This past weekend, we had some friends visit from Texas. As we showed them out "new" house, they admired a pair of loveseats on the third floor. I explained that they were our former living room couches, just recovered. And what a nightmare that was.
When we moved in, I had the movers put them up in the guest room at the top of the house. Lickety-split, up they went. No problem.
About a year or so later, I had the reupholster guys come to take them out. No lickety. No split. Many problems.
Wham! They smashed the first one of the couches into the door frame as they attempted to get it through the door.
Um. I'd actually like it back in one piece, if it wouldn't be too much trouble.
Bam! They smashed it a second time as they backed up and tried again.
Hey, Braveheart. That's a couch, not a battering ram.
Slam! Okay. Three times is obviously not the charm. Let's review some basic physics here...two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time. C'mon, say it with me.
"This couch won't fit through here," lead guy one complained. "What'd ya do, put these couches up here, then finish building?"
Why, yes. How clever of you to have figured it out. I actually designed the entire house around these fifteen year old, worn and stained couches. It's the newest craze. I hear Brad and Angelina have done it in at least three of their homes.
"Well, the legs must come off then," he grumbled.
"I don't think so...but how about tipping it the other way?" I offered.
"I've been doing this a long time, and the legs always come off," he informed me loftily.
Okaaayyy...
Fifteen minutes later, he was back to trying to cram the couch through the door...with the legs still on. He had, however, removed the door from its hinges.
"How about tipping it the other way?" I suggested again.
"There is no way you got these couches through this door," he huffed after about fifty-six more failed attempts to jam it through, all the while ignoring my suggestion.
And yet, there they are, in the room. Ooh. It must have been magic. Maybe the movers were just better at spells and potions than you. Perhaps your wand needs the new 10.5 upgrade. Oh, and incidentally, I believe there is a tiny speck of paint that you missed when removing it all from the door frame, but don't worry, I'm sure you'll get it on your next attempt to force the couch through.
"How about tipping it the other way," guy two suggested at this point, correctly interpreting my narrowed eyes, crossed arms and tapping foot as danger sings.
"That won't help," guy one groused, oblivious to the act that he was wasting the last minutes of his life complaining. "These couches just won't fit."
"Then maybe I should call someone else," I cut off his grumbling.
Suddenly, divine inspiration hit.
"Hey. I know. Let's tip the couch this way," guy one suggested.
Guy two shot guy one a look that was only slightly less malevolent than the one I was aiming at him.
One hour, four gallons of sweat, 372 curses and various scratches, dents and bruises later, the couches were loaded into the truck.
About two weeks later, a different crew brought my now, oh so pretty couches back.
Wham! Uh oh. They had sent Laurel and Hardy clones...again.
"These couches aren't going to fit through this door," new guy one determined.
"They fit through before, you just need to tip them the other way," I told him, glad the couches were at least protected by plastic.
"Are you sure they went here?" he questioned.
Hmm. Let's see. Maybe I'm mistaken as to which room I put them in. Let me think. By golly, you're right. I actually had them in the kitchen for the last year. Oh, no, wait a minute. They were in the bathroom. That's right. One was in the tub and the other one was in front of the sink. Whew. Glad you said something. Just think how odd they would look in a sitting area.
Heaving a pained sigh, new guy one and new guy two hefted the couch and tried again. And again. And again, still ignoring my advice on tipping the couch.
"Maybe try turning it the other way," I tried one last time when my door frame began to resemble Swiss cheese. I began wishing the doorway was hooked up to a buzzer like in the game Operation except instead of just getting buzzed, maybe a nice little electric shock. Say something around fifty or sixty thousand volts.
"The plastic is making it too thick," new guy one decided ripping it off. "That's the problem."
Yeah, I can understand how that extra tenth of a millimeter makes all the difference. Not. Turn. It. The. Other. Way.
Wham! Bam! Slam!
"When they reupholstered, they must have added more stuffing," he was clutching at invisible straws now...and his chest, his side and one knee.
"So, does this mean you can't get it through?" I asked, silently daring him to tell me it was impossible.
"There's no way they are going to fit," he prepared to head back down the stairs, foolish, foolish man that he was.
"So what do you suggest I do with the couches?' Because I'm getting some really good ideas on where you can place them.
