Saturday morning, I got up, filled with hope that it would be a good day. Not. Even. Close.
Tim is addicted to Starbucks coffee (okay, I am too, but I settle for the home brew, his highness has to have the real McCoy), so since he is recovering from knee surgery, I decided to raise his spirits by running out and getting a couple of ventis.
As I headed down the steps into the garage, I half-turned to talk to the dog (I know, I know, but these days, she is the only one who will listen to me whine) and slipped down the last two steps, landing right on my butt on the 2x4 that makes up the one side of the stairs. Not. Good.
As I sat astride the plank, educating Chloe to every swear word I know and wishing that I spoke another language so I could teach her even more swear words, all I could think was: Unless Chloe can carry me into the house or dial 911, I am going to die here. In the garage. Sitting on the steps. In my PJ top, sweats and Tim's jacket (hey, it's a look), while Tim mummifies up in the bed, just steps away from the phone he can't reach.
Days from now, someone will say,"Whatever happened to the Sinclairs?" and then a neighbor will call about a bad smell and an unusual amount of flies swarming around the house.
I began to wonder if I could teach Chloe how to bark, "My mom has fallen and she can't get up" in Morse Code, but then I realized I didn't have any treats, so...that wasn't going to happen. Besides, I don't actually know Morse code, so it probably wouldn't have worked anyway.
As I moved on to more positive scenarios in my head of Tim and I side by side in bed (like Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dumber), splitting a bag of ice and alternating the use of the heating pad, competing over who can do more leg lifts in PT, battling for control of the remote, fighting over whose turn it was to use the walker, and duking it out over the last Percoset, I realized that I was not only going to survive, but that I could actually walk again.
I grudgingly decided to forge ahead with my mission, and drove to Starbucks where I ordered three ventis. (Hey, I not only needed two, I deserved them at this point). The woman poured one , plunked it down on the counter and walked away while the other woman rang it up.
"Venti?" she said.
Duh. A. You were standing six inches away when I ordered it, B. If you work here and don't know which cup is a venti, then you are probably too stupid to even be breathing, and C. (this I said aloud) "Yes. Three."
I even held up three fingers which she ignored while she blithely rang up the one.
"Twelve thousand dollars," she announced (This was Starbucks, after all)
"I need three," I reiterated, but made the mistake of handing her the money for all of them.
"Oh. Uh." She looked from the money to the register as though I had handed her a Rubik's cube and asked her to solve it while simultaneously explaining Einstein's theory of relativity in German.
"Why don't you just charge me for the one, then ring up two more," I suggested, almost, but not quite able to stop rolling my eyes.
"Um..."
Apparently, my suggestion was not computing in her razor-sharp mind, but like a dog with a bone, she was not going to give up. (If I wave a white flag, will you do the same? Pretty please with cream and sugar on top? How about if I just cry?)
Fifteen excruciatingly painful minutes later, I stumbled out of the Starbucks with my three ventis, and maybe the correct change, but I couldn't see past the tears in my eyes to count it as I wept for the future.
Thinking that taking the dog for a nice long walk would clear my mind and help me shake off the morning's events, I grabbed her leash and we headed out. (Okay, I actually thought that crawling back into bed and pulling the covers over my head would help, but I was guilted into the walk by a pair of big, brown eyes and a cute little button nose).
We got exactly halfway around the block when nature called and Chloe squatted in some leaves. I leaned down with my little baggie at the ready, but couldn't find anything...because it was stuck to her furry little backside. Eewww.
And to make the experience even better and more memorable, she plopped her little butt down on the pavement before I could stop her and I had a poopy puppy.
Somehow, yelling "NO!" For all that is holy STOP!!" after the fact seemed a bit useless, so I settled for pounding my head against the pavement and ripping out significant chunks of hair.
After carrying her the rest of the way home in order to limit the damage (to her, but apparently not my sweatshirt), I plunked her in the tub to try and scrub off eight pounds of dog poo (Seriously, how can something that small poop out that much?). I had barely begun when the phone rang.
"Can you get that?" Tim yelled in to me.
Some days, it just doesn't pay to get out of bed.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Friday, December 16, 2011
The Evil Queen, Er, I Mean Machine
There are very few technology-related things in life that I can do well, but using the self-checkout at the grocery store is one of them. I can scan, bag, pay and be out the door in about five seconds. Unless the machine turns against me.
The other day I was scanning my order when all of a sudden, it (let's call her Maleficent, shall we?) decided she didn't like my brand of bread and refused to accept it.
"Please remove item from bag and scan again," she intoned in her smug little voice.
So I did.
"Item not found," she informed me loftily, and instead of resetting the screen, the miserable witch put up the "need assistance" screen.
What I needed was for Maleficent to actually do her job, not tell me I needed assistance.
Naturally, the woman in charge of "assisting" me was busy giving a tutorial to someone who had no business being in the self-checkout if she couldn't figure out the "self" part after the first thirty-six times she was shown how to scan and bag. Although I'm sure everyone was thinking pretty much the same about me by the time I was done.
Finally, I caught her eye and she punched some buttons and brought daughter of Hal back in line.
The next item was fine. The one after that, an issue.
Miss Assistance again pushed some more buttons, but clearly at this point she began to think that I was as clueless as a Wheel Of Fortune contestant who had bought all five vowels, guessed R, D and K and still couldn't solve an "animal names" puzzle that said: aard_ark.
Dreading the next scan, I searched my basket for something Maleficent couldn't get me on. Aha. Bananas. I plopped them on the scale and quickly punched in the code.
