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.

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.

Losing Our Cool

One of the things Tim insisted on when we moved into our new house was a wine cellar.  He planned and plotted for where it would go, how many bottles it would hold, the type of cooling unit it would have, etc.etc.etc.

Then it became my problem. (Although in fairness, I have drunk my share of the wine.)  Guys arriving to put in the shelving, lighting, countertops, trim?  No problem.  Ann will be there between the hours of 6am and 10pm.  Three days in a row for sixteen weeks?  Sure.  She's totally free.  Yep.  No danger of her having a life.

And guess who transported each and every bottle of wine, all 824 thousillion of them?  And who had to categorize and shelve them?  And who had to listen to complaints because they didn't know what to do with some of them and created new categories like:  "Wine Ann Doesn't Know" or "Labels Written in Languages Ann Can't Read" or "Bottles Ann is Sick of Shelving, So They Go...Here"?

But my favorite part of our new cellar was when the cooling unit stopped working.  (For those keeping score, that's : two-year old house--broken hot water heater, broken shower, broken cooler vs us--going broke fixing broken appliances.

Now, who do you call for a broken cooler?  An electrician?  Nope.  It's beneath them said the 4000 I called.  Small appliance repair person?  Who is the manufacturer, they wanted to know.  Nope.  Don't/won't deal with them said the 8000 I called.  Heating/cooling people?  Nope.  Wouldn't touch it with a ten foot pole, said the 20,000 I called.  Plumber?  Carpenter?  Builder?  Butcher?  Baker?  Candle-stick Maker?  I was running out of service people!

Then it dawned on me.  Go to a wine store and ask who they use.  Great idea.  Except it wasn't.  I have never seen people so stymied by a question before.  Huh?  What?  Who?

Who. Do. You. Use. When. You. Need. Repairs?  Maybe I had confused them by assuming they knew where they worked and what a cooling unit was. 

"What kind of wine do you have?" they wanted to know.

Does it matter?  Will you recommend someone different if I say red vs. white wine?  Well, red is usually more full-bodied and earthy, so you should call this number...

Back to square one.

I looked up the unit on the internet and found a number in California which I called.

"Sorry," said the guy who answered, "all of our people are at lunch, so you'll have to call back in two hours.  Oh, and we leave at 4 our time."

Ooops.  My bad.  I'll call back during the one hour a day that your 'people' actually work!

When I finally reached them, they basically told me there was no-one I could call.  There were no authorized dealers, distributors, repair people, etc outside of the place I was calling.  However, all was not lost.  I could run a diagnostic, they would send me the part and I could fix it myself.

Congratulations!  You've taken customer service to a whole new level.  Maybe after I've repaired the cooler, I could rebuild the transmission in my car, put a new roof on the house and then, for my encore, perform some elective surgery on myself.

Unfortunately, they were pretty firm on this whole do-it-yourself thing, so I ordered the part, which they said would arrive in a few days. 

"It's easy.  You just take parts A thru X, line up the doo-hickeys, unclip the thing-a-ma-jigs, power up the whats-its and attach the wotcha-ma-call-its,"  the guy offered encouragingly....four times.

Yeah.  You can tell me four thousand times, but since you haven't even mailed the part out yet, YOU"RE NOT HELPING!!!

True to their word, the part arrived in a few days.  forty-eight to be precise.  With a diagram, but no actual directions.

Gamely, we tried to install the new control panel ourselves.  It was sort of like playing Operation.  Blindfolded.  With both hands tied behind your back.  While treading water.

Seriously, the panel and wires were tucked into such a small, dark, inaccessible place, it was near impossible.  Actually, it was impossible. 

We threw ourselves on our builder's mercy and he got an electrician to come out and try installing this 'easy' panel.  And try.  And try.  And try.

Finally though, success!  The unit started humming along, blowing nice cool air.  Until an hour after the electrician left.  Then it broke down once more.

I'm now looking into ice delivery. 

So We Had A Bad Day...Or Two...Or Four

Friday morning, we woke up to no hot water...again.  So I went down to the basement and tried everything to get the heater working.  I unplugged, plugged, pressed buttons and flipped switches.  I flipped the machine off.  No hot water.  Not one drop.

Faced with the prospect of a cold shower on a hair wash day,  I panicked and called the plumber who informed me that he could maybe squeeze me in on Tuesday.

Tuesday?!  As in five days away?  As in five days of cold showers?  As in washing my hands in cold water after I've cleaned up after the dog for five days?  Oh, and perhaps we can just lick our dishes and pots and pans clean for the next five days.  Thanks, but I'll try somebody else.

Two hours, twenty gazillion googles and a dozen phone calls later, I got someone to come out...between 12 and 4.  Fine.  Except they didn't come until 5.  Fine.  Except they couldn't figure out what was wrong with the heater, but they did get it working again.  Fine.  Except they knew it wouldn't last, so they'd have to come back...Tuesday.  Really? 

Was this some kind of plumbing conspiracy?  You don't know what's wrong with it today, but you'll know Tuesday?  Was the solution going to magically come to them over the three-day weekend?  Would it come to them in a dream, or perhaps they could visit a fortune-teller or call the psychic hot line.  And how do you temporarily fix something when you don't even know what's wrong with it?

As if suggesting Tuesday wasn't pushing it far enough, (I guess my body language was making my feelings a bit unclear.  Folded arms, scowl, bared teeth and lows growls emitting from my throat must have indicated I was happy with the way things were going.), the guy started talking to me about different kinds of heaters and how the Super-Duper-Jiffy-Heater worked better than ours.

Wow.  So let me get this straight.  You are standing in my kitchen, a room equipped with knives--sharp knives--and trying to sell me a new heater instead of fixing mine which is less than two years old?  One of us here must be stupid or have a death wish.  Did you miss the part when I explained that I had had a cold shower this morning and it was a hair wash day?  Do you think that put me in the happy zone?

And following your logic, if you can't fix something, just replace it?  I'm glad you're not my mechanic, because when my car breaks down, I suppose you would recommend just leaving it on the side of the road and buying new.  And thank goodness you weren't my husband's surgeon last month when he had broken disks in his back.  I am guessing your solution would have been to just get a new guy.  "Sorry about your husband, but here's an application for Match.com."

Restraining myself (I didn't have enough hot water at that point to do a good job cleaning blood off the walls), I sent him on his way and called someone else who said they could come...Tuesday.  Okay, so it was a conspiracy, but at least we had a temporary fix, and besides, as it turned out, we were leaving the next day and coming back Monday, so it would all work out.

