A few days ago we were changing a light bulb in the ceiling when it dropped on the ground and broke. And so began the saga.
First of all, it was one of those new, corkscrew bulbs, which I vaguely remembered hearing contained something dangerous, but bought because they were all I could find at the time. "Don't break them, ever, because it's really, really bad" was the gist of some story I saw on one of those news shows with a number in the title. Since I kind of make it a rule to never purposely smash new light bulbs, I guess I didn't pay as much attention as I should have to the story.
So now, with visions of hazmat teams dancing through my head, I grabbed the box and scanned it for some helpful advice, or at least a skull and crossbones symbol. Despite the tons of teeny, tiny writing, there was nothing on the box to indicate that we should be at defcon 10, so Tim began to sweep up the mess.
Unable to ignore the queasy feeling in my stomach, I grabbed my ipad and googled the bulbs. I mean, why did the news story I remembered promise consequences like growing an extra toe, sprouting purple hair out of my naval, or glowing in the dark if it was no big deal to break a bulb? Meanwhile, Tim hauled out the vacuum.
One or two searches later, I found what I was looking for...Danger! Danger! One website screamed at me. Handle these bulbs with the utmost caution because they contain mercury. However, it went on, if you are truly stupid enough to ever break one, here is what you must NEVER do:
1. Sweep it up
2. Vacuum it up.
Goodie, we were two for two. I could feel that third eye trying to sprout, and was Tim looking a little iridescent?
3. Do not place in the garbage.
I glanced over at Tim. Oops. Too late on that one as well. Three for three. Lucky us. We should play the lotto. I continued reading, hoping for at least a small ray of light that wasn't nuclear at the end of the tunnel.
4. Open all the windows and leave the premises for fifteen minutes.
I checked my watch. More good news. We had about two minutes left of the fifteen.
Deciding I didn't want to know that we should have run screaming into the night and not returned without gas masks, protective eye wear and a rubber suit, I closed my ipad, picked up my now five-legged dog and swore I would never buy those bulbs again.
The next day, I went to Home Depot, grabbed the biggest shopping cart I could find and headed for the light bulb aisle. Not wanting to make yet another unfortunate choice, I asked the first guy I saw for help, outlining the whole pitiful story.
He tried to sell me a new kitchen.
When I insisted that all I was interested in was light bulbs, he reluctantly went off to get someone who specialized in that area. Okaaaay.
Turns out the guy he called must have dropped out of Light Bulb U, because he had to call someone else as soon as I mentioned the word dimmable. The next guy was apparently no Rhodes scholar either, because he grabbed the nearest bulb and shoved it at me with a definite 'deer in the headlights' look.
Meanwhile, the first guy came back and said, "You're not buying those are you? They're too cheap. You should buy some good ones."
Excuse me? Um. You had your chance, and palmed me off on dumb and dumber who told me to get these.
"Have you gone to Walmart or Cosco?" he pressed. "That's where I buy mine."
I looked around for the hidden camera.
"No, really," he continued, "and if you can't change the bulbs, don't just buy more, I'll come over and do it for you."
Okay. So now you've gone from odd to creepy, all in one easy step.
"I think my husband and I can handle it." I began to sidle away, looking for the lighting expert, or even the guy with a PhD in plungers to help me make a clean getaway.
"Well, you're not supposed to drop the bulbs," he countered.
Really??!! Wow. I wish somebody had told me that years ago. Imagine. I've been doing it wrong all this time. So you're saying that when I take it out of the box, I'm not supposed to throw the bulb on the floor before screwing it in?
I escaped to the Christmas aisle, hoping to lose him in the maze of pre-lit trees before he could open his mouth again and either tick me off or creep me out.
As I peeked around the corner to see if the coast was clear and I could make it to the check-out without an offer to swap out the batteries in my smoke detectors, a third guy approached to offer help. What was it, a slow day at Home Depot?
"I see you've got a lot of light bulbs there," he motioned to my over-filled cart (I wasn't kidding when I said I would never use those new bulbs again). "We have some better ones than that. Here, I'll show you."
Gee thanks. Where were you five minutes ago when I needed you?
He then proceeded to give me an in-depth analysis of every light bulb they carried and a one-on-one comparison of brands, sizes, voltages, wattage, and type of light emitted. I learned about how the old bulbs are being phased out and the time schedule for phasing in the new type. This was not only a 'specialist', this was a true 'expert'. Maybe even a professor, like on Gilligan's Island . Wow.
I stayed with him through the BR30 vs BR40 lecture, but drifted off somewhere between learning that IKEA makes lamps that will only use their bulbs and how much jail time you'll have to do if you are caught selling the 'old' bulbs after a certain date.
Just as I was contemplating 'accidentally' smashing a few dozen bulbs as a distraction so I could escape, another poor, unfortunate soul approached with a question.
I was able to make a clean getaway before I had to listen to 'The Complete History of the Light Bulb' in French, and made a solemn vow to myself to order bulbs online from now on.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
It's All About the Fit
This past weekend, we had some friends visit from Texas. As we showed them out "new" house, they admired a pair of loveseats on the third floor. I explained that they were our former living room couches, just recovered. And what a nightmare that was.
When we moved in, I had the movers put them up in the guest room at the top of the house. Lickety-split, up they went. No problem.
About a year or so later, I had the reupholster guys come to take them out. No lickety. No split. Many problems.
Wham! They smashed the first one of the couches into the door frame as they attempted to get it through the door.
Um. I'd actually like it back in one piece, if it wouldn't be too much trouble.
Bam! They smashed it a second time as they backed up and tried again.
Hey, Braveheart. That's a couch, not a battering ram.
Slam! Okay. Three times is obviously not the charm. Let's review some basic physics here...two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time. C'mon, say it with me.
"This couch won't fit through here," lead guy one complained. "What'd ya do, put these couches up here, then finish building?"
Why, yes. How clever of you to have figured it out. I actually designed the entire house around these fifteen year old, worn and stained couches. It's the newest craze. I hear Brad and Angelina have done it in at least three of their homes.
"Well, the legs must come off then," he grumbled.
"I don't think so...but how about tipping it the other way?" I offered.
"I've been doing this a long time, and the legs always come off," he informed me loftily.
Okaaayyy...
Fifteen minutes later, he was back to trying to cram the couch through the door...with the legs still on. He had, however, removed the door from its hinges.
"How about tipping it the other way?" I suggested again.
"There is no way you got these couches through this door," he huffed after about fifty-six more failed attempts to jam it through, all the while ignoring my suggestion.
And yet, there they are, in the room. Ooh. It must have been magic. Maybe the movers were just better at spells and potions than you. Perhaps your wand needs the new 10.5 upgrade. Oh, and incidentally, I believe there is a tiny speck of paint that you missed when removing it all from the door frame, but don't worry, I'm sure you'll get it on your next attempt to force the couch through.
"How about tipping it the other way," guy two suggested at this point, correctly interpreting my narrowed eyes, crossed arms and tapping foot as danger sings.
"That won't help," guy one groused, oblivious to the act that he was wasting the last minutes of his life complaining. "These couches just won't fit."
"Then maybe I should call someone else," I cut off his grumbling.