"Item not found. Please get assistance," she goaded me.
I gave an exasperated WTH look at little Miss Helper, who was not appreciating the self-control it was taking for me to not flip off both her and her evil machine cohort.
"What do you have there, bananas?" she asked, craning her neck to see the item I was dangling THREE FEET FROM HER FACE!
No. These are fillet mignon masquerading as bananas, and if you're impressed by this, just wait till you see how I've disguised the zucchini.
I tried to scan some tomatoes next, but before I could even get them on the scanner, Ms. Fix-it started pushing buttons like she was a pre-teen girl trying to win Justin Bieber tickets on a radio call-in contest.
"Got it," she sang out in her shrill little holier-than-thou voice.
I glared back at her and grabbed the next item, shielding it with my body so I could scan it before her sharp little talons could peck away at any more keys.
I gave a quick swipe, but Maleficent came to her minion's defense and the next thing I knew, she was speaking to me in Spanish!
I don't know exactly what she was saying, but I got the impression it wasn't good. She sounded kind of angry that I had challenged her authority and seemed to be cussing me out, or threatening to lock me in a tower, guarded by a fire-breathing dragon.
I backed away and shot Helpful Hannah a look that should have had her cringing and fleeing in terror.
Apparently, she didn't have the good sense that God gave a turnip because she headed towards me instead of away from me, this time stabbing the buttons on my screen instead of hers.
"Uh, I think this will work," she had at least enough brains to sound semi-concerned.
I bit my tongue against the multitude of rejoinders which were crowding my brain and backing up in my throat.
"There." With a final flourish, she re-swiped the last item and...the evil seed responded in English. Really loud English. Extremely loud English. Dogs three miles away began howling and covering their ears.
"That's kind of loud," she looked at me, aghast.
Ya think? I would have actually said this if I thought she could hear me over the roar of the machine.
Sadly for everyone in the store...and the shopping center...we had reached the limits of the assistance she was able to give, but it didn't really matter. The evil queen had won. She magnanimously let me check out the last few items and leave with the minimum aggravation while her servant scuttled back to her station to lie in wait for the next hapless victim.
The other day I was scanning my order when all of a sudden, it (let's call her Maleficent, shall we?) decided she didn't like my brand of bread and refused to accept it.
"Please remove item from bag and scan again," she intoned in her smug little voice.
So I did.
"Item not found," she informed me loftily, and instead of resetting the screen, the miserable witch put up the "need assistance" screen.
What I needed was for Maleficent to actually do her job, not tell me I needed assistance.
Naturally, the woman in charge of "assisting" me was busy giving a tutorial to someone who had no business being in the self-checkout if she couldn't figure out the "self" part after the first thirty-six times she was shown how to scan and bag. Although I'm sure everyone was thinking pretty much the same about me by the time I was done.
Finally, I caught her eye and she punched some buttons and brought daughter of Hal back in line.
The next item was fine. The one after that, an issue.
Miss Assistance again pushed some more buttons, but clearly at this point she began to think that I was as clueless as a Wheel Of Fortune contestant who had bought all five vowels, guessed R, D and K and still couldn't solve an "animal names" puzzle that said: aard_ark.
Dreading the next scan, I searched my basket for something Maleficent couldn't get me on. Aha. Bananas. I plopped them on the scale and quickly punched in the code.
"Item not found. Please get assistance," she goaded me.
I gave an exasperated WTH look at little Miss Helper, who was not appreciating the self-control it was taking for me to not flip off both her and her evil machine cohort.
"What do you have there, bananas?" she asked, craning her neck to see the item I was dangling THREE FEET FROM HER FACE!
No. These are fillet mignon masquerading as bananas, and if you're impressed by this, just wait till you see how I've disguised the zucchini.
I tried to scan some tomatoes next, but before I could even get them on the scanner, Ms. Fix-it started pushing buttons like she was a pre-teen girl trying to win Justin Bieber tickets on a radio call-in contest.
"Got it," she sang out in her shrill little holier-than-thou voice.
I glared back at her and grabbed the next item, shielding it with my body so I could scan it before her sharp little talons could peck away at any more keys.
I gave a quick swipe, but Maleficent came to her minion's defense and the next thing I knew, she was speaking to me in Spanish!
I don't know exactly what she was saying, but I got the impression it wasn't good. She sounded kind of angry that I had challenged her authority and seemed to be cussing me out, or threatening to lock me in a tower, guarded by a fire-breathing dragon.
I backed away and shot Helpful Hannah a look that should have had her cringing and fleeing in terror.
Apparently, she didn't have the good sense that God gave a turnip because she headed towards me instead of away from me, this time stabbing the buttons on my screen instead of hers.
"Uh, I think this will work," she had at least enough brains to sound semi-concerned.
I bit my tongue against the multitude of rejoinders which were crowding my brain and backing up in my throat.
"There." With a final flourish, she re-swiped the last item and...the evil seed responded in English. Really loud English. Extremely loud English. Dogs three miles away began howling and covering their ears.
"That's kind of loud," she looked at me, aghast.
Ya think? I would have actually said this if I thought she could hear me over the roar of the machine.
Sadly for everyone in the store...and the shopping center...we had reached the limits of the assistance she was able to give, but it didn't really matter. The evil queen had won. She magnanimously let me check out the last few items and leave with the minimum aggravation while her servant scuttled back to her station to lie in wait for the next hapless victim.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Car Trouble
If Tim could, he would totally get a new car every year, or maybe even every six months. His idea of fun is spending hour upon hour trolling car dealerships, reverently patting shiny new bumpers and stroking soft, supple leather seats.