Or not.  Saturday morning...no hot water... again.  Definitely a conspiracy going on here.

Biting the bullet (cursing, yelling and pounding on the heater didn't seem to be working), we shivered through cold showers and comforted ourselves with the thought that we could take a nice hot shower at the hotel before meeting colleagues of Tim's for dinner.

Arriving at the hotel at 3:30, we found that our room wasn't ready yet.  Twenty minutes, they promised.  Fine.  Thirty minutes later, they assured us that our room was their  top priority and housekeeping was in there even as we were speaking.  Fine.  One hour later, we were still wandering, homeless and showerless around the lobby.  Now it was not so fine.

So did you lie about housekeeping being in there or do you just have the sloooowest peeeeople ooon the plaaaanet woooorking for youuuu?  Perhaps they are using a tweezer to clean the carpet and a toothbrush for the bathroom?  Did they have to take the bedding down to the river and beat it on the rocks to clean it?

But the best part of the wait was not being able to go anywhere but the lobby because it was 4000 degrees outside, and between the puppy and Tim still recovering from back surgery, we were pretty much stuck. To say it wasn't pretty would be like saying Medusa was a supermodel. 

One the one side, I had a sixteen week old puppy who thought we had moved into a great big, new home with lots and lots of cool friends for her to meet and greet.  And those friends got her soooo very excited that she peed...a lot...many times...but not outside.  Oh no, the heat must have addled her fuzzy little brain because she decided the grassy area wasn't really up to her standards, and she much preferred the nice tile in the lobby as her potty spot.  Guess who got to clean it up?  Yippee.  My new favorite way to spend a Saturday.

On the other side was Tim, who thought that somehow he was unhappier about the state of affairs than I was.  Hmmm.  Let's compare.  You've been talking to people about food and wine, swapping notes on restaurants and beaches, and I've been scrubbing the floors with paper towels and Nature's Miracle while simultaneously trying to keep the puppy from jumping and nibbling on everyone and anyone who comes within ten feet of her, looks her way, or looks like they might possibly even be thinking of looking her way.

Oh, and the little trip to the shopping arcade off the lobby where you looked at the merchandise?  Yeah.  I was pretty occupied trying to explain to six pounds of wiggly fur that Gucci shoes and Louis Vuitton bags were not must-have chewable accessories for a dog.

Finally, we did get into our room, but without time for a hot shower before we had to leave for dinner.  However, I consoled myself with the fact that tomorrow would be a better day.  Until the next day when I smashed my head on a glass table and gave myself a giant goose-egg on my forehead, and we came home to no hot water...again.  And the showerhead in our bathroom stopped working...completely.

Oh yeah, a conspiracy is totally at work here.

Running Hot and Cold

Sunday morning, we had no hot water.  Not a drop.  Which in a strange way, almost made me happy.  Almost.  Well, maybe not so much.  All right, it kind of ticked me off, but it was still better than the alternative which totally ticked me off and has been for the past year.

It all began the day we moved in...

Being type A personalities (or just incredibly unlucky and stupid), we moved in on a weekend where we had three black tie dinners.  Three weeks before Christmas.  And it was snowing.  We had hit the trifecta.

So after a full day of hauling, lifting, unpacking and generally running around like nuts, we needed to clean up and glam up.  I opened the shower door, turned the knob and...ahhh...nice hot water came gushing out.

Oooh, maybe a bit too hot.  I turned it down.  Still too hot.  Waaay too hot.  I turned it down again.  Yeow! Scalding hot.  Not good.  I turned it down to a trickle.  Aargh!!  Now it felt like I was standing beneath a blowtorch.  In the middle of the Sahara.  At high noon.

 While I still had some skin left, I stepped out and yelled for Tim, who, after twisting and turning the knob eighty-six times (and calling me an idiot for not knowing how to work the shower) was not able to get any different results.  He then cursed it out, but oddly, that didn't work either.  Go figure.

Since time was wasting, and we didn't particularly feel like spending the night in the burn unit, we called the plumber who had installed the shower.  FYI, late Saturday afternoon during a snowstorm is not a good time to try and get a plumber to come to your house.  But he did come eventually.  Grudgingly.  Very grudgingly.  Extremely grudgingly. Oh, and he was really, really miffed.

He stomped into the house, mumbling and grousing to himself in such a Shrek-like manner, I expected to see Donkey trotting along at his heels.  And he pretty  much  called us idiots for not knowing how to work the shower.  Then, he tried to work the shower.

He turned it on.  Hot water.  Off.  On.  Hotter water.  Off.  On.  Boiling hot water.  Off. On.  Off.  On.  So who's the idiot now?  And by the way, as entertaining as this exhibition is, pal, we've sort of covered this ground ourselves about ninety-six dozen times.  Do you think you could maybe, oh, I don't know, use one or two of those watch-a-ma-call-ems, tools? to FIX THE SHOWER?  Otherwise, you are not going to be the only crabby person around here, and I bet that Tim and I can throw a hissy fit that will make yours look like you are Julie Andrews singing "Spoonful of Sugar".

Huffing, puffing and still muttering under his breath, Mr. Personality made several trips back and forth from his truck to the shower, used one of his lifelines to call his boss, polled the studio audience, scratched his head and finally came to the brilliant conclusion that the shower was broken.

NO!  Reallly?  Are you sure?  Maybe you can turn it on and off again just to be certain.

And he was full of yet more good news.  He would have to order the part and it would take at least a week!  Yippee!!!

As it was now barely an hour before we were supposed to leave, he suggested we use another bathroom in the house.  Gee, why didn't I think of that?  Oh.  I know.  Maybe because this is the only one that doesn't need a shower curtain which I don't have, or face an uncovered window.  I mean, I'd like to get to know the neighbors, but I was thinking more of treating them to a few snacks and drinks, not a strip tease.

So we rushed to CVS, dug out some old sheets and spent the next week waiting for the part, which, once installed worked for about three seconds.  Then it didn't work.  Then it did.  Didn't.  Did.  Mr. Happy came back and fixed it so that it worked.  Didn't work.  Did...

And so for the last year, showering has been a grand adventure.  Every morning, with great anticipation, I prepare my burn kit, opened the shower door and, with fingers crossed, reach for the knob.  I turn the water on: too hot.  Off.  On quickly; hot.  Off quickly, then on again.  32 left, 56 right, 14 left.  Jump on one leg while reciting the alphabet backwards, then say abracadabra and wave the soap over the handle three times counterclockwise.  Ahhh.  Just right.

