This past weekend, our nephew got married, and like most weddings, family members gathered together to celebrate...and aggravate.
The first skirmish occurred during the rehearsal dinner when a relative of the bride came up to our happy little family group as we were sitting down to dinner. Trying to make conversation, but inadvertently making enemies with every syllable he uttered, he asked one of Tim's sisters where she fit in the order of the siblings.
"I'm the oldest of the girls," she told him.
"Ahh, but you look like the youngest," he replied gallantly, but unfortunately within hearing of Rose who was across the table.
"Helloooo. I'm sitting right here," Rose all but growled under her breath while the rest of us snickered.
Oblivious to the daggers Rose was shooting him with her eyes, he continued to dig himself deeper into the hole.
"So how old are your brothers?" he pressed.
"Tim and Tom are celebrating a milestone birthday this year," And she named a number I refuse to write because if I see a number that large associated with me in print, I may pass out.
"Really?!!?" he had the nerve and misfortune to look surprised. "That's all? I am ten years older and I thought they were my age. They are the youngest?"
Uh oh. Tim's eyes narrowed, while Rose's crossed with the effort it took not to leap across the table and show him who was old. We all sucked in a collective breath and tried to unobtrusively back away to avoid getting caught in the crossfire.
I don't know what he had done with the money his mother had given him for charm lessons, but I hoped he had invested wisely. He was going to need a lot of cash to pay the medical bills.
"I don't even dye my hair," he boasted, smoothing back the thinning strands.
"That's what we all say," Rose countered with a saccharine sweet smile, fluffing her own blond locks, while Tim sniped, "Yeah. And the sky is green and the grass is blue," out of the corner of his mouth to me, while I kicked him under the table, hard.
Still not feeling the waves of hostility surging toward him, he continued, "I am the best looking. See," he pointed across the room, "my one brother is grey and the other is bald."
"Maybe you're adopted," Rose offered, batting her eyelashes at him while preparing to go in for the kill.
Meanwhile, I kicked Tim harder to prevent him from entering the fray. He subsided with a glare and a muttered, "Mirror, mirror, on the wall..."
"No. Really. I, too am the oldest and the best looking," he beamed at Tim's oldest sister, who, knowing he was a dead man walking leaned back while Rose finished him off.
"Well, we can't all be George Clooney," she declared. As he opened his mouth again, she cut him off. "One more word and it's off with your head, undyed hair and all."
The foolish man actually laughed, but finally had the good sense to retreat before he was carried, bleeding off the field.
Of course, this exchange was mild compared to the one that took place the day of our rehearsal dinner, oh so many years ago.
It had been a crazy day, filled with a thousand last minute details that needed to be taken care of, but finally it was time to get dressed for dinner.
Since it was ninety-five degrees out, and we were expecting my cousin and her fiance from out of town at any minute, my mother had turned on all three of the air conditioners in the bedrooms. The only problem was that in our hundred plus year old house, the electrical system could only handle two and a half air conditioners when all the planets lined up and the moon was in the seventh house.
We turned on a light, we blew a fuse. Plugged in a curling iron, we blew a fuse. Opened the fridge, we blew a fuse. Lit a match, we blew a fuse.
And each time this happened, my father would stomp down to the cellar to do battle with the fuse box, cursing a blue streak. As for the rest of us, this was not our fight, since A. my father was the only one who knew how to do this, and B. he was the only one brave enough to actually go down there without a silver bullet, string of garlic, bucket of holy water, ghostbuster, exorcist, or team of green berets.
Our cellar made the Amityville Horror house look like a suite at the Ritz. Even Stephen King could not imagine such a creepy place.
Somewhere around trip number 56 million, my father succumbed to battle fatigue, and lost it. He charged back up the stairs from the cellar as though something was hot on his heels (which it may have been...an alligator, swamp creature, zombie, Rodent of Unusual Size), made it as far as the foyer and hollered up the stairs to my mother, "Turn off that (unprintable word) air conditioner in the guest room. I'm not replacing another (string of unprintable words) fuse."
