rest our eyes for a few minutes while watching TV, but we don't ever fall asleep. And perhaps we don't feel a pressing need to be out every weekend, especially if there is some kind of showdown on the Food Network or a really cool item shows up on Pawn Stars. As for reading glasses? Well, if they would stop "Micro"-ing everything these days, we'd be fine. Just because the microchip caught on doesn't mean they have to print everything in minuscule font.
We are still young, hip and cool. We not only know who Lady Gaga is, we have her on our ipods and at least one of us knows who Selina Gomez and Demi Lovato are. We still go to concerts (Okay, so our last concert was Marvin Hamlish and the last movie we saw starred the Chipmunks, but that still counts. Right?)
I actually had myself convinced that, despite hard evidence to the contrary, Tim was wrong, wrong, wrong. And then I went back-to-school shopping with our niece last weekend.
Now, years ago when the older kids first discovered Abercrombie and Fitch, I gritted my teeth and went with them. (Seriously? You want how much for a shirt that looks like the one I threw in the rag bag last week?) Ten minutes later, I stumbled out with a migraine and severely irritated nasal passages, swearing I would never, ever subject myself to that again.
But that didn't mean I was old. Sure the music was loud and the staff all between the ages of 16 and 16 1/2. Yes, the scent they pumped out with each beat of the music was nauseating, but that irritated lots of people, not just me. Pretty much every parent felt the same, and they were not all old like my parents were when I was in school.
So this weekend, when we took my niece to the mall, and she wanted to go to Abercrombie Kids, my initial instinct was to recoil violently and make Tim go it alone. Then I reminded myself that I am not old. Besides, this was the young kids store, so surely it would be more user friendly for parents and young aunts and uncles. So I grudgingly, but hopefully went in.
And that is when I discovered that I was old. Very old.
Not only did they play the worst music I have ever in my life heard, they played it at ear-splitting volume through sixty-seven thousand speakers that were tucked into every nook, crevice and corner. Standing next to a jet engine during take-off would be quieter.
Did they not realize that while that may be acceptable in their teenager store where the kids don't want their parents helping select clothes, it was the parents who were doing the shopping here? Seriously, who is going to give their eight-year old a credit card and say, "Go for it kid."?
I lasted as long as I could. Honestly. And it was the longest thirty seconds of my life. As I bolted for the door and the lovely, quiet heavy metal music playing throughout the mall, one of the sweet, young twelve-year-old sales clerks asked if she could help me find anything. (Of course, she had to repeat the question several times, finally using a megaphone before I could hear her over the cacophony of sounds).
"Yes," I bellowed back, without stopping my mad dash for freedom, "my sense of hearing."
We went to GapKids and finished shopping. Then, I picked up some brochures on retirement communities for Tim and myself.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Losing Our Cool
One of the things Tim insisted on when we moved into our new house was a wine cellar. He planned and plotted for where it would go, how many bottles it would hold, the type of cooling unit it would have, etc.etc.etc.
Then it became my problem. (Although in fairness, I have drunk my share of the wine.) Guys arriving to put in the shelving, lighting, countertops, trim? No problem. Ann will be there between the hours of 6am and 10pm. Three days in a row for sixteen weeks? Sure. She's totally free. Yep. No danger of her having a life.
And guess who transported each and every bottle of wine, all 824 thousillion of them? And who had to categorize and shelve them? And who had to listen to complaints because they didn't know what to do with some of them and created new categories like: "Wine Ann Doesn't Know" or "Labels Written in Languages Ann Can't Read" or "Bottles Ann is Sick of Shelving, So They Go...Here"?
But my favorite part of our new cellar was when the cooling unit stopped working. (For those keeping score, that's : two-year old house--broken hot water heater, broken shower, broken cooler vs us--going broke fixing broken appliances.
Now, who do you call for a broken cooler? An electrician? Nope. It's beneath them said the 4000 I called. Small appliance repair person? Who is the manufacturer, they wanted to know. Nope. Don't/won't deal with them said the 8000 I called. Heating/cooling people? Nope. Wouldn't touch it with a ten foot pole, said the 20,000 I called. Plumber? Carpenter? Builder? Butcher? Baker? Candle-stick Maker? I was running out of service people!