We've also had a parade of plumbers besides Mr. Grumpy.  There's been Misters Sleepy, Sneezy, Goofy, Nutty and Dopey, but still no Mr. Fix-it.

So when cold water came out on Sunday, I was pleasantly surprised...until I turned blue.  Hmmm. Red or blue.  Great.  Slap a star on my head and I'm all set for the holiday.

As it happened, it wasn't just our shower though, it was the hot water heater at fault this time. 

My parents were visiting, so my dad and I went down to the basement, checked it out, read the directions to reboot it, and followed them to a T.  Turn it off, then on, hold the buttons for one second, then press the cold button until it says warm (Really?).  Off again, on again, hold, press hot.  Aaaaack!  It was a plumbing conspiracy to see which appliance/fixture could give me apoplexy first.

I had no choice though.  Like a trained seal, I flipped switches, pressed buttons, kicked the unit (I added that little touch all by myself) and we still had cold water.

Tim came down and repeated the whole process except instead of kicking it and re-injuring his back, he showed it his middle finger and renamed it a four-letter word.  And we still had cold water.

Finally, we exhausted all of our resources (and our vocabulary and knowledge of profane hand gestures) and had to call a plumber (again), because we still had cold water.

In the meantime, Tom (Tim's brother), stopped by and offered to take a crack at it.  Sure.  Be our guest.  If you want your blood pressure to soar like a rocket and that vein on your head to burst, then who are we to kill your fun?

He went downstairs, unplugged the unit, plugged it back in, did not turn it off and on; did not press any buttons; did not follow any directions, and did not call a plumber.  And the heater started working again.

We've torn up the plumber's number and from now on, we're just going to call Tom.  Maybe next week, he can take a crack at the shower.

Failure to Communicate

Every spring, we have our gutters cleaned out and all our brick work power washed and sealed. (Tim and I used to do it ourselves, but in the long run, we figured hiring someone else to do it was cheaper and easier than hiring divorce lawyers.)

When I called this year, the guy told me they would come on Monday...or Tuesday...maybe Wednesday. Definitely no later than Wednesday (and I thought the cable company was bad for giving me an eight hour window?).

Monday came, they didn't. But Tuesday morning, seven am, we heard a clattering up on the roof. Since it wasn't December, I knew it had to be either the work crew or some really big squirrels and not a jolly old elf. Rushing outside, I found an army of workers scurrying to and fro over the roof, filling large green garbage bags with debris.

As I went to join the crowd of neighbors that had gathered to watch the spectacle (it's amazing what passes for entertainment in this neighborhood), I spied the boss and approached him.

Figuring it had been about a week since I had talked to him, I wanted to make sure he remembered everything I wanted done. As we toured the yard, he nodded vigorously in agreement as I pointed to the porches, the walks, the patio and the driveway.

Yes, yes. Power-washed.

And sealed.

Yes, yes. And sealed.

But make sure you aim the power washer away from the pool so that all the dirt doesn't end up in the pool.

Yes, yes. Away from the pool.

And the cabinets need to be moved off the back porch before you power wash because they are wood (well, fake wood from Target, but definitely not water-proof).

Yes, yes. Move the cabinets.

Okay then, I'll be here if you need anything.

Yes, yes. No problem.

Problem. Big problem. Problemsssss. Plural.

Ten minutes later when I went out to wash down the patio furniture, the "crew" had been reduced to one guy who was not much bigger than an elf (I am 5'4" and I looked like Sheena, queen of the Amazons next to him), who was happily aiming the power washer toward the pool.

He then proceeded to turn it toward the cabinets, which were still sitting on the back porch.

Okay,what we had here was a failure to communicate.

Foolishly, I tried to correct the situation. Using a combination of pantomime, charades and a voice that would make Ethel Merman flinch, I got him to redirect the power washer, and assure me that he would have help moving the cabinets. I just didn't realize at the time that the "help" would be me.

As we hefted the cabinets, one by one, and carried them off the porch, I tried to figure out where everything had gone so horribly wrong. I was distracted from my musings though when my coworker decided to push the dirty water off the porch and into the cabinets we had just moved out of harm's way. What did he have against my poor cabinets?

Eventually though, the power-washing was finished and we were able to tackle the whole issue of sealing everything that had just been cleaned.

Yes, yes. Everything sealed. The crew will come and do it.

Uh, uh. I fell for that once before, and had the calluses and sore muscles to prove it. Besides, I had an appointment and had to leave for about a half hour.

Once again, I tried to convey, in detail, what needed to be done, and once again, we had that same failure to communicate.

When I left, he was busily sealing the brick from the gate to the patio. When I returned, he was gone and he had sealed the brick from the gate to the patio. Period. Didn't touch the patio, the driveway, the front walks, the porches. Just sealed the one walkway and left.

Trying to keep my head from exploding, I called the boss and did my best to explain why he wasn't going to find a check in the mailbox.

Yes, yes, he assured me, it would be finished the next day.

And it was. Or at least the rest of the walks were. But not the patio or driveway. That happened on day three and day four along with a lot of teeth gnashing and hair pulling.

Maybe I should just look into divorce lawyers for next year after all.

Stood Up

I think I am having a flashback to high school. You know when you tell your friend that you want to meet a certain cute boy and they talk to his friends to set it up, and then you wait by the phone for the call?

Well, I talked to some of my friends and I am waiting for a call. The only difference is that now it is from a painter, and I don't really care whether he is cute or not. As far as I am concerned, he could have one eye in the middle of his forehead, a hump on his back Quasimodo would be proud of, hair sprouting out of both ears so long it could be braided and a wart the size of Gibraltar on his nose. If he can hold a paintbrush and isn't afraid of heights, we have a date!

The first friend I talked to had just the guy for me, and set us up for a Monday morning. In anticipation, I went to the store and got paint samples, carefully holding each one up to the various walls. This one made the room look too dark, that one too light, several were the wrong color entirely, and others were just not really flattering in certain lighting. Finally though, I had it narrowed down to two or three perfect colors.

With breathless anticipation, I welcomed Painter Number One into the house and spent the next half hour talking trim and faux finishes. I guess he was just not that into my walls though, because I never heard from him again.

"It's not you, it's him," my friend consoled me. "He just got bogged down in previous commitments. But I know someone else who would be perfect for you."

Enter Painter Number Two. Although, to be technical, Painter number two never actually entered. Painter number two never actually called. At all. So now I was being rejected, sight unseen.

I thought about calling Painter Number Two myself and demanding to know what was wrong with me, but I didn't want to appear desperate.