"I'm trying to keep the room cool for Walter (my cousin's fiance). He won't want to change in a hot room." My mother was a veteran of many such campaigns, and this did not phase her in the least.
At the end of his rope (which on a really good day is about three inches long), my father exploded like a bomb, "I don't give a s@#t what Walter wants!"
No sooner did the last word leave his mouth than we heard a knock at the screen door behind him, and there was Walter. A direct hit!
Without missing a beat, my father turned, stuck out his hand, and said, "Oh. Hello Walter," and then walked away.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Friday, October 7, 2011
Always Call A Profesional
Once again, it is fall, and once again, I will want to beat the snot out of the heating guy when he comes to do the fall inspection.
It's nothing personal. It probably won't even be the same guy who came last year. And that is the problem. Sort of.
You see, since we have moved in, our first floor has temperatures resembling Siberia, while our basement is more like visiting the Equator. In July. At noon. Wearing a parka. Holding one of those reflective thingeys. And every time I get someone from the heating company to come out, whether for fall or spring service, I get a different theory as to why that is, but no actual solution. Sort of.
Meanwhile, if I remember my high school science correctly, it's only a matter of time before it starts to rain or snow in the stairwell. Yipee.
We suspected something was wrong right after we moved in and, while Tim was on the first floor, huddling over my scented candles and looking longingly at the Yule log on TV, I had to put on my bathing suit and six coats of clinical strength deodorant just to run down to the basement for three minutes.
So I called the heating company that had installed the heater and arranged for them to come out and fix it. (I believe it was a fairly polite request, but at the time, I may have been a bit delirious from the heat stroke I had suffered when I attempted to work out in our basement gym for the first time, so I may have gone all Dirty Harry on them.) Either way, they showed up, pronto.
"The problem is the ducts," the guy told me. "There's flaps inside that direct the heat up or down."
"Great, then you can fix them, and we're good to go."
"Nope. Not that easy," he grunted.
Yeah. As opposed to all the other things in my life that are. By the way, can you tell the paramedics when they arrive that I'd like the rehydrating IV placed in my left arm, so that I can smack you with my right?
"Because...?" I prompted.
"I don't know which duct leads up and which leads down."
"Well, can you figure it out, since you guys were the ones to install the ducts?" Perhaps we should just send in the A-Team instead or a really, really bit hamster with a webcam.
"I can guess, and if I'm wrong, you can just move the flaps the opposite way if it doesn't work."
Wow. Glad I called in the professionals. I'll bet the DIY network has come knocking at your door more than once.
Spotting a booklet and some papers stuck to the side of the heater, I suggested the correct answer might be found there. Bingo! the schematic for the whole heating system was there. In no time at all, my visit to the tropics would be but a fond memory, and that mirage of an oasis I could see in the corner would turn back into some paint cans and an old plant stand. Triumphantly, I shoved it under his nose.
"Still doesn't help," he shook his head. "Can't tell because I don't know where we are exactly according to this."
Really? They didn't put a big red X or yellow dot saying 'you are here' on it? Clearly, the installer was not as knowledgeable or as dedicated to his craft as you.
"Well, it says 'storage' here," I jabbed at the map, "and we are standing in the storage room," I gestured to the shelved loaded with assorted Christmas and Halloween decorations, "so I'm guessing we would be here."
A bead of sweat the size of a watermelon trickled off my chin to emphasize where I was pointing.
"I guess I'll try, but like I said, you may have to redo it yourself," he stuck to his original prognosis despite the fact that smoke had started to come out of my ears. "Do you have post-its so I can label which way I think the flaps go?"
At this point, I gladly escaped both him and the heat to get the post-its, since it prevented me from either passing out (and I was afraid that I would have to rely on Magellan there to get us out of the sweatbox we called a basement) or choking him with my bare hands.
Surprisingly, his highly knowledgeable solution did not work, and neither did attempting to flip the flaps. Shocker.
Once again, I called the heating company and this time a different guy showed up who took one look at what his co-worker had done and shook his head.
"Never touch the flaps," he lectured me, pulling post-its off, right and left. "That was totally the wrong thing to do."