Then it dawned on me. Go to a wine store and ask who they use. Great idea. Except it wasn't. I have never seen people so stymied by a question before. Huh? What? Who?
Who. Do. You. Use. When. You. Need. Repairs? Maybe I had confused them by assuming they knew where they worked and what a cooling unit was.
"What kind of wine do you have?" they wanted to know.
Does it matter? Will you recommend someone different if I say red vs. white wine? Well, red is usually more full-bodied and earthy, so you should call this number...
Back to square one.
I looked up the unit on the internet and found a number in California which I called.
"Sorry," said the guy who answered, "all of our people are at lunch, so you'll have to call back in two hours. Oh, and we leave at 4 our time."
Ooops. My bad. I'll call back during the one hour a day that your 'people' actually work!
When I finally reached them, they basically told me there was no-one I could call. There were no authorized dealers, distributors, repair people, etc outside of the place I was calling. However, all was not lost. I could run a diagnostic, they would send me the part and I could fix it myself.
Congratulations! You've taken customer service to a whole new level. Maybe after I've repaired the cooler, I could rebuild the transmission in my car, put a new roof on the house and then, for my encore, perform some elective surgery on myself.
Unfortunately, they were pretty firm on this whole do-it-yourself thing, so I ordered the part, which they said would arrive in a few days.
"It's easy. You just take parts A thru X, line up the doo-hickeys, unclip the thing-a-ma-jigs, power up the whats-its and attach the wotcha-ma-call-its," the guy offered encouragingly....four times.
Yeah. You can tell me four thousand times, but since you haven't even mailed the part out yet, YOU"RE NOT HELPING!!!
True to their word, the part arrived in a few days. forty-eight to be precise. With a diagram, but no actual directions.
Gamely, we tried to install the new control panel ourselves. It was sort of like playing Operation. Blindfolded. With both hands tied behind your back. While treading water.
Seriously, the panel and wires were tucked into such a small, dark, inaccessible place, it was near impossible. Actually, it was impossible.
We threw ourselves on our builder's mercy and he got an electrician to come out and try installing this 'easy' panel. And try. And try. And try.
Finally though, success! The unit started humming along, blowing nice cool air. Until an hour after the electrician left. Then it broke down once more.
I'm now looking into ice delivery.
Then it became my problem. (Although in fairness, I have drunk my share of the wine.) Guys arriving to put in the shelving, lighting, countertops, trim? No problem. Ann will be there between the hours of 6am and 10pm. Three days in a row for sixteen weeks? Sure. She's totally free. Yep. No danger of her having a life.
And guess who transported each and every bottle of wine, all 824 thousillion of them? And who had to categorize and shelve them? And who had to listen to complaints because they didn't know what to do with some of them and created new categories like: "Wine Ann Doesn't Know" or "Labels Written in Languages Ann Can't Read" or "Bottles Ann is Sick of Shelving, So They Go...Here"?
But my favorite part of our new cellar was when the cooling unit stopped working. (For those keeping score, that's : two-year old house--broken hot water heater, broken shower, broken cooler vs us--going broke fixing broken appliances.
Now, who do you call for a broken cooler? An electrician? Nope. It's beneath them said the 4000 I called. Small appliance repair person? Who is the manufacturer, they wanted to know. Nope. Don't/won't deal with them said the 8000 I called. Heating/cooling people? Nope. Wouldn't touch it with a ten foot pole, said the 20,000 I called. Plumber? Carpenter? Builder? Butcher? Baker? Candle-stick Maker? I was running out of service people!
Then it dawned on me. Go to a wine store and ask who they use. Great idea. Except it wasn't. I have never seen people so stymied by a question before. Huh? What? Who?
Who. Do. You. Use. When. You. Need. Repairs? Maybe I had confused them by assuming they knew where they worked and what a cooling unit was.
"What kind of wine do you have?" they wanted to know.