Suddenly, divine inspiration hit.
"Hey. I know. Let's tip the couch this way," guy one suggested.
Guy two shot guy one a look that was only slightly less malevolent than the one I was aiming at him.
One hour, four gallons of sweat, 372 curses and various scratches, dents and bruises later, the couches were loaded into the truck.
About two weeks later, a different crew brought my now, oh so pretty couches back.
Wham! Uh oh. They had sent Laurel and Hardy clones...again.
"These couches aren't going to fit through this door," new guy one determined.
"They fit through before, you just need to tip them the other way," I told him, glad the couches were at least protected by plastic.
"Are you sure they went here?" he questioned.
Hmm. Let's see. Maybe I'm mistaken as to which room I put them in. Let me think. By golly, you're right. I actually had them in the kitchen for the last year. Oh, no, wait a minute. They were in the bathroom. That's right. One was in the tub and the other one was in front of the sink. Whew. Glad you said something. Just think how odd they would look in a sitting area.
Heaving a pained sigh, new guy one and new guy two hefted the couch and tried again. And again. And again, still ignoring my advice on tipping the couch.
"Maybe try turning it the other way," I tried one last time when my door frame began to resemble Swiss cheese. I began wishing the doorway was hooked up to a buzzer like in the game Operation except instead of just getting buzzed, maybe a nice little electric shock. Say something around fifty or sixty thousand volts.
"The plastic is making it too thick," new guy one decided ripping it off. "That's the problem."
Yeah, I can understand how that extra tenth of a millimeter makes all the difference. Not. Turn. It. The. Other. Way.
Wham! Bam! Slam!
"When they reupholstered, they must have added more stuffing," he was clutching at invisible straws now...and his chest, his side and one knee.
"So, does this mean you can't get it through?" I asked, silently daring him to tell me it was impossible.
"There's no way they are going to fit," he prepared to head back down the stairs, foolish, foolish man that he was.
"So what do you suggest I do with the couches?' Because I'm getting some really good ideas on where you can place them.
"How about another room?"
"How about you take them back, restore them to their former state and give me my money back?"
Once again, divine inspiration.
"Let's tip it this way," new guy one finally saw the light and tipped the couches.
And so, the couches are happily resting on the third floor. But I've decided that when we eventually move, they are going to convey.
When we moved in, I had the movers put them up in the guest room at the top of the house. Lickety-split, up they went. No problem.
About a year or so later, I had the reupholster guys come to take them out. No lickety. No split. Many problems.
Wham! They smashed the first one of the couches into the door frame as they attempted to get it through the door.
Um. I'd actually like it back in one piece, if it wouldn't be too much trouble.
Bam! They smashed it a second time as they backed up and tried again.
Hey, Braveheart. That's a couch, not a battering ram.
Slam! Okay. Three times is obviously not the charm. Let's review some basic physics here...two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time. C'mon, say it with me.
"This couch won't fit through here," lead guy one complained. "What'd ya do, put these couches up here, then finish building?"
Why, yes. How clever of you to have figured it out. I actually designed the entire house around these fifteen year old, worn and stained couches. It's the newest craze. I hear Brad and Angelina have done it in at least three of their homes.
"Well, the legs must come off then," he grumbled.
"I don't think so...but how about tipping it the other way?" I offered.
"I've been doing this a long time, and the legs always come off," he informed me loftily.
Okaaayyy...
Fifteen minutes later, he was back to trying to cram the couch through the door...with the legs still on. He had, however, removed the door from its hinges.
"How about tipping it the other way?" I suggested again.
"There is no way you got these couches through this door," he huffed after about fifty-six more failed attempts to jam it through, all the while ignoring my suggestion.
And yet, there they are, in the room. Ooh. It must have been magic. Maybe the movers were just better at spells and potions than you. Perhaps your wand needs the new 10.5 upgrade. Oh, and incidentally, I believe there is a tiny speck of paint that you missed when removing it all from the door frame, but don't worry, I'm sure you'll get it on your next attempt to force the couch through.
"How about tipping it the other way," guy two suggested at this point, correctly interpreting my narrowed eyes, crossed arms and tapping foot as danger sings.
"That won't help," guy one groused, oblivious to the act that he was wasting the last minutes of his life complaining. "These couches just won't fit."
"Then maybe I should call someone else," I cut off his grumbling.
Suddenly, divine inspiration hit.
"Hey. I know. Let's tip the couch this way," guy one suggested.
Guy two shot guy one a look that was only slightly less malevolent than the one I was aiming at him.
One hour, four gallons of sweat, 372 curses and various scratches, dents and bruises later, the couches were loaded into the truck.
About two weeks later, a different crew brought my now, oh so pretty couches back.
Wham! Uh oh. They had sent Laurel and Hardy clones...again.
"These couches aren't going to fit through this door," new guy one determined.
"They fit through before, you just need to tip them the other way," I told him, glad the couches were at least protected by plastic.
"Are you sure they went here?" he questioned.
Hmm. Let's see. Maybe I'm mistaken as to which room I put them in. Let me think. By golly, you're right. I actually had them in the kitchen for the last year. Oh, no, wait a minute. They were in the bathroom. That's right. One was in the tub and the other one was in front of the sink. Whew. Glad you said something. Just think how odd they would look in a sitting area.
Heaving a pained sigh, new guy one and new guy two hefted the couch and tried again. And again. And again, still ignoring my advice on tipping the couch.
"Maybe try turning it the other way," I tried one last time when my door frame began to resemble Swiss cheese. I began wishing the doorway was hooked up to a buzzer like in the game Operation except instead of just getting buzzed, maybe a nice little electric shock. Say something around fifty or sixty thousand volts.
"The plastic is making it too thick," new guy one decided ripping it off. "That's the problem."
Yeah, I can understand how that extra tenth of a millimeter makes all the difference. Not. Turn. It. The. Other. Way.
Wham! Bam! Slam!
"When they reupholstered, they must have added more stuffing," he was clutching at invisible straws now...and his chest, his side and one knee.
"So, does this mean you can't get it through?" I asked, silently daring him to tell me it was impossible.
"There's no way they are going to fit," he prepared to head back down the stairs, foolish, foolish man that he was.
"So what do you suggest I do with the couches?' Because I'm getting some really good ideas on where you can place them.
"How about another room?"
"How about you take them back, restore them to their former state and give me my money back?"
Once again, divine inspiration.
"Let's tip it this way," new guy one finally saw the light and tipped the couches.
And so, the couches are happily resting on the third floor. But I've decided that when we eventually move, they are going to convey.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
We Don't Do Windows
I have finally found someone worse than all those repair people who give you that infamous "window" as though you have nothing better to do than be at their beck and call. Service people who won't even give you a day much less a window as though you have nothing to do at all.
Last spring, after a lot of storms and high winds, we needed to have some trees removed. After doing some research, I contacted a company that had good ratings, and asked them for an estimate. They told me they would look at the schedule and get back to me with a time and day shortly.
Now to me, shortly means later that day, maybe the next day. To them, it meant anywhere from that moment until the end of time. So, two days later, I checked in and asked if they were still interested in giving an estimate.