Telling myself that I could do better, I called another friend to see if they could set me up with someone. It was okay if they couldn't do faux finishes or murals, those guys just break your hearts. I only wanted someone who could fill my basic needs for something other than white walls, and not mess up the trim.

He said he had just the guy for me, and would have him call me to give me an estimate. That was five days ago, and the phone still hasn't rung. Are my walls fundamentally unpaintable? Am I asking too much to add a little color to my world?

I'm afraid if I don't hear from someone soon, I'll do something truly desperate like look in the newspaper or the Yellow Pages, or worse yet, try to do it myself (I actually did try the faux finish in our last house, and Tim begged me never to do it again...something about the pink, which was supposed to be more of a salmon color, making him feel like he was living in the bottom of a Peptobismol bottle. The more I tried to fix it, the pinker it got. Not good.) Hopefully, I will get a call before it comes to that.

Welcome to my World

I'm glad it's not just me.

Last fall, I decided it would be a good idea to make the basement more acceptable (see Oct. blogs). Turns out it wasn't.

Eventually though, the basement room was finished, and two weeks ago, the guy came to install the cabinets.

Two days, he said. Easy, he said. Yeah. That was before he had to schlep the cabimets down to the basement himself because his delivery guy wouldn't bring them further than the porch (he claimed insurance liability, but I'm thinking Friday happy hour).

Then, there wasn't a base for the pantry cabinet, or glass for the upper ones. The plot thickened. He he he.

I warned him about the sloping floor, cinderblock walls and heating duct. Yeah, yeah, yeah, he nodded. Three days later, he was almost sobbing. "It took longer than I thought. Did you know you have a sloping floor, cinderblock walls and that this (frustrated hand gesture here -- there may have been a middle finger involved) is a heating duct?

No. Really? Do tell.

Oh, and let's not forget about the whole lighting debacle. Lights in the cabinets? No problem. We'll just drill two holes, like that, then punch a hole in the wall to run the wire through here...no here...um, maybe here... Uh oh. Are you sure you want lights?

Well, yes, now I need them to cover the holes you've put everywhere!!!

"This project was not easy," he grumbled to me last week. I just smiled.

But at last his part was finished, and yesterday, it was the granite guy's turn. Lickety-split, he measured the space, then called his office for a delivery time.

"No, it's just a single, solid piece." Pause.
"It's not a kitchen." Pause, and eyeroll.
"No, there are no cutouts; it's just a single, solid piece." Pause, eyeroll, deep breath.
"No, it's not a bathroom." Pause, eyeroll, deep breath, forehead slap.
"It's a room with a refrigerator, but it's not a kitchen. We just need a single, solid piece." Pause, eyeroll, deep breath, forehead slap, search for a gun with a single bullet.

As he became more deeply enmeshed in the same Abott and Costelloesque routine that I had been sucked into back in October, I just looked at him...and laughed.

I almost can't wait to see what happens when the painter shows up.

Adventures at Home Depot

Actually, anonymous (Pat), I already thought of Home Depot......

After looking at more tile than I ever really wanted to see in my lifetime (do they really need twenty shades of white?), I decided to check out Home Depot, which turned out to be half the price, but ten times the aggravation (who would have thought that was possible?).

Once there, I headed right for the tile section where I quickly selected my tile (brown). Now, I just needed some help with how many boxes...Hmmm. Except for three other do-it-yourselfers, who were also wandering around with dazed looks on their faces, there was no one to help.

After roaming around the area for a bit, I finally spotted two guys in orange vests who were next door in the kitchen section, chatting about football. Barely pausing in their discussion to acknowledge my presence, they told me that they didn't know anything about tile (why would anyone working in the kitchen section know anything about tile?) and told me to go see the woman at the desk up in the carpeting department. Of course...carpeting, tiles, it's all the same thing. Why didn't I think of that myself?

Mildly irked, I approached the desk where there was indeed a woman...sitting and eating popcorn with another guy...who saw me coming and called out, "I'm with someone. I can't help you."

Okaaaay. Biting back the dozen or so things I really wanted to say, I asked her if there was someone else who might be able to (like, I don't know, and employee who actually showed up to work? -- or maybe I should have offered to go get the butter and find better seats before the movie started).

Obviously not pleased that I wouldn't just go away (I think the folded arms, narrowed eyes, flaring nostrils and tapping foot gave her a clue), she reluctantly paged someone to meet me back in the tile section.

Ten minutes of mentally composing my speech for the store manager later, a guy wandered back, looked around and started to leave. The fool. Did he think he could escape that easily? After practically pinning him to the shelves with my cart to prevent his escape, he admitted that he had been sent by the woman, but told that it was a guy that needed help.

A guy !!! Okay, the store manager was definitely hearing about this. By the way, he worked in lighting, so he knew nothing about tile either, and didn't really know why she paged him. Oh, and good luck finding the store manager. He personally hadn't seen him since he'd been hired years ago. As a matter of fact, most of the employees were sure that the manager was really only an urban myth.

After talking me down from the ceiling, he told me that, despite everything, he would help me, if I didn't mind the fact that he had no clue what he was doing. Or, he could page someone else.... Fearing that my nerves couldn't take it, and knowing that the nearest Lowes was in the next state, I agreed to let him try.

Twenty minutes of the most excruciatingly convoluted calculations followed. Einstein did less figuring to come up with his theory of relativity. But at last I had eight boxes of tile loaded into my cart and the promise that I could return any unused portion (like that was worth anything!). To say the guy sprinted away from me down the aisle would be to underplay how fast he actually was going, but if there had been an Olympic scout in the area.......

Next came the paint. Again, the color was selected in mere minutes, but again, no one was at the paint desk. Hmmm. Where would I go for paint? The garden department perhaps? How about Hardware? By now, my patience had completely evaporated (okay, so it had done so half an hour earlier), and I was not in the mood to try and figure out their little system. Grabbing a cashier (I figured they were easy prey being trapped behind the register), I growled, "Help in paint. Now!"

Giving me the same look you see in horror movies when someone realizes that there actually are such things as vampires and werewolves (right before they get their throat torn out), the girl backed away and paged someone. This time, however, I stayed with her until the person showed up.

Returning to the paint department, I was hailed as a hero by the other poor souls waiting there. Even at the register a few minutes later, I had people asking me how long it had taken me to accomplish my mission. That they were not surprised when I replied that I had been twenty years old when I came there pretty much sums up the Home Depot experience.

So, yes, Pat. I went to Home Depot, and it was a completely different experience than I had at the design center (which, by the way, is also a Home Depot). Surprise!

The Devil is in the Details

So Plan C (or B.5) was finally underway...sort of.