Does it matter? Will you recommend someone different if I say red vs. white wine? Well, red is usually more full-bodied and earthy, so you should call this number...
Back to square one.
I looked up the unit on the internet and found a number in California which I called.
"Sorry," said the guy who answered, "all of our people are at lunch, so you'll have to call back in two hours. Oh, and we leave at 4 our time."
Ooops. My bad. I'll call back during the one hour a day that your 'people' actually work!
When I finally reached them, they basically told me there was no-one I could call. There were no authorized dealers, distributors, repair people, etc outside of the place I was calling. However, all was not lost. I could run a diagnostic, they would send me the part and I could fix it myself.
Congratulations! You've taken customer service to a whole new level. Maybe after I've repaired the cooler, I could rebuild the transmission in my car, put a new roof on the house and then, for my encore, perform some elective surgery on myself.
Unfortunately, they were pretty firm on this whole do-it-yourself thing, so I ordered the part, which they said would arrive in a few days.
"It's easy. You just take parts A thru X, line up the doo-hickeys, unclip the thing-a-ma-jigs, power up the whats-its and attach the wotcha-ma-call-its," the guy offered encouragingly....four times.
Yeah. You can tell me four thousand times, but since you haven't even mailed the part out yet, YOU"RE NOT HELPING!!!
True to their word, the part arrived in a few days. forty-eight to be precise. With a diagram, but no actual directions.
Gamely, we tried to install the new control panel ourselves. It was sort of like playing Operation. Blindfolded. With both hands tied behind your back. While treading water.
Seriously, the panel and wires were tucked into such a small, dark, inaccessible place, it was near impossible. Actually, it was impossible.
We threw ourselves on our builder's mercy and he got an electrician to come out and try installing this 'easy' panel. And try. And try. And try.
Finally though, success! The unit started humming along, blowing nice cool air. Until an hour after the electrician left. Then it broke down once more.
I'm now looking into ice delivery.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
So We Had A Bad Day...Or Two...Or Four
Friday morning, we woke up to no hot water...again. So I went down to the basement and tried everything to get the heater working. I unplugged, plugged, pressed buttons and flipped switches. I flipped the machine off. No hot water. Not one drop.
Faced with the prospect of a cold shower on a hair wash day, I panicked and called the plumber who informed me that he could maybe squeeze me in on Tuesday.
Tuesday?! As in five days away? As in five days of cold showers? As in washing my hands in cold water after I've cleaned up after the dog for five days? Oh, and perhaps we can just lick our dishes and pots and pans clean for the next five days. Thanks, but I'll try somebody else.
Two hours, twenty gazillion googles and a dozen phone calls later, I got someone to come out...between 12 and 4. Fine. Except they didn't come until 5. Fine. Except they couldn't figure out what was wrong with the heater, but they did get it working again. Fine. Except they knew it wouldn't last, so they'd have to come back...Tuesday. Really?
Was this some kind of plumbing conspiracy? You don't know what's wrong with it today, but you'll know Tuesday? Was the solution going to magically come to them over the three-day weekend? Would it come to them in a dream, or perhaps they could visit a fortune-teller or call the psychic hot line. And how do you temporarily fix something when you don't even know what's wrong with it?
As if suggesting Tuesday wasn't pushing it far enough, (I guess my body language was making my feelings a bit unclear. Folded arms, scowl, bared teeth and lows growls emitting from my throat must have indicated I was happy with the way things were going.), the guy started talking to me about different kinds of heaters and how the Super-Duper-Jiffy-Heater worked better than ours.
Wow. So let me get this straight. You are standing in my kitchen, a room equipped with knives--sharp knives--and trying to sell me a new heater instead of fixing mine which is less than two years old? One of us here must be stupid or have a death wish. Did you miss the part when I explained that I had had a cold shower this morning and it was a hair wash day? Do you think that put me in the happy zone?