Myself, I would rather run naked through a brier patch filled with poison ivy while being chased by a rabid dog than shop for a new car.
And that is why we make a perfect couple. After almost eight years, it was time for me to get a new car, and, rather than endure the whining, pouting and snarky comments that bringing me car shopping elicits, Tim pored over car magazines and the internet, and narrowed my choices down to two, I picked one, and we both drove off the lot happy as little clams.
The bubble of happiness lasted exactly two weeks before it burst.
I was actually enjoying my new car, specifically the "keyless entry" feature before it all went south. No more digging for keys in my purse like I was trying to tunnel to the center of the earth. No more patting myself down looking for the keys as though I was in a Macarana dance off. Now, I simply had to have my keys and with one touch of the door handle, beep--unlock. Beep, beep--lock. It was....magic.
So last Monday, I stuffed my keys into my pocket, grabbed the dry cleaning with one arm, the dog with the other, my purse with my elbow, and my reusable shopping bags with my teeth and headed out to run errands.
Bank? Beep. Beep, beep. Dry cleaners? Beep. Beep,beep. Christmas wreath? Beep. Beep, beep. Dog park? ----Hmm. No beep. Perplexed, I shifted the dog to the other arm and tried again. ----Uh oh. Not good.
I checked all the doors, but they were securely closed. I double-checked the trunk where I had put my purse. Firmly shut. I brushed my fingers across the handle yet again. No beep. I tried another handle. No beep. Another hand. No beep. My knuckles. No beep. An elbow, nose, chin, knee and big toe. Nothing. Chloe's paw, her tail, her nose, the tips of her ears. No beep.
Aggravated, I got back into the car, pushed the button and it started up just fine. Huh. That was strange.
I got back out and tried my touching routine all over again, except this time, I included the five basic ballet positions, a downward dog, part of a pussycat doll routine and a few moves I once saw at the Cirque du Soliel. Still no beep beep. Not even a beeee.
By now, I was starting to draw a small crowd and Chloe was looking at me the way I looked at my mom when I was 12 and she danced the hustle at a relative's wedding; equal parts horror, fascination and alarm.
I gave one last valiant effort by removing the actual key from the electronic "key", but even that wouldn't lock the car. Okay, so now even and old-fashioned, unsophisticated key wouldn't work? How does that happen?
Since the dealership was less than a mile away, I decided to head over there before one of the people watching decided to call either the men in white coats or the police to take me away (Honest, officer, I swear it's my car.).
As I pulled into the lot, the salesman just happened to be there with another customer.
"Hey! How's it going?" Big, broad smile.
"Not so good. My key stopped working."
"Let me see," he performed the same voodoo rituals I had done, to no avail. "Oh dear." Not such a big smile now. Meanwhile, his customer suddenly remembered elective brain surgery he had been putting off and fled, er, I mean left. "Take it around to the service bay."
When I arrived, the mechanic was waiting for me.
"Let's see what we can do," he declared jovially.
Yeah. You're smiling now. We all start out that way. But you won't be smiling for long.
He took the key from me and...beep. Beep, beep.
No way. Uh uh. That did not just happen.
But then he got cocky and tried to show off by making it happen again. This time though, silence...
Frowning, he tried again, and again. No beep.
"Give me a few minutes," he said, walking away and shaking his head.
I decided to take the dog for a little walk while he was gone and returned to find him writing me a voucher for a cab home.
"It's the strangest thing," he scratched his head, "the computer is saying the car doesn't even recognize the key. Do you have the spare key with you?"
Uh. No. I don't usually need two keys to run errands. "Sorry," I shook my head.
"We'll send you home in a cab and call you first thing in the morning. Do you need anything out of your car? Because it's locked and we can't get in, and if I use the actual key, the alarm will go off and we can't turn it off."
A. Of course I need the stuff in my car, but apparently I can't get it, so why bother to even ask, other than to torture me and
B. What do you mean the alarm will go off?!!? You mean that would have happened to me at the park? Perhaps that is a little detail you should tell people when they buy the car? "Oh, don't ever use your key because that will cause the alarm so sound, deafening you and everyone else within a twelve block radius, but the upside is, there is no way to stop it."
As we walked by the car on the way out, it suddenly unlocked. Beep.
We looked at each other, startled, then tried a handle again. Beep, beep.
"Are you sure you don't have the other key?" the guy asked me.
Suddenly, it came to me, a hazy memory of dropping a key in my purse the previous week.
Oops. My bad. Chagrined, I reached into my purse and pulled out the key. Apparently, they key only locks the car from outside, not from in the trunk, and the key I thought was for my car was actually for Tim's.
"Maybe you could put a colored sticker on the keys to tell them apart," the car guy suggested, somehow managing not to laugh outright in my face.
Meanwhile, I was busy trying to figure out how I could blame the whole thing on Tim and wondering where I was going to get my car serviced from now on.
Myself, I would rather run naked through a brier patch filled with poison ivy while being chased by a rabid dog than shop for a new car.
And that is why we make a perfect couple. After almost eight years, it was time for me to get a new car, and, rather than endure the whining, pouting and snarky comments that bringing me car shopping elicits, Tim pored over car magazines and the internet, and narrowed my choices down to two, I picked one, and we both drove off the lot happy as little clams.