Huh? Estimate? Oh. Yeah. Um. How about next Monday?
Okay. Can you give me a time frame?
Uh. Hmmm. Time frame?
Yeah. You know. Time frame. A span of time anywhere from four to sixteen hours when I will sit home twiddling my thumbs and then you show up at the last possible second if you bother to come at all.
We'll have to get back to you on that later.
Later? Let's see. To you, shortly means what, a year or two, so later must mean...I give up. The twelfth of never?
Two days later...still no time frame. So I contacted them again explaining that while, in their own, twisted little universe they were more important than air, the rest of us peasants actually had something called a life. At least the phone/cable/heating/appliance repair people had the decency to pretend that they cared about me by going through the motions of scheduling a window, but these tree people couldn't even be bothered to do that much. I mean, it's not like I expected them to actually stick to what they told me. So, how about it? Morning, afternoon, evening? Pick one.
Oh. I wanted a time frame on Monday?
Okay. Do me a favor. Get a co-worker to stick a mirror under your nose to see if you are still breathing because I suspect you may be brain dead.
But Monday was a whole two days away. Did I really need a time frame now?
No. Why don't you wait until Sunday night at 11:59 to give me a time frame, because I would really enjoy trying to arrange my schedule at the last second. Challenges like that are what makes life worth living, don't you think?
Needless to say, I went with another company.
I would like to think that this was an anomaly, but the other day, I ran into the same thing all over again. This time, it was a guy from the gas company.
We decided this summer, after losing our power for the the kajillionth time, to get a generator. Because Tim has to have one that could power a small village, the Empire State Building and The Mall of America all at the same time, we needed a new gas meter.
Okay, when can you do it?
How about Wednesday?
Fine. When on Wednesday?
I'll have to call you back.
Seriously? C'mon. It's Monday. How hard is it to schedule something less than two days away? I'm not asking for a lifetime commitment, just a vague idea of when you think you might feel like dropping by.
I'm not sure of my schedule. I'll have to let you know tomorrow.
Super. Don't worry about me. I only have places to go and things to do, but hey, I wouldn't want to make you commit to something before you're sure.
The next day, he called back with a two hour window for the following day.
Yippee!! A two hour window. Unheard of. He was my new hero...until he didn't show up.
After two and a half hours, I called and asked how late was he running?
Oh. It's not me. It's, um, let's see, who is it?
Gee, I'm on the edge of my seat. Who is it?
It's Mike. Yeah. He got held up waiting for a part on a job. I don't think he's going to get there today. Wait. Who'd you say you were again? Morgan?
Bit your tongue. Bite your tongue. There is only one gas company, and you need this, I told myself even as I pictured eviscerating him, or at the very least slapping him silly.
No. Sinclair.
Sinclair. You're not on the schedule today. No. I have you for tomorrow. Did I tell you today?
It's enough to make you long for the good old sixteen hour window.
Last spring, after a lot of storms and high winds, we needed to have some trees removed. After doing some research, I contacted a company that had good ratings, and asked them for an estimate. They told me they would look at the schedule and get back to me with a time and day shortly.
Now to me, shortly means later that day, maybe the next day. To them, it meant anywhere from that moment until the end of time. So, two days later, I checked in and asked if they were still interested in giving an estimate.
Huh? Estimate? Oh. Yeah. Um. How about next Monday?
Okay. Can you give me a time frame?
Uh. Hmmm. Time frame?
Yeah. You know. Time frame. A span of time anywhere from four to sixteen hours when I will sit home twiddling my thumbs and then you show up at the last possible second if you bother to come at all.
We'll have to get back to you on that later.
Later? Let's see. To you, shortly means what, a year or two, so later must mean...I give up. The twelfth of never?
Two days later...still no time frame. So I contacted them again explaining that while, in their own, twisted little universe they were more important than air, the rest of us peasants actually had something called a life. At least the phone/cable/heating/appliance repair people had the decency to pretend that they cared about me by going through the motions of scheduling a window, but these tree people couldn't even be bothered to do that much. I mean, it's not like I expected them to actually stick to what they told me. So, how about it? Morning, afternoon, evening? Pick one.
Oh. I wanted a time frame on Monday?
Okay. Do me a favor. Get a co-worker to stick a mirror under your nose to see if you are still breathing because I suspect you may be brain dead.
But Monday was a whole two days away. Did I really need a time frame now?
No. Why don't you wait until Sunday night at 11:59 to give me a time frame, because I would really enjoy trying to arrange my schedule at the last second. Challenges like that are what makes life worth living, don't you think?
Needless to say, I went with another company.
I would like to think that this was an anomaly, but the other day, I ran into the same thing all over again. This time, it was a guy from the gas company.
We decided this summer, after losing our power for the the kajillionth time, to get a generator. Because Tim has to have one that could power a small village, the Empire State Building and The Mall of America all at the same time, we needed a new gas meter.
Okay, when can you do it?
How about Wednesday?
Fine. When on Wednesday?
I'll have to call you back.
Seriously? C'mon. It's Monday. How hard is it to schedule something less than two days away? I'm not asking for a lifetime commitment, just a vague idea of when you think you might feel like dropping by.
I'm not sure of my schedule. I'll have to let you know tomorrow.
Super. Don't worry about me. I only have places to go and things to do, but hey, I wouldn't want to make you commit to something before you're sure.
The next day, he called back with a two hour window for the following day.
Yippee!! A two hour window. Unheard of. He was my new hero...until he didn't show up.
After two and a half hours, I called and asked how late was he running?
Oh. It's not me. It's, um, let's see, who is it?
Gee, I'm on the edge of my seat. Who is it?
It's Mike. Yeah. He got held up waiting for a part on a job. I don't think he's going to get there today. Wait. Who'd you say you were again? Morgan?
Bit your tongue. Bite your tongue. There is only one gas company, and you need this, I told myself even as I pictured eviscerating him, or at the very least slapping him silly.
No. Sinclair.
Sinclair. You're not on the schedule today. No. I have you for tomorrow. Did I tell you today?
It's enough to make you long for the good old sixteen hour window.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
I'm Late! I'm Late! I'm Late!
My parents came to visit this weekend on their way down to Florida, and it was like spending time with the white rabbit from Alice in Wonderland.
First of all, this was the first time they were taking the auto train from here to Florida, and my father had been reading about it on the Amtrak website. I am sooo glad we taught him to surf the net. Next time we have a brilliant idea like that, we should just slam our hands in a door repeatedly. It would be less painful.
"It says you can check in as early as 11:30," he started in on Saturday about fifteen minutes after they arrived.
"But the train doesn't leave until 4...on Monday,". I pointed out. "Why do you want to sit around the station for several hours?"
"I want to make sure we get the 7pm seating for dinner," he informed me, "otherwise, we'll be stuck eating at either 5 or 9."
"So it's first come, first serve?"
"I don't know, but I want to be there early, so we get the 7pm seating for dinner."
Okay. Got it. You want to eat at 7.
"I really want to get there early," he broached the subject again about an hour later. "5pm is too early to eat and 9 is too late."
"What time do they board?". Tim tried a different tack.