And following your logic, if you can't fix something, just replace it? I'm glad you're not my mechanic, because when my car breaks down, I suppose you would recommend just leaving it on the side of the road and buying new. And thank goodness you weren't my husband's surgeon last month when he had broken disks in his back. I am guessing your solution would have been to just get a new guy. "Sorry about your husband, but here's an application for Match.com."
Restraining myself (I didn't have enough hot water at that point to do a good job cleaning blood off the walls), I sent him on his way and called someone else who said they could come...Tuesday. Okay, so it was a conspiracy, but at least we had a temporary fix, and besides, as it turned out, we were leaving the next day and coming back Monday, so it would all work out.
Or not. Saturday morning...no hot water... again. Definitely a conspiracy going on here.
Biting the bullet (cursing, yelling and pounding on the heater didn't seem to be working), we shivered through cold showers and comforted ourselves with the thought that we could take a nice hot shower at the hotel before meeting colleagues of Tim's for dinner.
Arriving at the hotel at 3:30, we found that our room wasn't ready yet. Twenty minutes, they promised. Fine. Thirty minutes later, they assured us that our room was their top priority and housekeeping was in there even as we were speaking. Fine. One hour later, we were still wandering, homeless and showerless around the lobby. Now it was not so fine.
So did you lie about housekeeping being in there or do you just have the sloooowest peeeeople ooon the plaaaanet woooorking for youuuu? Perhaps they are using a tweezer to clean the carpet and a toothbrush for the bathroom? Did they have to take the bedding down to the river and beat it on the rocks to clean it?
But the best part of the wait was not being able to go anywhere but the lobby because it was 4000 degrees outside, and between the puppy and Tim still recovering from back surgery, we were pretty much stuck. To say it wasn't pretty would be like saying Medusa was a supermodel.
One the one side, I had a sixteen week old puppy who thought we had moved into a great big, new home with lots and lots of cool friends for her to meet and greet. And those friends got her soooo very excited that she peed...a lot...many times...but not outside. Oh no, the heat must have addled her fuzzy little brain because she decided the grassy area wasn't really up to her standards, and she much preferred the nice tile in the lobby as her potty spot. Guess who got to clean it up? Yippee. My new favorite way to spend a Saturday.
On the other side was Tim, who thought that somehow he was unhappier about the state of affairs than I was. Hmmm. Let's compare. You've been talking to people about food and wine, swapping notes on restaurants and beaches, and I've been scrubbing the floors with paper towels and Nature's Miracle while simultaneously trying to keep the puppy from jumping and nibbling on everyone and anyone who comes within ten feet of her, looks her way, or looks like they might possibly even be thinking of looking her way.
Oh, and the little trip to the shopping arcade off the lobby where you looked at the merchandise? Yeah. I was pretty occupied trying to explain to six pounds of wiggly fur that Gucci shoes and Louis Vuitton bags were not must-have chewable accessories for a dog.
Finally, we did get into our room, but without time for a hot shower before we had to leave for dinner. However, I consoled myself with the fact that tomorrow would be a better day. Until the next day when I smashed my head on a glass table and gave myself a giant goose-egg on my forehead, and we came home to no hot water...again. And the showerhead in our bathroom stopped working...completely.
Oh yeah, a conspiracy is totally at work here.
Faced with the prospect of a cold shower on a hair wash day, I panicked and called the plumber who informed me that he could maybe squeeze me in on Tuesday.
Tuesday?! As in five days away? As in five days of cold showers? As in washing my hands in cold water after I've cleaned up after the dog for five days? Oh, and perhaps we can just lick our dishes and pots and pans clean for the next five days. Thanks, but I'll try somebody else.
Two hours, twenty gazillion googles and a dozen phone calls later, I got someone to come out...between 12 and 4. Fine. Except they didn't come until 5. Fine. Except they couldn't figure out what was wrong with the heater, but they did get it working again. Fine. Except they knew it wouldn't last, so they'd have to come back...Tuesday. Really?
Was this some kind of plumbing conspiracy? You don't know what's wrong with it today, but you'll know Tuesday? Was the solution going to magically come to them over the three-day weekend? Would it come to them in a dream, or perhaps they could visit a fortune-teller or call the psychic hot line. And how do you temporarily fix something when you don't even know what's wrong with it?