The bubble of happiness lasted exactly two weeks before it burst.
I was actually enjoying my new car, specifically the "keyless entry" feature before it all went south. No more digging for keys in my purse like I was trying to tunnel to the center of the earth. No more patting myself down looking for the keys as though I was in a Macarana dance off. Now, I simply had to have my keys and with one touch of the door handle, beep--unlock. Beep, beep--lock. It was....magic.
So last Monday, I stuffed my keys into my pocket, grabbed the dry cleaning with one arm, the dog with the other, my purse with my elbow, and my reusable shopping bags with my teeth and headed out to run errands.
Bank? Beep. Beep, beep. Dry cleaners? Beep. Beep,beep. Christmas wreath? Beep. Beep, beep. Dog park? ----Hmm. No beep. Perplexed, I shifted the dog to the other arm and tried again. ----Uh oh. Not good.
I checked all the doors, but they were securely closed. I double-checked the trunk where I had put my purse. Firmly shut. I brushed my fingers across the handle yet again. No beep. I tried another handle. No beep. Another hand. No beep. My knuckles. No beep. An elbow, nose, chin, knee and big toe. Nothing. Chloe's paw, her tail, her nose, the tips of her ears. No beep.
Aggravated, I got back into the car, pushed the button and it started up just fine. Huh. That was strange.
I got back out and tried my touching routine all over again, except this time, I included the five basic ballet positions, a downward dog, part of a pussycat doll routine and a few moves I once saw at the Cirque du Soliel. Still no beep beep. Not even a beeee.
By now, I was starting to draw a small crowd and Chloe was looking at me the way I looked at my mom when I was 12 and she danced the hustle at a relative's wedding; equal parts horror, fascination and alarm.
I gave one last valiant effort by removing the actual key from the electronic "key", but even that wouldn't lock the car. Okay, so now even and old-fashioned, unsophisticated key wouldn't work? How does that happen?
Since the dealership was less than a mile away, I decided to head over there before one of the people watching decided to call either the men in white coats or the police to take me away (Honest, officer, I swear it's my car.).
As I pulled into the lot, the salesman just happened to be there with another customer.
"Hey! How's it going?" Big, broad smile.
"Not so good. My key stopped working."
"Let me see," he performed the same voodoo rituals I had done, to no avail. "Oh dear." Not such a big smile now. Meanwhile, his customer suddenly remembered elective brain surgery he had been putting off and fled, er, I mean left. "Take it around to the service bay."
When I arrived, the mechanic was waiting for me.
"Let's see what we can do," he declared jovially.
Yeah. You're smiling now. We all start out that way. But you won't be smiling for long.
He took the key from me and...beep. Beep, beep.
No way. Uh uh. That did not just happen.
But then he got cocky and tried to show off by making it happen again. This time though, silence...
Frowning, he tried again, and again. No beep.
"Give me a few minutes," he said, walking away and shaking his head.
I decided to take the dog for a little walk while he was gone and returned to find him writing me a voucher for a cab home.
"It's the strangest thing," he scratched his head, "the computer is saying the car doesn't even recognize the key. Do you have the spare key with you?"
Uh. No. I don't usually need two keys to run errands. "Sorry," I shook my head.
"We'll send you home in a cab and call you first thing in the morning. Do you need anything out of your car? Because it's locked and we can't get in, and if I use the actual key, the alarm will go off and we can't turn it off."
A. Of course I need the stuff in my car, but apparently I can't get it, so why bother to even ask, other than to torture me and
B. What do you mean the alarm will go off?!!? You mean that would have happened to me at the park? Perhaps that is a little detail you should tell people when they buy the car? "Oh, don't ever use your key because that will cause the alarm so sound, deafening you and everyone else within a twelve block radius, but the upside is, there is no way to stop it."
As we walked by the car on the way out, it suddenly unlocked. Beep.
We looked at each other, startled, then tried a handle again. Beep, beep.
"Are you sure you don't have the other key?" the guy asked me.
Suddenly, it came to me, a hazy memory of dropping a key in my purse the previous week.
Oops. My bad. Chagrined, I reached into my purse and pulled out the key. Apparently, they key only locks the car from outside, not from in the trunk, and the key I thought was for my car was actually for Tim's.
"Maybe you could put a colored sticker on the keys to tell them apart," the car guy suggested, somehow managing not to laugh outright in my face.
Meanwhile, I was busy trying to figure out how I could blame the whole thing on Tim and wondering where I was going to get my car serviced from now on.
Friday, December 9, 2011
He Said, She Said
Last week, we had our generator installed. This week, we had our generator installed. The three day process had to be split up between two weeks, because why should they limit the pain to only one week when they could screw up two?
So anyway, last week went something like this...
Monday morning.
He said: Ma'am, if it's okay, we need to turn your power off for an hour, no more than an hour and a half, so we can work on the electric box.
He meant: SUCKER! If you believe that, I have some swampland in Florida I'd like to sell you. Oh, and I hope you want to sit in the dark all day, and eat whatever you can forage from your cabinet, because you are not going to see power any time soon.
I said: Um, okay, but we'll have power by this afternoon, right? Because our tree is being delivered and they need to plug in their saw.
I meant: Do I have a choice? Isn't that why I am sitting here all day instead of having an actual life? Oh, and if you really are only an hour and a half, I'll run outside and look for those flying pigs.
He said: Is it okay to park in your driveway?