Hope blossomed somewhere deep inside me.
"What you need to do is close all the vents down in the basement and direct the heat up," he pronounced.
Way ahead of you guy. "I did, except for the one in the bedroom down here and it's better, but the upstairs is still much colder."
"Hmmm. " He pondered for a moment.
"Do you change the filters every month?"
Yes.
"Clean out the ducts regularly?"
You mean the new ducts in our new house? Really?!
"Is the thermostat near a door or window?"
Nope.
"Then I guess that's just the way your system works," he shrugged.
Fabulous in-depth analysis. And here I thought the first guy was useless. I briefly contemplated chaining him in the basement a la Kathy Bates in Misery, until he came up with a more acceptable solution, but upon second thought realized that there was the distinct possibility that that would never happen, so decided instead to move on to guy #3.
I was beginning to feel like I was on the old Dating Game show, but instead of the three men of my dreams, it was more like choosing between Larry, Moe or Curly with the grand prize being an all expense paid trip to the middle of the Saraha desert.
Guy 3 unplugged some device on the side of the heater after replacing that filter and recommended covers for the air-conditioning units outside before going on his merry way back to his lovely climate controlled car.
I guess to him, it wasn't really a big deal that the National Zoo was contacting us to open a Brazillian rainforest exhibit in our basement, but I was really tired of starting my workouts by sweating so much I looked like I I had just swum the English Channel.
And so it went, through guy 4 and 5. They each shook their heads, tinkered around with something on the heater, criticized whatever the last guy did and made pretty much useless suggestions before leaving us to wallow in our misery.
Finally, though, the last guy (I'm guessing, based on previous experience that it was pure dumb luck) seemed to solve the worst of the problems (or maybe it was a cumulative effect). And so we are set until guy7 (or is it 8?) comes and tells me how he didn't know what he was talking about and sends us back to that tropic isle...with Gilligan as our repair guy again.
It's nothing personal. It probably won't even be the same guy who came last year. And that is the problem. Sort of.
You see, since we have moved in, our first floor has temperatures resembling Siberia, while our basement is more like visiting the Equator. In July. At noon. Wearing a parka. Holding one of those reflective thingeys. And every time I get someone from the heating company to come out, whether for fall or spring service, I get a different theory as to why that is, but no actual solution. Sort of.
Meanwhile, if I remember my high school science correctly, it's only a matter of time before it starts to rain or snow in the stairwell. Yipee.
We suspected something was wrong right after we moved in and, while Tim was on the first floor, huddling over my scented candles and looking longingly at the Yule log on TV, I had to put on my bathing suit and six coats of clinical strength deodorant just to run down to the basement for three minutes.
So I called the heating company that had installed the heater and arranged for them to come out and fix it. (I believe it was a fairly polite request, but at the time, I may have been a bit delirious from the heat stroke I had suffered when I attempted to work out in our basement gym for the first time, so I may have gone all Dirty Harry on them.) Either way, they showed up, pronto.
"The problem is the ducts," the guy told me. "There's flaps inside that direct the heat up or down."
"Great, then you can fix them, and we're good to go."
"Nope. Not that easy," he grunted.
Yeah. As opposed to all the other things in my life that are. By the way, can you tell the paramedics when they arrive that I'd like the rehydrating IV placed in my left arm, so that I can smack you with my right?
"Because...?" I prompted.
"I don't know which duct leads up and which leads down."
"Well, can you figure it out, since you guys were the ones to install the ducts?" Perhaps we should just send in the A-Team instead or a really, really bit hamster with a webcam.
"I can guess, and if I'm wrong, you can just move the flaps the opposite way if it doesn't work."
Wow. Glad I called in the professionals. I'll bet the DIY network has come knocking at your door more than once.
Spotting a booklet and some papers stuck to the side of the heater, I suggested the correct answer might be found there. Bingo! the schematic for the whole heating system was there. In no time at all, my visit to the tropics would be but a fond memory, and that mirage of an oasis I could see in the corner would turn back into some paint cans and an old plant stand. Triumphantly, I shoved it under his nose.