As if suggesting Tuesday wasn't pushing it far enough, (I guess my body language was making my feelings a bit unclear. Folded arms, scowl, bared teeth and lows growls emitting from my throat must have indicated I was happy with the way things were going.), the guy started talking to me about different kinds of heaters and how the Super-Duper-Jiffy-Heater worked better than ours.
Wow. So let me get this straight. You are standing in my kitchen, a room equipped with knives--sharp knives--and trying to sell me a new heater instead of fixing mine which is less than two years old? One of us here must be stupid or have a death wish. Did you miss the part when I explained that I had had a cold shower this morning and it was a hair wash day? Do you think that put me in the happy zone?
And following your logic, if you can't fix something, just replace it? I'm glad you're not my mechanic, because when my car breaks down, I suppose you would recommend just leaving it on the side of the road and buying new. And thank goodness you weren't my husband's surgeon last month when he had broken disks in his back. I am guessing your solution would have been to just get a new guy. "Sorry about your husband, but here's an application for Match.com."
Restraining myself (I didn't have enough hot water at that point to do a good job cleaning blood off the walls), I sent him on his way and called someone else who said they could come...Tuesday. Okay, so it was a conspiracy, but at least we had a temporary fix, and besides, as it turned out, we were leaving the next day and coming back Monday, so it would all work out.
Or not. Saturday morning...no hot water... again. Definitely a conspiracy going on here.
Biting the bullet (cursing, yelling and pounding on the heater didn't seem to be working), we shivered through cold showers and comforted ourselves with the thought that we could take a nice hot shower at the hotel before meeting colleagues of Tim's for dinner.
Arriving at the hotel at 3:30, we found that our room wasn't ready yet. Twenty minutes, they promised. Fine. Thirty minutes later, they assured us that our room was their top priority and housekeeping was in there even as we were speaking. Fine. One hour later, we were still wandering, homeless and showerless around the lobby. Now it was not so fine.
So did you lie about housekeeping being in there or do you just have the sloooowest peeeeople ooon the plaaaanet woooorking for youuuu? Perhaps they are using a tweezer to clean the carpet and a toothbrush for the bathroom? Did they have to take the bedding down to the river and beat it on the rocks to clean it?
But the best part of the wait was not being able to go anywhere but the lobby because it was 4000 degrees outside, and between the puppy and Tim still recovering from back surgery, we were pretty much stuck. To say it wasn't pretty would be like saying Medusa was a supermodel.
One the one side, I had a sixteen week old puppy who thought we had moved into a great big, new home with lots and lots of cool friends for her to meet and greet. And those friends got her soooo very excited that she peed...a lot...many times...but not outside. Oh no, the heat must have addled her fuzzy little brain because she decided the grassy area wasn't really up to her standards, and she much preferred the nice tile in the lobby as her potty spot. Guess who got to clean it up? Yippee. My new favorite way to spend a Saturday.
On the other side was Tim, who thought that somehow he was unhappier about the state of affairs than I was. Hmmm. Let's compare. You've been talking to people about food and wine, swapping notes on restaurants and beaches, and I've been scrubbing the floors with paper towels and Nature's Miracle while simultaneously trying to keep the puppy from jumping and nibbling on everyone and anyone who comes within ten feet of her, looks her way, or looks like they might possibly even be thinking of looking her way.
Oh, and the little trip to the shopping arcade off the lobby where you looked at the merchandise? Yeah. I was pretty occupied trying to explain to six pounds of wiggly fur that Gucci shoes and Louis Vuitton bags were not must-have chewable accessories for a dog.
Finally, we did get into our room, but without time for a hot shower before we had to leave for dinner. However, I consoled myself with the fact that tomorrow would be a better day. Until the next day when I smashed my head on a glass table and gave myself a giant goose-egg on my forehead, and we came home to no hot water...again. And the showerhead in our bathroom stopped working...completely.
Oh yeah, a conspiracy is totally at work here.
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