He meant: We've already parked four large trucks in your driveway and are going to leave them there all day. By the way, the other three guys are going to leave, taking the keys with them, so that even when we're done in the house, you are still trapped like a prisoner under house arrest. Don't even think of trying to leave. Mwahahaha.
I said: Um, okay.
I meant: Um, okay.
I later thought (when I realized my predicament) Really??? In what alternate universe did this seem like a good idea? Exactly how far is your head up your butt? Grrr.
Monday afternoon (3 hours later) the tree guys arrive. Still no power.
Tree guys said: Uh, is there a switch you have to flip for this outlet to work?
They meant: Uh, is there a switch you have to flip for this outlet to work?
I said: Let me talk to the guys working on the generator and see if they can turn the power back on.
I meant: They will turn the power back on, or they will be picking pieces of Christmas tree out of their...uh...teeth. Yeah, teeth.
He said: Oh, we can run a line for you to use.
He meant: Yeah. Across the yard from where they are and then sit back and watch them drag a ten foot tree back and forth. Hehehe
Tree guys said: Thanks
They meant: For NOTHING. Oh, and next year, the day you want the tree delivered, we're busy.
This week went something like this:
Monday morning, the doorbell rang at 9am. There stood a guy in front of a huge truck with a forklift on the back.
He said: I'm delivering this for today. Can I park it in front, partly on your lawn?
He meant: I am totally wasting your time right now because no matter what you say, I'm going to put it where I want and there is nothing you can do about it. Nanny, nanny, na na.
I said: No, you can't park it on my lawn even a little bit. How about parking it over there, on the gravel only?
I meant: Would you want a forklift parked on your lawn? What do we look like here, the Beverly Hillbillies? Yeah. Sure. Park it between the rusted-out pick-up that we have up on blocks and the C-ment pond. I'll have Jethro clear a space for you. Duh.
Later Monday morning, the doorbell rang again. There stood a guy in front of said forklift while his buddy ran it through my flowerbed and dug a trench into the lawn that you could lose a small child in.
He said: Do you think your neighbor would mind if we took the forklift into his yard? We can't get the unit onto the pad from this angle.
He meant: I am trying to win an award for stupidest man on the face of the earth. Based on the question I just asked you, how am I doing?
I said: YES, HE WOULD MIND! I'm not happy about what you did to my yard, and I'm the one getting the generator.
I meant: Seriously? Did your mother have any children that lived? My yard looks like the marines were using it to practice war games and you're asking me if you can do the same thing to my neighbor's yard? Oh, and if my rosebushes and cherry tree are in your way, just plow right over them. Ooops. Wait. Too late. You already did. Grrrrrrr.
So anyway, last week went something like this...
Monday morning.
He said: Ma'am, if it's okay, we need to turn your power off for an hour, no more than an hour and a half, so we can work on the electric box.
He meant: SUCKER! If you believe that, I have some swampland in Florida I'd like to sell you. Oh, and I hope you want to sit in the dark all day, and eat whatever you can forage from your cabinet, because you are not going to see power any time soon.
I said: Um, okay, but we'll have power by this afternoon, right? Because our tree is being delivered and they need to plug in their saw.
I meant: Do I have a choice? Isn't that why I am sitting here all day instead of having an actual life? Oh, and if you really are only an hour and a half, I'll run outside and look for those flying pigs.
He said: Is it okay to park in your driveway?
He meant: We've already parked four large trucks in your driveway and are going to leave them there all day. By the way, the other three guys are going to leave, taking the keys with them, so that even when we're done in the house, you are still trapped like a prisoner under house arrest. Don't even think of trying to leave. Mwahahaha.
I said: Um, okay.
I meant: Um, okay.
I later thought (when I realized my predicament) Really??? In what alternate universe did this seem like a good idea? Exactly how far is your head up your butt? Grrr.
Monday afternoon (3 hours later) the tree guys arrive. Still no power.
Tree guys said: Uh, is there a switch you have to flip for this outlet to work?
They meant: Uh, is there a switch you have to flip for this outlet to work?
I said: Let me talk to the guys working on the generator and see if they can turn the power back on.
I meant: They will turn the power back on, or they will be picking pieces of Christmas tree out of their...uh...teeth. Yeah, teeth.
He said: Oh, we can run a line for you to use.
He meant: Yeah. Across the yard from where they are and then sit back and watch them drag a ten foot tree back and forth. Hehehe
Tree guys said: Thanks
They meant: For NOTHING. Oh, and next year, the day you want the tree delivered, we're busy.
This week went something like this:
Monday morning, the doorbell rang at 9am. There stood a guy in front of a huge truck with a forklift on the back.
He said: I'm delivering this for today. Can I park it in front, partly on your lawn?
He meant: I am totally wasting your time right now because no matter what you say, I'm going to put it where I want and there is nothing you can do about it. Nanny, nanny, na na.
I said: No, you can't park it on my lawn even a little bit. How about parking it over there, on the gravel only?
I meant: Would you want a forklift parked on your lawn? What do we look like here, the Beverly Hillbillies? Yeah. Sure. Park it between the rusted-out pick-up that we have up on blocks and the C-ment pond. I'll have Jethro clear a space for you. Duh.
Later Monday morning, the doorbell rang again. There stood a guy in front of said forklift while his buddy ran it through my flowerbed and dug a trench into the lawn that you could lose a small child in.
He said: Do you think your neighbor would mind if we took the forklift into his yard? We can't get the unit onto the pad from this angle.
He meant: I am trying to win an award for stupidest man on the face of the earth. Based on the question I just asked you, how am I doing?