"Still doesn't help," he shook his head. "Can't tell because I don't know where we are exactly according to this."
Really? They didn't put a big red X or yellow dot saying 'you are here' on it? Clearly, the installer was not as knowledgeable or as dedicated to his craft as you.
"Well, it says 'storage' here," I jabbed at the map, "and we are standing in the storage room," I gestured to the shelved loaded with assorted Christmas and Halloween decorations, "so I'm guessing we would be here."
A bead of sweat the size of a watermelon trickled off my chin to emphasize where I was pointing.
"I guess I'll try, but like I said, you may have to redo it yourself," he stuck to his original prognosis despite the fact that smoke had started to come out of my ears. "Do you have post-its so I can label which way I think the flaps go?"
At this point, I gladly escaped both him and the heat to get the post-its, since it prevented me from either passing out (and I was afraid that I would have to rely on Magellan there to get us out of the sweatbox we called a basement) or choking him with my bare hands.
Surprisingly, his highly knowledgeable solution did not work, and neither did attempting to flip the flaps. Shocker.
Once again, I called the heating company and this time a different guy showed up who took one look at what his co-worker had done and shook his head.
"Never touch the flaps," he lectured me, pulling post-its off, right and left. "That was totally the wrong thing to do."
Hope blossomed somewhere deep inside me.
"What you need to do is close all the vents down in the basement and direct the heat up," he pronounced.
Way ahead of you guy. "I did, except for the one in the bedroom down here and it's better, but the upstairs is still much colder."
"Hmmm. " He pondered for a moment.
"Do you change the filters every month?"
Yes.
"Clean out the ducts regularly?"
You mean the new ducts in our new house? Really?!
"Is the thermostat near a door or window?"
Nope.
"Then I guess that's just the way your system works," he shrugged.
Fabulous in-depth analysis. And here I thought the first guy was useless. I briefly contemplated chaining him in the basement a la Kathy Bates in Misery, until he came up with a more acceptable solution, but upon second thought realized that there was the distinct possibility that that would never happen, so decided instead to move on to guy #3.
I was beginning to feel like I was on the old Dating Game show, but instead of the three men of my dreams, it was more like choosing between Larry, Moe or Curly with the grand prize being an all expense paid trip to the middle of the Saraha desert.
Guy 3 unplugged some device on the side of the heater after replacing that filter and recommended covers for the air-conditioning units outside before going on his merry way back to his lovely climate controlled car.
I guess to him, it wasn't really a big deal that the National Zoo was contacting us to open a Brazillian rainforest exhibit in our basement, but I was really tired of starting my workouts by sweating so much I looked like I I had just swum the English Channel.
And so it went, through guy 4 and 5. They each shook their heads, tinkered around with something on the heater, criticized whatever the last guy did and made pretty much useless suggestions before leaving us to wallow in our misery.
Finally, though, the last guy (I'm guessing, based on previous experience that it was pure dumb luck) seemed to solve the worst of the problems (or maybe it was a cumulative effect). And so we are set until guy7 (or is it 8?) comes and tells me how he didn't know what he was talking about and sends us back to that tropic isle...with Gilligan as our repair guy again.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Do Not Call
One of the many joys of moving is contacting everyone that has your old information and giving them your new information. Some of it is easy like family, friends and utilities. Some of it falls through the cracks like the Do Not Call registry. Grrr. All in all, I'd rather have notified them and forgotten some family members. Just one or two. Okay, six or seven. No more than twelve. Fifteen tops.
It never occurred to me till we began getting inundated with calls from every telemarketer and solicitor in the universe that I had not registered our new number. I had forgotten exactly how freaking annoying those people can be.
Mostly, I rely on caller ID to cut down on the aggravation, but some of them are tricky little devils and a regular old phone number comes up. Double Grrr.
First of all, they call you by your first name as though they are your best friend. Like last Saturday.
"Hello, Ann?"
"Yes," I answered hesitantly trying to place the voice.
"This is Susie Snowflake. How are you?"