"2pm, but I want to make sure we get the 7 o'clock dinner seating," my father stressed.
"So you reserve dinner when you check in?" Tim tried again to clarify.
"I don't know, but 5 is too early and 9 is too late for dinner," said the rainman, er, my father.
"That's a long time to sit in the station," sometimes Tim didn't have the sense God gave a turnip.
Stop. Roll over and play dead. Give up. I tried to communicate telepathically with Tim, but had no more success getting him to listen to me that way than I have when I actually speak out loud to him.
"I'd go around 1," he offered, "otherwise, it'll be a really long day."
"I don't know," my father seemed to waver for a moment, but recovered. "I'd hate to get there too late to get the 7 o'clock seating."
He actually managed to not bring up the subject for at least another hour or two and then only 86 or 87 times more an hour for the next two days.
Each time, we tried to lure him off topic by steering the conversation toward some other aspect of the journey.
"So, does arriving early affect the order in which your car comes off the train at the end?"
"It says it doesn't because of the way they load them on, but it does affect whether you get the 7pm seating."
Shoot me.
"Do you want to order a Netflix movie so you can watch it on your iPad? They have wi-fi on board, right?"
"If we get the 7pm seating, we won't have time for a movie afterwards, so we'll just watch a TV show. That's why I want to get there early."
Shoot me now.
"What do they serve for dinner anyway?"
"I don't know. I couldn't find that on the website, but it says they have three seatings: 5, 7, or 9."
Okay, one bullet for the both of us. We'll stand really, really close.
And while my father was obsessed with getting to the train early on Monday, my mother was just as obsessed with getting to church early on Sunday.
"What time is mass?" she questioned on Saturday night.
"All different times. Sleep as late as you want, and we'll go from there," I told her.
She was up at 7.
"What's the mass schedule?" she wanted to know. "What time do we have to leave? I don't want to be late."
We decided on 10:30 mass at a church less than five minutes away. Rose offered to drive, so at 10:10, my mother decided that Rose was late and she would wait outside for her.
"It's kind of breezy and chilly," I warned, "why don't we just watch out the window?"
"She might park the car and get out before we can get to the door, and then we'll be really late."
Okay, you and dad need to get either a hobby or a prescription for an incredibly powerful drug.
"It's 10:17," she fretted as we stood at the bottom of the driveway getting blown apart. "I don't want to be late."
"I know, but the church is less than five minute away," I tried to soothe her.
"It's 10:20, we're going to be late," she pronounced exactly three minutes later.
Maybe a hobby and a drug.
"It's 10:22. We'll never make it on time."
Hobby, drug and smash the watch.
Fortunately, Rose arrived at 10:25, just as I was getting ready to perform CPR...on myself because my blood pressure shot up sixty points every time Big Ben ticked off another second.
I am happy to say that my mother was not late...much.
I wish I could say the same for my father. Sadly, by the time he stopped for gas on the way to the train, he was late. They were stuck with the dreaded 5pm dinner slot.
"I told you so," he pouted over the phone. "I knew I should have been here early. Now, we'll have too much time to kill just sitting around after dinner."
As opposed to the time sitting around before? I wanted to, but I didn't say it.
Hobby, drug, gun, one bullet.
First of all, this was the first time they were taking the auto train from here to Florida, and my father had been reading about it on the Amtrak website. I am sooo glad we taught him to surf the net. Next time we have a brilliant idea like that, we should just slam our hands in a door repeatedly. It would be less painful.
"It says you can check in as early as 11:30," he started in on Saturday about fifteen minutes after they arrived.
"But the train doesn't leave until 4...on Monday,". I pointed out. "Why do you want to sit around the station for several hours?"
"I want to make sure we get the 7pm seating for dinner," he informed me, "otherwise, we'll be stuck eating at either 5 or 9."
"So it's first come, first serve?"
"I don't know, but I want to be there early, so we get the 7pm seating for dinner."
Okay. Got it. You want to eat at 7.
"I really want to get there early," he broached the subject again about an hour later. "5pm is too early to eat and 9 is too late."
"What time do they board?". Tim tried a different tack.
"2pm, but I want to make sure we get the 7 o'clock dinner seating," my father stressed.
"So you reserve dinner when you check in?" Tim tried again to clarify.
"I don't know, but 5 is too early and 9 is too late for dinner," said the rainman, er, my father.
"That's a long time to sit in the station," sometimes Tim didn't have the sense God gave a turnip.
Stop. Roll over and play dead. Give up. I tried to communicate telepathically with Tim, but had no more success getting him to listen to me that way than I have when I actually speak out loud to him.
"I'd go around 1," he offered, "otherwise, it'll be a really long day."
"I don't know," my father seemed to waver for a moment, but recovered. "I'd hate to get there too late to get the 7 o'clock seating."
He actually managed to not bring up the subject for at least another hour or two and then only 86 or 87 times more an hour for the next two days.
Each time, we tried to lure him off topic by steering the conversation toward some other aspect of the journey.
"So, does arriving early affect the order in which your car comes off the train at the end?"
"It says it doesn't because of the way they load them on, but it does affect whether you get the 7pm seating."
Shoot me.
"Do you want to order a Netflix movie so you can watch it on your iPad? They have wi-fi on board, right?"
"If we get the 7pm seating, we won't have time for a movie afterwards, so we'll just watch a TV show. That's why I want to get there early."
Shoot me now.
"What do they serve for dinner anyway?"
"I don't know. I couldn't find that on the website, but it says they have three seatings: 5, 7, or 9."
Okay, one bullet for the both of us. We'll stand really, really close.
And while my father was obsessed with getting to the train early on Monday, my mother was just as obsessed with getting to church early on Sunday.
"What time is mass?" she questioned on Saturday night.
"All different times. Sleep as late as you want, and we'll go from there," I told her.
She was up at 7.
"What's the mass schedule?" she wanted to know. "What time do we have to leave? I don't want to be late."
We decided on 10:30 mass at a church less than five minutes away. Rose offered to drive, so at 10:10, my mother decided that Rose was late and she would wait outside for her.
"It's kind of breezy and chilly," I warned, "why don't we just watch out the window?"
"She might park the car and get out before we can get to the door, and then we'll be really late."
Okay, you and dad need to get either a hobby or a prescription for an incredibly powerful drug.
"It's 10:17," she fretted as we stood at the bottom of the driveway getting blown apart. "I don't want to be late."
"I know, but the church is less than five minute away," I tried to soothe her.
"It's 10:20, we're going to be late," she pronounced exactly three minutes later.
Maybe a hobby and a drug.
"It's 10:22. We'll never make it on time."
Hobby, drug and smash the watch.
Fortunately, Rose arrived at 10:25, just as I was getting ready to perform CPR...on myself because my blood pressure shot up sixty points every time Big Ben ticked off another second.
I am happy to say that my mother was not late...much.
I wish I could say the same for my father. Sadly, by the time he stopped for gas on the way to the train, he was late. They were stuck with the dreaded 5pm dinner slot.
"I told you so," he pouted over the phone. "I knew I should have been here early. Now, we'll have too much time to kill just sitting around after dinner."
As opposed to the time sitting around before? I wanted to, but I didn't say it.