I said: YES, HE WOULD MIND! I'm not happy about what you did to my yard, and I'm the one getting the generator.
I meant: Seriously? Did your mother have any children that lived? My yard looks like the marines were using it to practice war games and you're asking me if you can do the same thing to my neighbor's yard? Oh, and if my rosebushes and cherry tree are in your way, just plow right over them. Ooops. Wait. Too late. You already did. Grrrrrrr.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
I Am A Mushroom
After this last year of Snowmaggedon, earthquakes and hurricanes, we decided to bite the bullet and get a generator.
Oh. Wait. Tim decided to get the generator and I have to bite the bullet. Yeah. That's how it went.
So, two weeks ago, I got a call from someone named Sally who said she was from company ABC (one of the companies Tim had contacted for an estimate). Expectant Pause.
"Okay. And...?" Was I supposed to burst into a round of applause complete with whistles, cheers and stomps, or would she prefer an award of some kind?
"What can I do for you?" Sally asked brightly, obviously hoping to provoke some kind of reaction other than confused silence.
"I give up. What can you do for me?" Um. Hello. You called me!
Second pause. Clearly, this conversation was not going according to Sally's plan. Whatever that was.
"Uh," some of the perkiness left Sally voice. "I'm calling for Sean...?"
Oh. You're calling for Sean? Well why didn't you say so in the first place. Now I understand everything. Just a couple of quick questions though: Who is Sean, and exactly how lazy and/or incompetent is he that you have to make the call for him?
"Sean is the one who sold you the generator...?" Sally volunteered another piece of the puzzle while I was still struggling to voice my last question in a less snarky way than the version that was running through my head.
"I didn't know I had bought a generator, but now I know what the problem is," the light bulb finally went on, and I knew who to blame for the confusing morass Sally and I were currently mired in. "You see, my husband must have been dealing with Sean and he thinks I am a mushroom."
"A mushroom?" Sally echoed, sounding more than a little afraid of the answer. I'm pretty sure that at this point, she was plotting ways to get even with Sean...ex-lax in the coffee perhaps?...for putting her through this torture.
"Yes," I answered, similarly plotting my own form of vengeance on Tim, but he would not get off as lightly as ex-lax. "A mushroom. He keeps me in the dark and feeds me sh--, er, I mean he obviously didn't tell me what he did." I finished lamely.
Sally meanwhile was more than a little giddy with relief that she was not speaking with someone she would later have to tell the police interviewer "seemed a little off, but I never imagined she'd take out all those poor, poor people with her.".
"Okay, well, I think I'm supposed to set up a time to come out and install the generator," she said.
And you couldn't have led with that and saved us both this ridiculously painful conversation? I mean, c'mon, Sally. Work with me on this. And what do you mean, you think? Don't you know what you were supposed to do? Really? Are you a mushroom too?
Sally offered me installation as early as the following week. Wow! I thought. So soon! That never happens when dealing with people in the service industry, or at least not without divine intervention or a really big payoff. Sally, you rock! And then she dropped the bomb. Installation would take three days.
Three days?!? I have to sit at home for three days? Are you installing a generator or building a wing onto the house for this thing? Maybe you are assembling it on site from scratch. Perhaps the installer is legally blind and the installation instructions are written in Sanskrit. I know, it's being put into place by a team of highly trained snails who will then turn it on, hop in, douse themselves with garlic and wine and become escargot. Three days? At home?
"Well, officer, she seemed fairly normal when we arrived on Monday. We never saw the homicidal rage coming on Wednesday afternoon until it was too late."
Tim was sooo going to hear about this. I was emailing him even as I was resignedly circling the days on a calendar like a prisoner about to enter solitary confinement. And I don't care what anyone says, they weren't getting my shoelaces and belt. I had to have something to keep my busy for three days.
Within an hour or so, I heard back from Tim, who had the gall, the nerve, the utter temerity to chastise me for scheduling the installation on days we would be out of town.
We will?
Yes, we're leaving on Tuesday and won't be back till Friday.
Oh? And when were you planning on sharing that little gem? Monday night? Why don't you just get Sally to call me up about an hour before we take off on Tuesday and have her tell me what's going on?
"Honest officer, I never saw it coming. I mean, sure, she muttered under her breath and maybe her eyes did circle in opposite directions, but I just thought she was a bit eccentric. I never suspected anything like this. Have you even found a piece of Mr. Sinclair? No? Not even a lock or hair or a fingernail?"
I am. A mushroom.
Oh. Wait. Tim decided to get the generator and I have to bite the bullet. Yeah. That's how it went.
So, two weeks ago, I got a call from someone named Sally who said she was from company ABC (one of the companies Tim had contacted for an estimate). Expectant Pause.
"Okay. And...?" Was I supposed to burst into a round of applause complete with whistles, cheers and stomps, or would she prefer an award of some kind?
"What can I do for you?" Sally asked brightly, obviously hoping to provoke some kind of reaction other than confused silence.
"I give up. What can you do for me?" Um. Hello. You called me!
Second pause. Clearly, this conversation was not going according to Sally's plan. Whatever that was.
"Uh," some of the perkiness left Sally voice. "I'm calling for Sean...?"
Oh. You're calling for Sean? Well why didn't you say so in the first place. Now I understand everything. Just a couple of quick questions though: Who is Sean, and exactly how lazy and/or incompetent is he that you have to make the call for him?
