Shedding Some Light on Things

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.

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.

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.