"Um. Good. How are you?" The name rang a dim bell somewhere in the back of my mind, along with where I had left my reading glasses and the other cordless phone.
"Do you recognize my name?"
Crap. I know eight kajillion people and I remember about three on any given day. Where did I know this woman from?! Okay, I was going to bluff.
"Sure I do," I responded brightly, all the while thinking, 'I'd like to buy a vowel please, Wink'.
"Then you know I'm running for local office and would like to talk to you about my platform and donating money to by campaign."
Double crap. That's where I knew the name. It's on one of those posters that spring up like mushrooms by the side of the road every fall. Why oh why had I answered the phone?
As luck would have it, we actually had company, so I was able to shut good ol' Susie down without even lying.
Other people are harder to get rid of. Like the people who want you to use their health care program. They don't even let you get in the ambulance before they chase you.
Every month, without fail, we get the call.
"Is Tim there?"
"No, I'm sorry, he's not at home, can I take a message?" Yeah, which I will write in the air.
"We just wanted to let him know that we are offering...blah, blah, blah...yadda, yadda, yadda..."
"He's not interested," I break in, hanging up and going back to doing something more interesting like watching my toenails grow.
One woman didn't let my total lack of interest or civility stop her though.
"Are you his wife?" she pressed, "Because we can offer you programs also, like weight loss and exercise."
Wow. Really?!? I didn't realize that I qualified because I sounded so fat and out of shape over the phone. Yes, please. Sign me up immediately.
It has gotten to the point where sometimes I can't contain the snarkiness.
Once, after I said I wasn't interested, the guy actually had the nerve to try and shame me into giving money to him by getting snotty.
"You really need to do this. It's not like I'm asking for a lot," he insisted.
Hey, great sales technique. I'm sure you'll go far with that attitude. You know, I wasn't going to give you anything, but since you put it like that, here's a blank check. You just add as many zeros as you want. Riiight.
Then there was the woman from some phone company who called at dinnertime and I cut her off with "I'm not interested."
"What is it exactly that you are not interested in?" she snapped at me.
Okay, the gloves are off. You've poked the tiger and now you must die.
"Anything you have to say," I snapped back.
"So you 're not interested in saving money?" she just wouldn't give up.
I can't figure out why I just didn't hang up, but something inside me snapped. Maybe low blood sugar due to the fact that she was keeping me from my dinner.
"No. I hate saving money," I shot back.
"You dont' want to save 30% off your current bill? Do you like throwing money away?"
Okay, if she was going to be ridiculous, I could be more ridiculous.
"I love throwing money away. In fact, I try to find the most expensive phone plan I can and that's the one I take. And just in case you ever get a job soliciting for a gas, power, water or insurance company, I overpay on all those bills also, and I think it's great!!!"
She actually slammed the phone down, but I didn't care because we both knew that I had won. What, exactly, I'm not sure, but I'm guessing she won't be calling back any time soon.
For the repeat offenders, I have developed other tactics for discouraging them from calling.
Tactic 1: "Is Tim there?"
"Tim who?"
"Tim Sinclair."
"Can you spell that?"
"S-i-n-c-l-a-i-r."
"No, the first name"
"T-i-m."
"Jim?"
"No, Tim. T-i-m."
"Sorry, you have the wrong number."
or Tactic 2: "Is Tim home?"
"Who's calling?"
"An annoying solicitor who will suck valuable minutes out of your life that you will never get back." (Well, maybe they didn't actually say this, but this is what they meant).
"He no longer lives here."
"Well this is the number we have."
"He used to live here, but I threw him out for cheating on me with my best friend's husband."
Pause. "Oh. Do you have his new number?" (And yes, this conversation actually happened.)
So I gave them the only number I could think of off the top of my head: Red Top Cab, and wished them a nice day. Hehehe.
Can't wait till we are back on the registry.
It never occurred to me till we began getting inundated with calls from every telemarketer and solicitor in the universe that I had not registered our new number. I had forgotten exactly how freaking annoying those people can be.
Mostly, I rely on caller ID to cut down on the aggravation, but some of them are tricky little devils and a regular old phone number comes up. Double Grrr.