We had decided where the walls and the door would be (unfortunately, they were two separate things) so all that was left now was the details: color of paint, tiles for the floor, color of grout. The little things that cause me to break out in hives and have sleepless nights.

First things first...the tile for the floor and the cabinets. For that, I paid a visit to a home design center. And this is where my migraine began.

Foolishly, I imagined that designing the shape of the actual room and placement of the door had been the hard part. Not even close. It was nothing compared to the nightmare that awaited me here.

The first challenge was getting the right kind of cabinets. It started out innocuously enough. I explained what I wanted to the woman at the custom cabinet desk (mostly because it was the first desk I saw that was being manned). Twice. Finally, she seemed to get a handle on what I was saying...and referred me to the kitchen department.

Saleslady: So you are designing a kitchen.
Me: Not exactly a kitchen. A small basement room with our spare refrigerator.
SL: And what else?
Me: Nothing. I just need some cabinets and shelves on either side for storage.
SL: So it's a kitchen.
Me: Okay.
SL: What else is there besides the fridge? What is the purpose of the room?
Me: To hold the spare fridge and extra dishes.
SL: But what are you using the room for?
Me: Nothing specific. It's just a room for the fridge and extra dishes.
SL: But what will you be doing in the room?
Me: I don't know. Walking through it. Getting stuff out of the fridge. Storing extra dishes.
SL: So, it's not really a kitchen.
Me: No. Again, it's just a small room for the extra fridge and storage.
SL: So the purpose of the room is what? What will you be doing in it?

Wait. Was I Abbot or Costello here? Which one of us was supposed to say, "third base!"?

After a few more minutes of this routine, it was decided that what I really needed was a different department (or at least a different sales associate), so I was taken back over to the custom cabinet desk. Uh oh. This didn't look good.

Original Saleslady: So what is the purpose of this room?

I was not going through this again. Gritting my teeth(or what was left of them after grinding them for the last fifteen minutes), I explained in words of one syllable that there was no purpose to the room. It was not a kitchen, a bathroom, a mudroom, a bedroom, a sundeck, a living room or a dining room. I was building a room with no definite purpose, or use, except to hide the junk that was cluttering the rest of my basement, just for the fun of it. No one, at any time, in the history of the world, would be in this room for any reason whatsoever. Forget the fridge, forget the dishes, forget everything except that I wanted cabinets and shelves against one wall. Now, were they going to be able to help me or should I give the bathroom department a shot at raising my blood pressure next?

SL: Oh, so you just want cabinets and shelves for storage, with your fridge in the middle. Like a wall unit or built-ins in a kitchen?
Me: Yes! (finally)
SL: Oh, we can't do that here. I have to send someone out to your house to measure and draw up a plan. How is next Monday? You can choose the wood and the finish from the samples he'll bring. And you are all here because...???

Okay, I was not going to leap across the desk and strangle her no matter how badly I wanted to. Besides, I could almost hear how it would play out in court: But what was the purpose of the room? I would end up in jail for sure after hurdling the table to get to the judge.

Mentally counting to one thousand (ten was not nearly enough), and walking around the store to try and lower my blood pressure to the medium risk stroke range, I headed over to the tile section.

Looking at the eight million styles, colors and types, I went to the desk to ask for some help (apparently, I hadn't learned my lesson. Either that, or I was a glutton for punishment). Once again, it started off fine. The guy there explained that there were many different types of tiles: porcelain, ceramic, terra cotta. Or maybe what I really wanted was a wood floor. It all depended on the purpose of the room........

Plan B

Alicia, thanks for sacrificing, I mean offering John, but I've already moved on to Plan B, which went something like this.....

How about if we close off the front part of the basement near the stairs and make a room with our second refrigerator, some cabinets, and a few shelves. Oh, and we'll need a door so that we can access the rest of the basement. Much simpler, and we don't have to worry about disturbing whatever is living behind wall number one.

It would be a small room, and no pool table, but hey, it would be better than nothing. It was suggested by Tim (actually,he begged) that perhaps we should just put bigger shelves or cabinets up all around the basement and be done with it, but this was my project, and I wanted to make it as complicated as possible. Anyway, his plan did not take into account the many oversize floral arrangements, plant stands, Christmas trees(two), styrofoam cemetery and 6ft. Halloween coffin (it's only cardboard and nobody is actually in it...yet). No, all of this truly deserved a room of its own.

I sat down with pen and paper and began to draw. And then inspiration struck. Since it was such a small room, it seemed a shame to take up almost an entire wall with a door. It would totally throw off the feng shui. There would be too much yin and not enough yang. How about...if the door....was hidden?! Oh yeah. One side of the shelves could actually be built on the front of the door with a hidden latch, and then...Abbracadabbra!..it would swing open to reveal a secret room (filled with junk, yes, but that's beside the point)!

Excited,I spent the next few days measuring and designing and annoying everyone I know with detailed (and animated) explanations (I suspect Tim was trying to get a Ritalin prescription filled behind my back). Design school? Architecture degree? Those were for people without vision. I was beyond all of that. I was a creative genius! (Besides, I saw this done once in a house we visited, so I know it was possible.)

Pleased with myself and the clever use of space (could my own show on HGTV be far off?), I presented my grand plan to the man who would make it all happen ( a.k.a. not Tim).

Once again, I got a lot of head shaking (but at least there wasn't a flashlight involved this time, so I counted it as progress), and long suffering looks. Yes (sigh, eye roll), it was possible, but the door would have to be bigger and thicker than standard size to hold the weight of the shelves and the God-only-knows-what that I might decide to put on them.

Oh, and it would have to open inward because of the air duct that was lower than the rest of the ceiling, and the shelves couldn't be too deep because, otherwise, they would block the opening, and the door could only open to the left because of a support pole that was in the way, and then we couldn't have shelves behind it...and...and....

I don't know how or when, but Tim had obviously gotten to him.

Had Frank Lloyd Wright had this much difficulty when he designed Falling Waters? Had someone moaned and groaned at Thomas Jefferson when he designed all the nifty little devices at Monticello?

After several more attempts to work out my brilliant plan, I had to admit defeat and settle for a regular old set of shelves and a normal, unimaginative door. Clearly, whoever had designed the basement sixty years ago had not taken into consideration any future plans for having it featured in Architectural Digest.

So, Plan C is was. Now to choose the tile, paint and lights...