"Sean is the one who sold you the generator...?" Sally volunteered another piece of the puzzle while I was still struggling to voice my last question in a less snarky way than the version that was running through my head.
"I didn't know I had bought a generator, but now I know what the problem is," the light bulb finally went on, and I knew who to blame for the confusing morass Sally and I were currently mired in. "You see, my husband must have been dealing with Sean and he thinks I am a mushroom."
"A mushroom?" Sally echoed, sounding more than a little afraid of the answer. I'm pretty sure that at this point, she was plotting ways to get even with Sean...ex-lax in the coffee perhaps?...for putting her through this torture.
"Yes," I answered, similarly plotting my own form of vengeance on Tim, but he would not get off as lightly as ex-lax. "A mushroom. He keeps me in the dark and feeds me sh--, er, I mean he obviously didn't tell me what he did." I finished lamely.
Sally meanwhile was more than a little giddy with relief that she was not speaking with someone she would later have to tell the police interviewer "seemed a little off, but I never imagined she'd take out all those poor, poor people with her.".
"Okay, well, I think I'm supposed to set up a time to come out and install the generator," she said.
And you couldn't have led with that and saved us both this ridiculously painful conversation? I mean, c'mon, Sally. Work with me on this. And what do you mean, you think? Don't you know what you were supposed to do? Really? Are you a mushroom too?
Sally offered me installation as early as the following week. Wow! I thought. So soon! That never happens when dealing with people in the service industry, or at least not without divine intervention or a really big payoff. Sally, you rock! And then she dropped the bomb. Installation would take three days.
Three days?!? I have to sit at home for three days? Are you installing a generator or building a wing onto the house for this thing? Maybe you are assembling it on site from scratch. Perhaps the installer is legally blind and the installation instructions are written in Sanskrit. I know, it's being put into place by a team of highly trained snails who will then turn it on, hop in, douse themselves with garlic and wine and become escargot. Three days? At home?
"Well, officer, she seemed fairly normal when we arrived on Monday. We never saw the homicidal rage coming on Wednesday afternoon until it was too late."
Tim was sooo going to hear about this. I was emailing him even as I was resignedly circling the days on a calendar like a prisoner about to enter solitary confinement. And I don't care what anyone says, they weren't getting my shoelaces and belt. I had to have something to keep my busy for three days.
Within an hour or so, I heard back from Tim, who had the gall, the nerve, the utter temerity to chastise me for scheduling the installation on days we would be out of town.
We will?
Yes, we're leaving on Tuesday and won't be back till Friday.
Oh? And when were you planning on sharing that little gem? Monday night? Why don't you just get Sally to call me up about an hour before we take off on Tuesday and have her tell me what's going on?
"Honest officer, I never saw it coming. I mean, sure, she muttered under her breath and maybe her eyes did circle in opposite directions, but I just thought she was a bit eccentric. I never suspected anything like this. Have you even found a piece of Mr. Sinclair? No? Not even a lock or hair or a fingernail?"
I am. A mushroom.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Blinded By The Light
When I was young, my Aunt Margie would spend every Christmas with us, and make decorating the tree about as much fun as a root canal.
"No, no! You can't hang Rudolph near Mickey."
Why? Are they mortal enemies? Can we put Dumbo next to Mickey, or do you think that'll start a stampede?
"Stop! The blue bells go at the top, they're breakable."
Okay. I'm fifteen, not five, and they are from K-Mart, not Swarovski. If I promise not to ride my tricycle in the house, can we hang at least one bell under the six-foot mark? Pleeeease, can we, huh?
"Wait. String the lights from top to bottom, not side to side. And start inside and work out. You want to give the tree depth."
Um. You are aware the tree is plastic right? With metal "limbs"? And since our lights are from, like, 1935, I'm pretty sure just having them in the same room constitutes a fire hazard, let alone putting them inside the tree. Besides, don't you think the tree kind of glows in the dark as it is?
With this scene played out Christmas after Christmas, it's no wonder I am scared for life.
So when Tim and I had our first Christmas, I convinced him to get a pre-lit tree, and then I hung glass bulbs on all the lowest branches. Hehehe (and then I ran with scissors and went swimming 58 minutes after eating--what can I say, I was young and crazy!)
But last year, Tim talked me into getting a real tree. He promised faithfully that he would do all the lights by himself. I would not have to re-live my childhood nightmare.
After about two hours, our tree boasted several hundred lights, woven in, out, up, down and side to side. It twinkled like a float in Disney's Electric Parade. Proudly, Tim showed off his handiwork.
"You can't even see the wires, and I used ten boxes of lights," he bragged.
"Okay, you're hired," I told him. "You get to do the lights every year from now on."
And then this year, disaster struck.
After thirty-two years of dealing with a bad knee, Tim needs a replacement. That means surgery, weeks of rehab, and lots of pain, both before and after the surgery.
But enough about Tim. Let's talk real pain, my pain. This year, I had to put up the lights.
I decided to do it while he was at work, so the fool wouldn't try to climb a ladder with a bad knee. He called as I was plugging in the first strand, and in a moment of weakness (or insanity), I told him what I was about.
"I'll do it," he roared at me. "You'll do it wrong. Leave it till I get home tonight."
Gee, thanks Aunt Margie. I've got to get off the phone now because I'm having a flashback and I can't hear you over the voices in my head.
So with that vote of confidence, and wishing I could start drinking at 9am on a Wednesday, I began to string the lights.