Hobby, drug, gun, one bullet.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Love Is A Battlefield
This past weekend, our nephew got married, and like most weddings, family members gathered together to celebrate...and aggravate.
The first skirmish occurred during the rehearsal dinner when a relative of the bride came up to our happy little family group as we were sitting down to dinner. Trying to make conversation, but inadvertently making enemies with every syllable he uttered, he asked one of Tim's sisters where she fit in the order of the siblings.
"I'm the oldest of the girls," she told him.
"Ahh, but you look like the youngest," he replied gallantly, but unfortunately within hearing of Rose who was across the table.
"Helloooo. I'm sitting right here," Rose all but growled under her breath while the rest of us snickered.
Oblivious to the daggers Rose was shooting him with her eyes, he continued to dig himself deeper into the hole.
"So how old are your brothers?" he pressed.
"Tim and Tom are celebrating a milestone birthday this year," And she named a number I refuse to write because if I see a number that large associated with me in print, I may pass out.
"Really?!!?" he had the nerve and misfortune to look surprised. "That's all? I am ten years older and I thought they were my age. They are the youngest?"
Uh oh. Tim's eyes narrowed, while Rose's crossed with the effort it took not to leap across the table and show him who was old. We all sucked in a collective breath and tried to unobtrusively back away to avoid getting caught in the crossfire.
I don't know what he had done with the money his mother had given him for charm lessons, but I hoped he had invested wisely. He was going to need a lot of cash to pay the medical bills.
"I don't even dye my hair," he boasted, smoothing back the thinning strands.
"That's what we all say," Rose countered with a saccharine sweet smile, fluffing her own blond locks, while Tim sniped, "Yeah. And the sky is green and the grass is blue," out of the corner of his mouth to me, while I kicked him under the table, hard.
Still not feeling the waves of hostility surging toward him, he continued, "I am the best looking. See," he pointed across the room, "my one brother is grey and the other is bald."
"Maybe you're adopted," Rose offered, batting her eyelashes at him while preparing to go in for the kill.
Meanwhile, I kicked Tim harder to prevent him from entering the fray. He subsided with a glare and a muttered, "Mirror, mirror, on the wall..."
"No. Really. I, too am the oldest and the best looking," he beamed at Tim's oldest sister, who, knowing he was a dead man walking leaned back while Rose finished him off.
"Well, we can't all be George Clooney," she declared. As he opened his mouth again, she cut him off. "One more word and it's off with your head, undyed hair and all."
The foolish man actually laughed, but finally had the good sense to retreat before he was carried, bleeding off the field.
Of course, this exchange was mild compared to the one that took place the day of our rehearsal dinner, oh so many years ago.
It had been a crazy day, filled with a thousand last minute details that needed to be taken care of, but finally it was time to get dressed for dinner.
Since it was ninety-five degrees out, and we were expecting my cousin and her fiance from out of town at any minute, my mother had turned on all three of the air conditioners in the bedrooms. The only problem was that in our hundred plus year old house, the electrical system could only handle two and a half air conditioners when all the planets lined up and the moon was in the seventh house.
We turned on a light, we blew a fuse. Plugged in a curling iron, we blew a fuse. Opened the fridge, we blew a fuse. Lit a match, we blew a fuse.
And each time this happened, my father would stomp down to the cellar to do battle with the fuse box, cursing a blue streak. As for the rest of us, this was not our fight, since A. my father was the only one who knew how to do this, and B. he was the only one brave enough to actually go down there without a silver bullet, string of garlic, bucket of holy water, ghostbuster, exorcist, or team of green berets.
Our cellar made the Amityville Horror house look like a suite at the Ritz. Even Stephen King could not imagine such a creepy place.
Somewhere around trip number 56 million, my father succumbed to battle fatigue, and lost it. He charged back up the stairs from the cellar as though something was hot on his heels (which it may have been...an alligator, swamp creature, zombie, Rodent of Unusual Size), made it as far as the foyer and hollered up the stairs to my mother, "Turn off that (unprintable word) air conditioner in the guest room. I'm not replacing another (string of unprintable words) fuse."
"I'm trying to keep the room cool for Walter (my cousin's fiance). He won't want to change in a hot room." My mother was a veteran of many such campaigns, and this did not phase her in the least.
At the end of his rope (which on a really good day is about three inches long), my father exploded like a bomb, "I don't give a s@#t what Walter wants!"
No sooner did the last word leave his mouth than we heard a knock at the screen door behind him, and there was Walter. A direct hit!
Without missing a beat, my father turned, stuck out his hand, and said, "Oh. Hello Walter," and then walked away.
The first skirmish occurred during the rehearsal dinner when a relative of the bride came up to our happy little family group as we were sitting down to dinner. Trying to make conversation, but inadvertently making enemies with every syllable he uttered, he asked one of Tim's sisters where she fit in the order of the siblings.
"I'm the oldest of the girls," she told him.
"Ahh, but you look like the youngest," he replied gallantly, but unfortunately within hearing of Rose who was across the table.
"Helloooo. I'm sitting right here," Rose all but growled under her breath while the rest of us snickered.
Oblivious to the daggers Rose was shooting him with her eyes, he continued to dig himself deeper into the hole.
"So how old are your brothers?" he pressed.
"Tim and Tom are celebrating a milestone birthday this year," And she named a number I refuse to write because if I see a number that large associated with me in print, I may pass out.
"Really?!!?" he had the nerve and misfortune to look surprised. "That's all? I am ten years older and I thought they were my age. They are the youngest?"
Uh oh. Tim's eyes narrowed, while Rose's crossed with the effort it took not to leap across the table and show him who was old. We all sucked in a collective breath and tried to unobtrusively back away to avoid getting caught in the crossfire.
I don't know what he had done with the money his mother had given him for charm lessons, but I hoped he had invested wisely. He was going to need a lot of cash to pay the medical bills.
"I don't even dye my hair," he boasted, smoothing back the thinning strands.
"That's what we all say," Rose countered with a saccharine sweet smile, fluffing her own blond locks, while Tim sniped, "Yeah. And the sky is green and the grass is blue," out of the corner of his mouth to me, while I kicked him under the table, hard.
Still not feeling the waves of hostility surging toward him, he continued, "I am the best looking. See," he pointed across the room, "my one brother is grey and the other is bald."
"Maybe you're adopted," Rose offered, batting her eyelashes at him while preparing to go in for the kill.
Meanwhile, I kicked Tim harder to prevent him from entering the fray. He subsided with a glare and a muttered, "Mirror, mirror, on the wall..."
"No. Really. I, too am the oldest and the best looking," he beamed at Tim's oldest sister, who, knowing he was a dead man walking leaned back while Rose finished him off.
"Well, we can't all be George Clooney," she declared. As he opened his mouth again, she cut him off. "One more word and it's off with your head, undyed hair and all."
The foolish man actually laughed, but finally had the good sense to retreat before he was carried, bleeding off the field.
Of course, this exchange was mild compared to the one that took place the day of our rehearsal dinner, oh so many years ago.
It had been a crazy day, filled with a thousand last minute details that needed to be taken care of, but finally it was time to get dressed for dinner.