The Big Plan

I have decided yo have some work done in our basement. Presently, it looks like a prison cell for holiday decorations gone bad. The floor is gray concrete, the walls white cinder block with a few narrow shelves and box after box of holiday creations (orange and black for Halloween, red and green for Christmas - yes, there is an order to my chaos) stacked two deep along almost every wall.

There are two small transom windows set up high which offer a lovely view of the side yard with its scorched grass. They have been painted shut for about thirty years and do have bars across them (courtesy of the alarm company). Occasionally, we get those jumping crickets, but fortunately, the spiders that live down there seem to keep that population under control.

Since our last big project was two years ago and the memories have begun to fade (well, not so much fade as been repressed) I decided it was time to tackle the final frontier, the only space in the house that we haven't redone (which is proof that I have waaaay too much time on my hands and need to get a real job!).

I say "I" because Tim is having no part of this. Just the mention of tile, paint, and lighting fixtures is enough to have his eyes glazing over. Talk about placement of a door, and he is headed for the nearest one as though the house were on fire. Whenever I do manage to corner him and ask his opinion on anything, I get the same answer every time: Let's move. It will be less aggravation!!!

And so, left to my own devices, I made a plan, and a darn fine one it was too, if I do say so myself.

Two years ago, one of the guys who was running some wire in the crawlspace behind the shelves happened to mention that there was actually an entire room back there that was filled with dirt and had never been dug out. This got me to thinking (thinking, obsessing, potato, potauto). What if we broke through the wall and put all the junk into this other room? Then, we could finish off the basement and have a really neat rec room with a bar and maybe a pool table (or at least that is what I told Tim. I was actually thinking more along the lines of a chick room, but, hey, all's fair in love and home design).

Naturally, I tried to talk Tim into crawling around back there and scoping it out for me, but he had some silly objection to snakes and undead, so the most I could do was get him to shine a flashlight around through the three foot opening and mutter, "Let's move." Not helpful.

When my father came for a visit, I tried to coax him to take a look-see but, once again, there was a lot of flashlight waving and head shaking, but no actual progress on determining the dimensions of the mystery room. Since he is over seventy, I let him slide on this out of the goodness of my heart.

Finally, I got the guy who had done our bathroom to come out to the house and take a look. At last, here was someone who would brave the world of the unknown! Wrong again. I had a brief moment of hope when he actually stuck his head through the opening, but then the flashlight came out and well...

He did, however, determine that it was big enough to hold all my stuff, and said he could dig out the room and cut through the wall to make a door. At least that is what he told me.

His face and tone of voice told another story. They clearly said, "Lady, you are insane. Do you know how much work it would be to haul all of that dirt out, bucket by bucket and pass it through those windows by hand???? Not to mention cutting through a cinder block wall, pouring a concrete floor, and don't even get me started on the possibility that the foundation doesn't go down further than three feet over there and we'd need to build a retaining wall!!!

Okay, so maybe this wasn't the best way to go. Perhaps it was time to come up with Plan B

Lessons in Home Repair

We must have eighteen different screwdrivers, four different hammers, two wrench sets, two drills and enough various other tools to fill three tool boxes. Bob Villa, eat your heart out!

What we don't have is the desire to use them all. Oh, sure, over the years we've done some minor home repairs (my specialty is changing light bulbs), but there are certain things we just won't tackle like plumbing (although my other specialty is Drano. Oh, I can also fix a running toilet, but I usually pretend I can't and make Tim do it), or fix electrical stuff.

This is when you call in the experts, open your checkbook and take out a second mortgage on your house.

All I want is to explain the problem, have it fixed, be told (briefly and succinctly) what they are doing, and then send them on their way so they can go yacht shopping or whatever it is they do with the small fortune they receive for fifteen minutes work.

What I get is lessons in home repair. So far this year, I think I have earned the equivalent of a bachelor's degree.

For example, the guys working on our sound system felt it necessary to remove the sub woofer from the ceiling, show me its inner workings and explain, in excruciatingly minute detail how to adjust it.

Right, I can see it now. We'll be sitting there one night watching Bruce Willis save the world (again), and Tim will turn to me and say, "Hon, I think the sub woofer's a bit off. That last bomb blast could have been more powerful." And, of course, I'll strap on my tool belt, climb right up there and "Bam!" more sub in the woofer.

Or the plumber who insisted last week that I not only watch what he did, but that I take part in it. End result, I can now disassemble the entire shower and faucet in the guest bath, mess with the strength and temperature of the water and reassemble it in fifteen seconds flat. (Wait, this skill might actually come in handy if someone overstays their visit or otherwise ticks me off. Hmmm.)

Or this morning, the guy who came to look at our outdoor lights which have the unfortunate tendency to blink out every night in a random order. (A good swift kick can usually get them back on, but I'm looking for more of a long term and less painful --for me-- solution. And yes, I checked the bulbs -- my specialty, remember?")

First, I had to stand in the ninety-five degree sun and watch as he dug through the flower bed to uncover the wires. Then, I got a crash course in testing the electrical power with a handheld device.

"See," he told me, "it's a ten point five. That's good." (Like I would know what's bad?) Then, he proceeded to drag me around, checking lights, stripping wires and fixing connections all the while lecturing on the finer points of Ben Franklin and his marvelous discovery.

Once again, I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to do with this knowledge. Hang a shingle out front? Teach at a trade school? Write a how-to book?

And after all of this, all I can say is: Thank God we don't have a septic tank system, because that is one lesson I never want to learn, and something tells me that with my luck, whoever I called would be sure to have a spare pair of hip waders handy!

Furniture

Recently, I ordered some furniture online for our enclosed back porch--two cabinets and a buffet. About a week later, I returned home one afternoon to find three large boxes on my front porch. I was so excited; I couldn't wait to put it in place.

Unfortunately, there were a few obstacles standing between me and my dream. Obstacle one: each box weighed at least eighty pounds (I know this because it was marked on the box along with a picture of a little guy holding his side and mouthing "hernia"), and I was alone. Still, I gave it my best shot; after all, I take yoga which builds strength and muscle. I managed to move the one box about three inches before my strength and muscles were both demanding I get the heating pad and sit on the couch with a nice cup of tea and maybe some cookies.

Perhaps I should just put the furniture out on the front porch instead. It would give it that welcoming touch. It would make a statement: the Clampets live here. Come in and set for a spell. After that, you can go for a dip in the ceement pond. Okay, maybe not.

Fortunately, inspiration struck and I remembered a dolley we had down in the basement. Perfect. This would be easy. And except for the two doorways the flight of steps it was a piece of cake. (Okay, there are actually only three steps. but it felt like more).