In and out, up and down, round and round I wrapped, unwrapped and rewrapped those stupid lights. Morning turned to afternoon as I added strand after strand. Up the ladder, down the ladder. Stop and back up to make sure I didn't miss any spots. My lights just had to live up to last year's display, or I would never hear the end of it.
Somewhere around 3:00, I was about halfway done and wondering how Tim was able to finish in two hours when it was taking me six, when another disaster struck. I ran out of lights.
Dumbfounded, I stared at the tree. How could I have used all the lights and not be done? And what should I do now, spend another day unwinding and rewinding the lights?
Nope. No way. Not gonna happen.
I took a picture of the unfinished tree and sent it to Tim, then hopped in the car, drove to Target and bought the last nine boxes of lights they had.
In the meantime, Tim called, howling with laughter. "I'm married to Clark Griswald from Christmas Vacation!"
"Do you think it's too bright?" I asked.
"Too bright? When we fire that bad boy up, we're going to take down the whole Eastern seaboard. Good thing we're having a generator put in. We'll need it just to light the tree. I think you can see it from space. But on the bright side, Santa won't need Rudolph to find our house. He might need sunglasses and SPF 60, but he sure can't miss it! Hey, I'll bet your parents can see it from Florida. Tell them to step outside and look north."
Great. I married Shecky Sinclair.
The abuse continued when he came home, but the worst part was, the extra nine boxes were still not enough, and I had to spend most of Thursday tracking down the same kind of lights, which apparently no one but Target sells. (But I will save that for another blog)
I've made up my mind though. Next year, we're going to a beach somewhere and decorate a palm tree. How many lights could that take?
"No, no! You can't hang Rudolph near Mickey."
Why? Are they mortal enemies? Can we put Dumbo next to Mickey, or do you think that'll start a stampede?
"Stop! The blue bells go at the top, they're breakable."
Okay. I'm fifteen, not five, and they are from K-Mart, not Swarovski. If I promise not to ride my tricycle in the house, can we hang at least one bell under the six-foot mark? Pleeeease, can we, huh?
"Wait. String the lights from top to bottom, not side to side. And start inside and work out. You want to give the tree depth."
Um. You are aware the tree is plastic right? With metal "limbs"? And since our lights are from, like, 1935, I'm pretty sure just having them in the same room constitutes a fire hazard, let alone putting them inside the tree. Besides, don't you think the tree kind of glows in the dark as it is?
With this scene played out Christmas after Christmas, it's no wonder I am scared for life.
So when Tim and I had our first Christmas, I convinced him to get a pre-lit tree, and then I hung glass bulbs on all the lowest branches. Hehehe (and then I ran with scissors and went swimming 58 minutes after eating--what can I say, I was young and crazy!)
But last year, Tim talked me into getting a real tree. He promised faithfully that he would do all the lights by himself. I would not have to re-live my childhood nightmare.
After about two hours, our tree boasted several hundred lights, woven in, out, up, down and side to side. It twinkled like a float in Disney's Electric Parade. Proudly, Tim showed off his handiwork.
"You can't even see the wires, and I used ten boxes of lights," he bragged.
"Okay, you're hired," I told him. "You get to do the lights every year from now on."
And then this year, disaster struck.
After thirty-two years of dealing with a bad knee, Tim needs a replacement. That means surgery, weeks of rehab, and lots of pain, both before and after the surgery.
But enough about Tim. Let's talk real pain, my pain. This year, I had to put up the lights.
I decided to do it while he was at work, so the fool wouldn't try to climb a ladder with a bad knee. He called as I was plugging in the first strand, and in a moment of weakness (or insanity), I told him what I was about.
"I'll do it," he roared at me. "You'll do it wrong. Leave it till I get home tonight."
Gee, thanks Aunt Margie. I've got to get off the phone now because I'm having a flashback and I can't hear you over the voices in my head.
So with that vote of confidence, and wishing I could start drinking at 9am on a Wednesday, I began to string the lights.
In and out, up and down, round and round I wrapped, unwrapped and rewrapped those stupid lights. Morning turned to afternoon as I added strand after strand. Up the ladder, down the ladder. Stop and back up to make sure I didn't miss any spots. My lights just had to live up to last year's display, or I would never hear the end of it.
Somewhere around 3:00, I was about halfway done and wondering how Tim was able to finish in two hours when it was taking me six, when another disaster struck. I ran out of lights.
Dumbfounded, I stared at the tree. How could I have used all the lights and not be done? And what should I do now, spend another day unwinding and rewinding the lights?
Nope. No way. Not gonna happen.
I took a picture of the unfinished tree and sent it to Tim, then hopped in the car, drove to Target and bought the last nine boxes of lights they had.
In the meantime, Tim called, howling with laughter. "I'm married to Clark Griswald from Christmas Vacation!"
"Do you think it's too bright?" I asked.
"Too bright? When we fire that bad boy up, we're going to take down the whole Eastern seaboard. Good thing we're having a generator put in. We'll need it just to light the tree. I think you can see it from space. But on the bright side, Santa won't need Rudolph to find our house. He might need sunglasses and SPF 60, but he sure can't miss it! Hey, I'll bet your parents can see it from Florida. Tell them to step outside and look north."
Great. I married Shecky Sinclair.
The abuse continued when he came home, but the worst part was, the extra nine boxes were still not enough, and I had to spend most of Thursday tracking down the same kind of lights, which apparently no one but Target sells. (But I will save that for another blog)
I've made up my mind though. Next year, we're going to a beach somewhere and decorate a palm tree. How many lights could that take?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)