Since it was ninety-five degrees out, and we were expecting my cousin and her fiance from out of town at any minute, my mother had turned on all three of the air conditioners in the bedrooms. The only problem was that in our hundred plus year old house, the electrical system could only handle two and a half air conditioners when all the planets lined up and the moon was in the seventh house.
We turned on a light, we blew a fuse. Plugged in a curling iron, we blew a fuse. Opened the fridge, we blew a fuse. Lit a match, we blew a fuse.
And each time this happened, my father would stomp down to the cellar to do battle with the fuse box, cursing a blue streak. As for the rest of us, this was not our fight, since A. my father was the only one who knew how to do this, and B. he was the only one brave enough to actually go down there without a silver bullet, string of garlic, bucket of holy water, ghostbuster, exorcist, or team of green berets.
Our cellar made the Amityville Horror house look like a suite at the Ritz. Even Stephen King could not imagine such a creepy place.
Somewhere around trip number 56 million, my father succumbed to battle fatigue, and lost it. He charged back up the stairs from the cellar as though something was hot on his heels (which it may have been...an alligator, swamp creature, zombie, Rodent of Unusual Size), made it as far as the foyer and hollered up the stairs to my mother, "Turn off that (unprintable word) air conditioner in the guest room. I'm not replacing another (string of unprintable words) fuse."
"I'm trying to keep the room cool for Walter (my cousin's fiance). He won't want to change in a hot room." My mother was a veteran of many such campaigns, and this did not phase her in the least.
At the end of his rope (which on a really good day is about three inches long), my father exploded like a bomb, "I don't give a s@#t what Walter wants!"
No sooner did the last word leave his mouth than we heard a knock at the screen door behind him, and there was Walter. A direct hit!
Without missing a beat, my father turned, stuck out his hand, and said, "Oh. Hello Walter," and then walked away.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Always Call A Profesional
Once again, it is fall, and once again, I will want to beat the snot out of the heating guy when he comes to do the fall inspection.
It's nothing personal. It probably won't even be the same guy who came last year. And that is the problem. Sort of.
You see, since we have moved in, our first floor has temperatures resembling Siberia, while our basement is more like visiting the Equator. In July. At noon. Wearing a parka. Holding one of those reflective thingeys. And every time I get someone from the heating company to come out, whether for fall or spring service, I get a different theory as to why that is, but no actual solution. Sort of.
Meanwhile, if I remember my high school science correctly, it's only a matter of time before it starts to rain or snow in the stairwell. Yipee.
We suspected something was wrong right after we moved in and, while Tim was on the first floor, huddling over my scented candles and looking longingly at the Yule log on TV, I had to put on my bathing suit and six coats of clinical strength deodorant just to run down to the basement for three minutes.
So I called the heating company that had installed the heater and arranged for them to come out and fix it. (I believe it was a fairly polite request, but at the time, I may have been a bit delirious from the heat stroke I had suffered when I attempted to work out in our basement gym for the first time, so I may have gone all Dirty Harry on them.) Either way, they showed up, pronto.
"The problem is the ducts," the guy told me. "There's flaps inside that direct the heat up or down."
"Great, then you can fix them, and we're good to go."
"Nope. Not that easy," he grunted.
Yeah. As opposed to all the other things in my life that are. By the way, can you tell the paramedics when they arrive that I'd like the rehydrating IV placed in my left arm, so that I can smack you with my right?
"Because...?" I prompted.
"I don't know which duct leads up and which leads down."
"Well, can you figure it out, since you guys were the ones to install the ducts?" Perhaps we should just send in the A-Team instead or a really, really bit hamster with a webcam.
"I can guess, and if I'm wrong, you can just move the flaps the opposite way if it doesn't work."
Wow. Glad I called in the professionals. I'll bet the DIY network has come knocking at your door more than once.
Spotting a booklet and some papers stuck to the side of the heater, I suggested the correct answer might be found there. Bingo! the schematic for the whole heating system was there. In no time at all, my visit to the tropics would be but a fond memory, and that mirage of an oasis I could see in the corner would turn back into some paint cans and an old plant stand. Triumphantly, I shoved it under his nose.
"Still doesn't help," he shook his head. "Can't tell because I don't know where we are exactly according to this."
Really? They didn't put a big red X or yellow dot saying 'you are here' on it? Clearly, the installer was not as knowledgeable or as dedicated to his craft as you.
"Well, it says 'storage' here," I jabbed at the map, "and we are standing in the storage room," I gestured to the shelved loaded with assorted Christmas and Halloween decorations, "so I'm guessing we would be here."
A bead of sweat the size of a watermelon trickled off my chin to emphasize where I was pointing.
"I guess I'll try, but like I said, you may have to redo it yourself," he stuck to his original prognosis despite the fact that smoke had started to come out of my ears. "Do you have post-its so I can label which way I think the flaps go?"
At this point, I gladly escaped both him and the heat to get the post-its, since it prevented me from either passing out (and I was afraid that I would have to rely on Magellan there to get us out of the sweatbox we called a basement) or choking him with my bare hands.
Surprisingly, his highly knowledgeable solution did not work, and neither did attempting to flip the flaps. Shocker.
Once again, I called the heating company and this time a different guy showed up who took one look at what his co-worker had done and shook his head.
"Never touch the flaps," he lectured me, pulling post-its off, right and left. "That was totally the wrong thing to do."
Hope blossomed somewhere deep inside me.
"What you need to do is close all the vents down in the basement and direct the heat up," he pronounced.
Way ahead of you guy. "I did, except for the one in the bedroom down here and it's better, but the upstairs is still much colder."
"Hmmm. " He pondered for a moment.
"Do you change the filters every month?"
Yes.
"Clean out the ducts regularly?"
You mean the new ducts in our new house? Really?!
"Is the thermostat near a door or window?"
Nope.
"Then I guess that's just the way your system works," he shrugged.
Fabulous in-depth analysis. And here I thought the first guy was useless. I briefly contemplated chaining him in the basement a la Kathy Bates in Misery, until he came up with a more acceptable solution, but upon second thought realized that there was the distinct possibility that that would never happen, so decided instead to move on to guy #3.
I was beginning to feel like I was on the old Dating Game show, but instead of the three men of my dreams, it was more like choosing between Larry, Moe or Curly with the grand prize being an all expense paid trip to the middle of the Saraha desert.
Guy 3 unplugged some device on the side of the heater after replacing that filter and recommended covers for the air-conditioning units outside before going on his merry way back to his lovely climate controlled car.
I guess to him, it wasn't really a big deal that the National Zoo was contacting us to open a Brazillian rainforest exhibit in our basement, but I was really tired of starting my workouts by sweating so much I looked like I I had just swum the English Channel.
And so it went, through guy 4 and 5. They each shook their heads, tinkered around with something on the heater, criticized whatever the last guy did and made pretty much useless suggestions before leaving us to wallow in our misery.
Finally, though, the last guy (I'm guessing, based on previous experience that it was pure dumb luck) seemed to solve the worst of the problems (or maybe it was a cumulative effect). And so we are set until guy7 (or is it 8?) comes and tells me how he didn't know what he was talking about and sends us back to that tropic isle...with Gilligan as our repair guy again.