By now I was exhausted, frustrated and sweaty and I hadn't even opened the boxes and confronted the real problem. Did I forget to mention obstacle number two (three if you count the two doorways and flight of stairs, which I do): the furniture was unassembled, a little fact they failed to mention when I purchased it. (It actually said, "some assembly required", which I foolishly assumed meant putting the knobs on the doors and maybe sliding the drawers into the cabinet.)

I figured I was in trouble when I saw the flat boxes, but I was really hoping that somehow the furniture might be inflatable, like one of those rafts where you pull the cord and presto! you have seating for eight. I guess I should have taken shop in high school instead of wasting my time on silly things like Math and Science.

Armed with a kitchen knife, I pried open the first box---the buffet--and dragged out all two thousand pieces. Naturally, the directions and hardware were at the very bottom of the box (I should have known better than to trust the "this end up" stamp after the whole "some assembly" fiasco, but my brain was still reeling from the giant jigsaw puzzle lying before me.

Which brings us to obstacle four: many of the parts were not labeled and I was missing several pieces of hardware. I now had two choices. I could call the 800 number and ask for the missing pieces (okay, no so much ask as whine and bitch), meanwhile assembling the buffet as far as I could, or I could try to unring a bell and put the pieces back in the box. (Did I say I needed a shop class? How about an advanced degree in engineering.)

After much debate (all right, not so much debate as ranting and kicking the box and its contents a few dozen times), I went with option one, which brings us to obstacle five: automated menus. The least they could do after so much aggravation is have somebody in India answer the call and pretend to care! But no. You have to listen to a machine offer you credit cards, additional furniture, timeshares in Botswana and an online degree in rocket science (you see, even they know this stuff is impossible to do!)

Finally, I got to speak to a real, live person, who assured me that I would be sent the missing parts---within a week!!!!! No, problem. I'll just leave giant planks of wood spread all over my back porch for the next few days. It will give it that lived in look (did I say Clampets? How about L'il Abner?)

The followimg Monday, a small envelope arrived in the mail with my missing parts...several of which were incorrect. SHop? engineering? rocket science? Maybe what I actually needed was a degree in Physciatry to help me cope with my nervous breakdown!

The Lawn, Part 2

As all the neighbors know, I hate yard work. I mean, really hate it. I would rather have a root canal then putter around in the garden. The first sign of spring on our block is not the robin, swooping down to gobble up a fat, juicy worm for breakfast, it is a truck pulling up to our house and dropping off men with power equipment.

Unfortunately, this year spring was delayed due to the fact that I fired the lawn company from last year and couldn't find a replacement right away. Also unfortunate was the fact that the grass and bushes did not cooperate with this schedule. They began to grow. And grow. And grow.

I was quite happy to ignore "the jungle" as our yard was affectionately becoming known in the neighborhood, but Tim cracked under the pressure and was threatening to buy a mower and actually use it. Apparently, the last straw was when he had to leave a trail of breadcrumbs to find his way from the house to the car. Wimp.

Even more unfortunate (for me) is that Tim has a bad back and, for the past week, the flu. (Okay, it was no party for him either, but let's focus on what is important here---me breaking a sweat and getting dirty). There was no hope for it. He was not falling for "let's worry about it tomorrow" ----again. (Hey, it worked for Scarlet, and we do live in the south.) I would have to mow the lawn.

I tried to be brave. Really, I did. I picked out a cute little red push mower and convinced myself that it would be good exercise. It might even be fun. I'd put on my ipod and be like one of those people you see in the commercials who are so happy to be working in their yard that they cannot stop themselves from breaking into song and dance.

I even had a guy flirt with me while I was checking out. He asked me if I was a former model (former? A swing and a miss). He also apparently missed the sarcasm dripping from my voice when I told him how clever he was to have noticed. I, however, did not miss the look of incredulity on his face or the amazement in his voice when he said, "Really?" (I might have been less insulted if he had been a buff twenty-something, but since it looked like many long, hard years had passed since this man could even spell buff.....strike two!)

Okay, so this was turning out to be more like one of those commercials where the people have constipation or hemorroids and are not quite as happy or inclined to dance.

I shook it off though, determined to get back to my "happy place". The sun was shining, it was a beautiful day to be outdoors, and it would take me no time at all to zip around the yard with my little mower since I didn't have to worry about filling it with gas or plugging it in or whatever else one does with those big he-man mowers. Maybe I could work up a small jig after all.

Then again, maybe not. Eagerly, I removed the mower from the car and set it on the nearest patch of grass. I pushed. It pushed back. Hmm. Maybe the grass was too high here. I moved it to a less dense spot where the grass was only up to my knees. I pushed again, really putting my back into it...and got about six inches before it refused to budge. Okay...maybe it needed some WD-40 to get it moving. After all, it was new and hadn't been broken in yet.

Half an hour and half a can later, I had mowed a grand total of about one square foot of lawn. Ten minutes and ten or more curses after that, I was eying the hedge clippers and wondering if it wouldn't be less painful to just cut the grass by hand.

Needless to say, the neighbors were enjoying all this immensly. I think they were taking bets on exactly when I was going to snap and go after the mower with the clippers, sort of like a Friday the Thirteenth sequel, only with Ray-bans instead of a hockey mask.

Finally, in total desperation, I pulled the mower instead of pushing it. And (can you hear the chorus of angels singing "Halleluia"?) it actually cut the grass! Perhaps someone might have shared that pertinent jewel of information a wee bit sooner? Say, before I had my stroke?

Two hours and many, many blisters later, I was passing the mower over the last patch of grass/demon weeds from the very bowels of the underworld that refuse to bend, break or die no matter how many times you cut/ slash/ rip out or stomp on when it happened....Spring arrived in our neighborhood, or at least an estimate of spring with the promise to return three days later.

Needless to say, the mower has been retired and we signed a contract that very day to make sure I never have to repeat the whole horrible experience ever again. I have already made the appointment for the root canal instead.

The Lawn

Getting someone to mow your lawn is like applying for a job. You scour the paper and the internet for some leads, you make a dozen or so phone calls (leaving increasingly desperate voicemails as your grass begins to obscure the second story windows), and then you sit by the phone and wait for someone, anyone, to please return your call.

Finally, the phone rings. You look at the caller ID. It is a lawn service. Your heart rate speeds up, your palms begin to sweat. Could this be your lucky day? Is it actually one of the companies calling you back, or have you begun to hallucinate, high on the smell of uncut grass and dandelion fluff? With bated breath, you answer the phone. Today is your lucky day! They agree to come out...and give you an estimate.