First of all, they call you by your first name as though they are your best friend. Like last Saturday.
"Hello, Ann?"
"Yes," I answered hesitantly trying to place the voice.
"This is Susie Snowflake. How are you?"
"Um. Good. How are you?" The name rang a dim bell somewhere in the back of my mind, along with where I had left my reading glasses and the other cordless phone.
"Do you recognize my name?"
Crap. I know eight kajillion people and I remember about three on any given day. Where did I know this woman from?! Okay, I was going to bluff.
"Sure I do," I responded brightly, all the while thinking, 'I'd like to buy a vowel please, Wink'.
"Then you know I'm running for local office and would like to talk to you about my platform and donating money to by campaign."
Double crap. That's where I knew the name. It's on one of those posters that spring up like mushrooms by the side of the road every fall. Why oh why had I answered the phone?
As luck would have it, we actually had company, so I was able to shut good ol' Susie down without even lying.
Other people are harder to get rid of. Like the people who want you to use their health care program. They don't even let you get in the ambulance before they chase you.
Every month, without fail, we get the call.
"Is Tim there?"
"No, I'm sorry, he's not at home, can I take a message?" Yeah, which I will write in the air.
"We just wanted to let him know that we are offering...blah, blah, blah...yadda, yadda, yadda..."
"He's not interested," I break in, hanging up and going back to doing something more interesting like watching my toenails grow.
One woman didn't let my total lack of interest or civility stop her though.
"Are you his wife?" she pressed, "Because we can offer you programs also, like weight loss and exercise."
Wow. Really?!? I didn't realize that I qualified because I sounded so fat and out of shape over the phone. Yes, please. Sign me up immediately.
It has gotten to the point where sometimes I can't contain the snarkiness.
Once, after I said I wasn't interested, the guy actually had the nerve to try and shame me into giving money to him by getting snotty.
"You really need to do this. It's not like I'm asking for a lot," he insisted.
Hey, great sales technique. I'm sure you'll go far with that attitude. You know, I wasn't going to give you anything, but since you put it like that, here's a blank check. You just add as many zeros as you want. Riiight.
Then there was the woman from some phone company who called at dinnertime and I cut her off with "I'm not interested."
"What is it exactly that you are not interested in?" she snapped at me.
Okay, the gloves are off. You've poked the tiger and now you must die.
"Anything you have to say," I snapped back.
"So you 're not interested in saving money?" she just wouldn't give up.
I can't figure out why I just didn't hang up, but something inside me snapped. Maybe low blood sugar due to the fact that she was keeping me from my dinner.
"No. I hate saving money," I shot back.
"You dont' want to save 30% off your current bill? Do you like throwing money away?"
Okay, if she was going to be ridiculous, I could be more ridiculous.
"I love throwing money away. In fact, I try to find the most expensive phone plan I can and that's the one I take. And just in case you ever get a job soliciting for a gas, power, water or insurance company, I overpay on all those bills also, and I think it's great!!!"
She actually slammed the phone down, but I didn't care because we both knew that I had won. What, exactly, I'm not sure, but I'm guessing she won't be calling back any time soon.
For the repeat offenders, I have developed other tactics for discouraging them from calling.
Tactic 1: "Is Tim there?"
"Tim who?"
"Tim Sinclair."
"Can you spell that?"
"S-i-n-c-l-a-i-r."
"No, the first name"
"T-i-m."
"Jim?"
"No, Tim. T-i-m."
"Sorry, you have the wrong number."
or Tactic 2: "Is Tim home?"
"Who's calling?"
"An annoying solicitor who will suck valuable minutes out of your life that you will never get back." (Well, maybe they didn't actually say this, but this is what they meant).
"He no longer lives here."
"Well this is the number we have."
"He used to live here, but I threw him out for cheating on me with my best friend's husband."
Pause. "Oh. Do you have his new number?" (And yes, this conversation actually happened.)
So I gave them the only number I could think of off the top of my head: Red Top Cab, and wished them a nice day. Hehehe.
Can't wait till we are back on the registry.
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