It's nothing personal. It probably won't even be the same guy who came last year. And that is the problem. Sort of.
You see, since we have moved in, our first floor has temperatures resembling Siberia, while our basement is more like visiting the Equator. In July. At noon. Wearing a parka. Holding one of those reflective thingeys. And every time I get someone from the heating company to come out, whether for fall or spring service, I get a different theory as to why that is, but no actual solution. Sort of.
Meanwhile, if I remember my high school science correctly, it's only a matter of time before it starts to rain or snow in the stairwell. Yipee.
We suspected something was wrong right after we moved in and, while Tim was on the first floor, huddling over my scented candles and looking longingly at the Yule log on TV, I had to put on my bathing suit and six coats of clinical strength deodorant just to run down to the basement for three minutes.
So I called the heating company that had installed the heater and arranged for them to come out and fix it. (I believe it was a fairly polite request, but at the time, I may have been a bit delirious from the heat stroke I had suffered when I attempted to work out in our basement gym for the first time, so I may have gone all Dirty Harry on them.) Either way, they showed up, pronto.
"The problem is the ducts," the guy told me. "There's flaps inside that direct the heat up or down."
"Great, then you can fix them, and we're good to go."
"Nope. Not that easy," he grunted.
Yeah. As opposed to all the other things in my life that are. By the way, can you tell the paramedics when they arrive that I'd like the rehydrating IV placed in my left arm, so that I can smack you with my right?
"Because...?" I prompted.
"I don't know which duct leads up and which leads down."
"Well, can you figure it out, since you guys were the ones to install the ducts?" Perhaps we should just send in the A-Team instead or a really, really bit hamster with a webcam.
"I can guess, and if I'm wrong, you can just move the flaps the opposite way if it doesn't work."
Wow. Glad I called in the professionals. I'll bet the DIY network has come knocking at your door more than once.
Spotting a booklet and some papers stuck to the side of the heater, I suggested the correct answer might be found there. Bingo! the schematic for the whole heating system was there. In no time at all, my visit to the tropics would be but a fond memory, and that mirage of an oasis I could see in the corner would turn back into some paint cans and an old plant stand. Triumphantly, I shoved it under his nose.
"Still doesn't help," he shook his head. "Can't tell because I don't know where we are exactly according to this."
Really? They didn't put a big red X or yellow dot saying 'you are here' on it? Clearly, the installer was not as knowledgeable or as dedicated to his craft as you.
"Well, it says 'storage' here," I jabbed at the map, "and we are standing in the storage room," I gestured to the shelved loaded with assorted Christmas and Halloween decorations, "so I'm guessing we would be here."
A bead of sweat the size of a watermelon trickled off my chin to emphasize where I was pointing.
"I guess I'll try, but like I said, you may have to redo it yourself," he stuck to his original prognosis despite the fact that smoke had started to come out of my ears. "Do you have post-its so I can label which way I think the flaps go?"
At this point, I gladly escaped both him and the heat to get the post-its, since it prevented me from either passing out (and I was afraid that I would have to rely on Magellan there to get us out of the sweatbox we called a basement) or choking him with my bare hands.
Surprisingly, his highly knowledgeable solution did not work, and neither did attempting to flip the flaps. Shocker.
Once again, I called the heating company and this time a different guy showed up who took one look at what his co-worker had done and shook his head.
"Never touch the flaps," he lectured me, pulling post-its off, right and left. "That was totally the wrong thing to do."
Hope blossomed somewhere deep inside me.
"What you need to do is close all the vents down in the basement and direct the heat up," he pronounced.
Way ahead of you guy. "I did, except for the one in the bedroom down here and it's better, but the upstairs is still much colder."
"Hmmm. " He pondered for a moment.
"Do you change the filters every month?"
Yes.
"Clean out the ducts regularly?"
You mean the new ducts in our new house? Really?!
"Is the thermostat near a door or window?"
Nope.
"Then I guess that's just the way your system works," he shrugged.
Fabulous in-depth analysis. And here I thought the first guy was useless. I briefly contemplated chaining him in the basement a la Kathy Bates in Misery, until he came up with a more acceptable solution, but upon second thought realized that there was the distinct possibility that that would never happen, so decided instead to move on to guy #3.
I was beginning to feel like I was on the old Dating Game show, but instead of the three men of my dreams, it was more like choosing between Larry, Moe or Curly with the grand prize being an all expense paid trip to the middle of the Saraha desert.
Guy 3 unplugged some device on the side of the heater after replacing that filter and recommended covers for the air-conditioning units outside before going on his merry way back to his lovely climate controlled car.
I guess to him, it wasn't really a big deal that the National Zoo was contacting us to open a Brazillian rainforest exhibit in our basement, but I was really tired of starting my workouts by sweating so much I looked like I I had just swum the English Channel.
And so it went, through guy 4 and 5. They each shook their heads, tinkered around with something on the heater, criticized whatever the last guy did and made pretty much useless suggestions before leaving us to wallow in our misery.
Finally, though, the last guy (I'm guessing, based on previous experience that it was pure dumb luck) seemed to solve the worst of the problems (or maybe it was a cumulative effect). And so we are set until guy7 (or is it 8?) comes and tells me how he didn't know what he was talking about and sends us back to that tropic isle...with Gilligan as our repair guy again.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Do Not Call
One of the many joys of moving is contacting everyone that has your old information and giving them your new information. Some of it is easy like family, friends and utilities. Some of it falls through the cracks like the Do Not Call registry. Grrr. All in all, I'd rather have notified them and forgotten some family members. Just one or two. Okay, six or seven. No more than twelve. Fifteen tops.
It never occurred to me till we began getting inundated with calls from every telemarketer and solicitor in the universe that I had not registered our new number. I had forgotten exactly how freaking annoying those people can be.
Mostly, I rely on caller ID to cut down on the aggravation, but some of them are tricky little devils and a regular old phone number comes up. Double Grrr.
First of all, they call you by your first name as though they are your best friend. Like last Saturday.
"Hello, Ann?"
"Yes," I answered hesitantly trying to place the voice.
"This is Susie Snowflake. How are you?"
"Um. Good. How are you?" The name rang a dim bell somewhere in the back of my mind, along with where I had left my reading glasses and the other cordless phone.
"Do you recognize my name?"
Crap. I know eight kajillion people and I remember about three on any given day. Where did I know this woman from?! Okay, I was going to bluff.
"Sure I do," I responded brightly, all the while thinking, 'I'd like to buy a vowel please, Wink'.
"Then you know I'm running for local office and would like to talk to you about my platform and donating money to by campaign."
Double crap. That's where I knew the name. It's on one of those posters that spring up like mushrooms by the side of the road every fall. Why oh why had I answered the phone?
As luck would have it, we actually had company, so I was able to shut good ol' Susie down without even lying.
Other people are harder to get rid of. Like the people who want you to use their health care program. They don't even let you get in the ambulance before they chase you.
Every month, without fail, we get the call.
"Is Tim there?"
"No, I'm sorry, he's not at home, can I take a message?" Yeah, which I will write in the air.