Before you get too excited though, there is the small matter of references.....yours, not theirs. How did you hear about them? Do you personally know any of their other clients? Who was doing your lawn before? What is your shoe size, your mother's maiden name, your first childhood pet?

Crossing your fingers, you try to bluff your way through. Was this the first place you called or the tenth? Were they the ones from your internet search that had they dancing grubs on their site, or were they the company with the biggest ad in the phone book? Maybe they are the ones whose truck you chased through the neighborhood trying to get the number off the side, causing pedestrians to leap into nearby hedges for safety. Who cares. You just need someone, anyone to cut your grass before the county puts up a condemned sign in your front yard and the neighbors show up at your door with torches and pitchforks.

Good news. They agree to come out... and give you an estimate...within the next five to seven days. Having successfully passing the initial job interview, you heave a sigh of relief, which quickly turns to a groan of trepidation. Like choosing an outfit for the callback interview (Blouse or knit top? Skirt or pants?), you begin to critically assess your yard. Do the bushes need trimming? Do the flowers need plant food? Do the beds need weeding? Should you try to impress them with your high standards of a well-manicured yard, or make them pity you for having to hack your way through a jungle each night to reach your front door?

Meanwhile, the grass continues to grow at an alarming rate. Small children and animals are in danger of being lost forever if they stray too far off the path. National Geographic camera crews show up scouting locations for their next prime time special.

Just when you are seriously considering either buying a goat or blacktopping the entire yard and calling it a day, someone finally shows up to give you an estimate. Of course, this is all done under the veil of secrecy. God forbid they would knock on your door and introduce themselves. You might actually want to talk to them. No, they park across the street, don caouflage gear and, with the stealth and skill of a Green Beret, they infiltrate the backyard, recording their findings in a top secret code with invisible ink, which they will promptly eat if discovered.

Ahh, but they haven't counted on our determination to hire them. We spot them as they sprint back to the safety of their truck. With escape mere seconds away, we apprehend them and force them to reveal their "eyes only" plans for our yard.

They offer, we counter. Schedules are consulted, numbers fly back and forth. Future plans for flowers, bushes, and shrubs are discussed. Dental, retirement and medical plans can not be far behind. Will they want childcare, reimbursement for travel expenses, a fully equipped gym and spa?

At last, a contract is agreed upon, and they make good with their escape, but not before we extract a promise that they will return to cut our grass....within the next five to seven days!

Yard Work

My grandparents on both sides were quite the gardeners. Flowers, plants, fruits, vegetables; they grew it all. I, on the other hand, have been known to kill silk flowers, and my mother holds the record for fastest kill: a poinsetta plant left on the porch for fifteen minutes one Christmas eve. Apparently, this was one genetic trait that was not passed down. Prematurely gray hair, yes, green thumb, no.

So with spring in the air (actually manure from everyone else on the block putting down fresh mulch), I hired a service to do some yard work. They would supply the mulch, I would supply the flowers, and within a few short hours, we would have a beautiful yard right out of Better Homes and Gardens.

Eight thirty in the morning, a truck pulled up and dropped off thirty bags of mulch. By 8:45, three men were digging and weeding and scrubbing at the brick planters. I happily got in my car and went off to Home Depot to get my flowers, thinking of how easy this was going to be.

Not being able to tell a tulip from a petunia, I got a cart and looked around for someone who could give me some helpful advice. Unlike in the commercial, where customers are greeted by smiling workers who not only advise them, but actually help them build the additions onto their homes, I could only find one cashier who was hiding inside her glass booth and looked more like Grumpy or Sneezy than Happy.

So I set off into the jungle of plants and flowers on my own, hoping for the best. I sniffed, I touched, I read signs. I started loading up my cart with pretty flowers in colors that would match the house. Then, I stumbled across something I never expected to see...an employee. Quickly, I grabbed him before he could disappear back into the maze of carts and racks and begged for help. Would these plants survive both the cool spring and blistering hot summer?
How much water did they need and how often? More importantly, could they survive the family curse?

Ten minutes later, after I finished putting all those flowers back, I reloaded my cart with new flowers that didn't match the house as well, but had a better chance of survival. Ten minutes after that, I emptied them out of the cart onto a flatbed cart that would hold the amount of flowers I needed and would only take me one trip to the car. And ten minutes after that, I had a car that looked like a float in the Rose Parade, and clogged up my sinuses for the next two days.

Arriving home, I unloaded the car and discovered the men had moved on to the back yard. They had weeded the front within an inch of its life, yet left untouched some scraggly looking green things and one lone petunia from last year, as well as a totally dead shrub. I guess I wasn't clear about ripping out pretty much everything.

I brought the guy who seemed to be in charge up front and tried, despite the language barrier to explain to him (again) what I wanted done. He nodded very agreeably and quickly disposed of the offending matter while I separated the containers of flowers and arranged them in the flower beds. Hmmmm, I definitely needed more flowers. I had used up my entire haul and didn't have any left for the backyard.

Okay, back to the Home Deopot for more flowers. Load the cart, unload the cart. Load the car, unload the car. Hadn't I hired people so I wouldn't have to do any work?

Haul the flowers around the house to the back only to discover that I may have been a bit too clear about ripping things out because the one flower bed was missing the big, leafy plants that had been growing there for the past five years. Apparently they looked less healthy than the dead bush. Once more, the team leader nodded agreeably while I gestured, spoke slowly and used small words (I know that this does not help me understand another language any better when I am in a foreign country, but I was getting desperate. I even considered running inside and watching a few episodes of Dora the Explorer to see if she could help me).

In the end, I decided it was better for my blood pressure to give up and go back to the store for more flowers. Fifteen minutes later I returned to find that, thankfully, no more perfectly healthy plants had been ripped out. We were, however, missing a strip of grass that ran between one of the flower beds and the fence. That whole area was now one giant flower bed!!! I've seen less carnage in horror movies. This was way beyond Dora's abilities now.

Concerned for the remaining grass and our dogwood tree, I decided to keep a closer eye on the guy doing the weeding. A few minutes later, head guy wanted to show me how nice the planted flowers looked, so I followed him over to the flower bed I where I had spent a considerable amount of time painstakingly arranging the flowers in groups, according to color. Proudly, he pointed to where he had transfered the flowers into the bed, spreading them out in a widely random pattern, mixing and matching colors. He gave me the thumbs up sign and a broad smile, clearly pleased with his artistry.

Shockingly, he was surprised when I didn't hug him and shower him with praise.

Next year, I'm contacting a clairvoyant and seeing if I can channel either one of my grandparents for an afternoon.