"We just wanted to let him know that we are offering...blah, blah, blah...yadda, yadda, yadda..."
"He's not interested," I break in, hanging up and going back to doing something more interesting like watching my toenails grow.
One woman didn't let my total lack of interest or civility stop her though.
"Are you his wife?" she pressed, "Because we can offer you programs also, like weight loss and exercise."
Wow. Really?!? I didn't realize that I qualified because I sounded so fat and out of shape over the phone. Yes, please. Sign me up immediately.
It has gotten to the point where sometimes I can't contain the snarkiness.
Once, after I said I wasn't interested, the guy actually had the nerve to try and shame me into giving money to him by getting snotty.
"You really need to do this. It's not like I'm asking for a lot," he insisted.
Hey, great sales technique. I'm sure you'll go far with that attitude. You know, I wasn't going to give you anything, but since you put it like that, here's a blank check. You just add as many zeros as you want. Riiight.
Then there was the woman from some phone company who called at dinnertime and I cut her off with "I'm not interested."
"What is it exactly that you are not interested in?" she snapped at me.
Okay, the gloves are off. You've poked the tiger and now you must die.
"Anything you have to say," I snapped back.
"So you 're not interested in saving money?" she just wouldn't give up.
I can't figure out why I just didn't hang up, but something inside me snapped. Maybe low blood sugar due to the fact that she was keeping me from my dinner.
"No. I hate saving money," I shot back.
"You dont' want to save 30% off your current bill? Do you like throwing money away?"
Okay, if she was going to be ridiculous, I could be more ridiculous.
"I love throwing money away. In fact, I try to find the most expensive phone plan I can and that's the one I take. And just in case you ever get a job soliciting for a gas, power, water or insurance company, I overpay on all those bills also, and I think it's great!!!"
She actually slammed the phone down, but I didn't care because we both knew that I had won. What, exactly, I'm not sure, but I'm guessing she won't be calling back any time soon.
For the repeat offenders, I have developed other tactics for discouraging them from calling.
Tactic 1: "Is Tim there?"
"Tim who?"
"Tim Sinclair."
"Can you spell that?"
"S-i-n-c-l-a-i-r."
"No, the first name"
"T-i-m."
"Jim?"
"No, Tim. T-i-m."
"Sorry, you have the wrong number."
or Tactic 2: "Is Tim home?"
"Who's calling?"
"An annoying solicitor who will suck valuable minutes out of your life that you will never get back." (Well, maybe they didn't actually say this, but this is what they meant).
"He no longer lives here."
"Well this is the number we have."
"He used to live here, but I threw him out for cheating on me with my best friend's husband."
Pause. "Oh. Do you have his new number?" (And yes, this conversation actually happened.)
So I gave them the only number I could think of off the top of my head: Red Top Cab, and wished them a nice day. Hehehe.
Can't wait till we are back on the registry.
It never occurred to me till we began getting inundated with calls from every telemarketer and solicitor in the universe that I had not registered our new number. I had forgotten exactly how freaking annoying those people can be.
Mostly, I rely on caller ID to cut down on the aggravation, but some of them are tricky little devils and a regular old phone number comes up. Double Grrr.
First of all, they call you by your first name as though they are your best friend. Like last Saturday.
"Hello, Ann?"
"Yes," I answered hesitantly trying to place the voice.
"This is Susie Snowflake. How are you?"
"Um. Good. How are you?" The name rang a dim bell somewhere in the back of my mind, along with where I had left my reading glasses and the other cordless phone.
"Do you recognize my name?"
Crap. I know eight kajillion people and I remember about three on any given day. Where did I know this woman from?! Okay, I was going to bluff.
"Sure I do," I responded brightly, all the while thinking, 'I'd like to buy a vowel please, Wink'.
"Then you know I'm running for local office and would like to talk to you about my platform and donating money to by campaign."
Double crap. That's where I knew the name. It's on one of those posters that spring up like mushrooms by the side of the road every fall. Why oh why had I answered the phone?
As luck would have it, we actually had company, so I was able to shut good ol' Susie down without even lying.
Other people are harder to get rid of. Like the people who want you to use their health care program. They don't even let you get in the ambulance before they chase you.
Every month, without fail, we get the call.
"Is Tim there?"
"No, I'm sorry, he's not at home, can I take a message?" Yeah, which I will write in the air.
"We just wanted to let him know that we are offering...blah, blah, blah...yadda, yadda, yadda..."
"He's not interested," I break in, hanging up and going back to doing something more interesting like watching my toenails grow.
One woman didn't let my total lack of interest or civility stop her though.
"Are you his wife?" she pressed, "Because we can offer you programs also, like weight loss and exercise."
Wow. Really?!? I didn't realize that I qualified because I sounded so fat and out of shape over the phone. Yes, please. Sign me up immediately.
It has gotten to the point where sometimes I can't contain the snarkiness.
Once, after I said I wasn't interested, the guy actually had the nerve to try and shame me into giving money to him by getting snotty.
"You really need to do this. It's not like I'm asking for a lot," he insisted.
Hey, great sales technique. I'm sure you'll go far with that attitude. You know, I wasn't going to give you anything, but since you put it like that, here's a blank check. You just add as many zeros as you want. Riiight.
Then there was the woman from some phone company who called at dinnertime and I cut her off with "I'm not interested."
"What is it exactly that you are not interested in?" she snapped at me.
Okay, the gloves are off. You've poked the tiger and now you must die.
"Anything you have to say," I snapped back.
"So you 're not interested in saving money?" she just wouldn't give up.
I can't figure out why I just didn't hang up, but something inside me snapped. Maybe low blood sugar due to the fact that she was keeping me from my dinner.
"No. I hate saving money," I shot back.
"You dont' want to save 30% off your current bill? Do you like throwing money away?"
Okay, if she was going to be ridiculous, I could be more ridiculous.
"I love throwing money away. In fact, I try to find the most expensive phone plan I can and that's the one I take. And just in case you ever get a job soliciting for a gas, power, water or insurance company, I overpay on all those bills also, and I think it's great!!!"
She actually slammed the phone down, but I didn't care because we both knew that I had won. What, exactly, I'm not sure, but I'm guessing she won't be calling back any time soon.
For the repeat offenders, I have developed other tactics for discouraging them from calling.
Tactic 1: "Is Tim there?"
"Tim who?"
"Tim Sinclair."
"Can you spell that?"
"S-i-n-c-l-a-i-r."
"No, the first name"
"T-i-m."
"Jim?"
"No, Tim. T-i-m."
"Sorry, you have the wrong number."
or Tactic 2: "Is Tim home?"
"Who's calling?"
"An annoying solicitor who will suck valuable minutes out of your life that you will never get back." (Well, maybe they didn't actually say this, but this is what they meant).
"He no longer lives here."
"Well this is the number we have."
"He used to live here, but I threw him out for cheating on me with my best friend's husband."
Pause. "Oh. Do you have his new number?" (And yes, this conversation actually happened.)
So I gave them the only number I could think of off the top of my head: Red Top Cab, and wished them a nice day. Hehehe.
Can't wait till we are back on the registry.
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