"How about another room?"
"How about you take them back, restore them to their former state and give me my money back?"
Once again, divine inspiration.
"Let's tip it this way," new guy one finally saw the light and tipped the couches.
And so, the couches are happily resting on the third floor. But I've decided that when we eventually move, they are going to convey.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
We Don't Do Windows
I have finally found someone worse than all those repair people who give you that infamous "window" as though you have nothing better to do than be at their beck and call. Service people who won't even give you a day much less a window as though you have nothing to do at all.
Last spring, after a lot of storms and high winds, we needed to have some trees removed. After doing some research, I contacted a company that had good ratings, and asked them for an estimate. They told me they would look at the schedule and get back to me with a time and day shortly.
Now to me, shortly means later that day, maybe the next day. To them, it meant anywhere from that moment until the end of time. So, two days later, I checked in and asked if they were still interested in giving an estimate.
Huh? Estimate? Oh. Yeah. Um. How about next Monday?
Okay. Can you give me a time frame?
Uh. Hmmm. Time frame?
Yeah. You know. Time frame. A span of time anywhere from four to sixteen hours when I will sit home twiddling my thumbs and then you show up at the last possible second if you bother to come at all.
We'll have to get back to you on that later.
Later? Let's see. To you, shortly means what, a year or two, so later must mean...I give up. The twelfth of never?
Two days later...still no time frame. So I contacted them again explaining that while, in their own, twisted little universe they were more important than air, the rest of us peasants actually had something called a life. At least the phone/cable/heating/appliance repair people had the decency to pretend that they cared about me by going through the motions of scheduling a window, but these tree people couldn't even be bothered to do that much. I mean, it's not like I expected them to actually stick to what they told me. So, how about it? Morning, afternoon, evening? Pick one.
Oh. I wanted a time frame on Monday?
Okay. Do me a favor. Get a co-worker to stick a mirror under your nose to see if you are still breathing because I suspect you may be brain dead.
But Monday was a whole two days away. Did I really need a time frame now?
No. Why don't you wait until Sunday night at 11:59 to give me a time frame, because I would really enjoy trying to arrange my schedule at the last second. Challenges like that are what makes life worth living, don't you think?
Needless to say, I went with another company.
I would like to think that this was an anomaly, but the other day, I ran into the same thing all over again. This time, it was a guy from the gas company.
We decided this summer, after losing our power for the the kajillionth time, to get a generator. Because Tim has to have one that could power a small village, the Empire State Building and The Mall of America all at the same time, we needed a new gas meter.
Okay, when can you do it?
How about Wednesday?
Fine. When on Wednesday?
I'll have to call you back.
Seriously? C'mon. It's Monday. How hard is it to schedule something less than two days away? I'm not asking for a lifetime commitment, just a vague idea of when you think you might feel like dropping by.
I'm not sure of my schedule. I'll have to let you know tomorrow.
Super. Don't worry about me. I only have places to go and things to do, but hey, I wouldn't want to make you commit to something before you're sure.
The next day, he called back with a two hour window for the following day.
Yippee!! A two hour window. Unheard of. He was my new hero...until he didn't show up.
After two and a half hours, I called and asked how late was he running?
Oh. It's not me. It's, um, let's see, who is it?
Gee, I'm on the edge of my seat. Who is it?
It's Mike. Yeah. He got held up waiting for a part on a job. I don't think he's going to get there today. Wait. Who'd you say you were again? Morgan?
Bit your tongue. Bite your tongue. There is only one gas company, and you need this, I told myself even as I pictured eviscerating him, or at the very least slapping him silly.
No. Sinclair.
Sinclair. You're not on the schedule today. No. I have you for tomorrow. Did I tell you today?
It's enough to make you long for the good old sixteen hour window.
Last spring, after a lot of storms and high winds, we needed to have some trees removed. After doing some research, I contacted a company that had good ratings, and asked them for an estimate. They told me they would look at the schedule and get back to me with a time and day shortly.
Now to me, shortly means later that day, maybe the next day. To them, it meant anywhere from that moment until the end of time. So, two days later, I checked in and asked if they were still interested in giving an estimate.
Huh? Estimate? Oh. Yeah. Um. How about next Monday?
Okay. Can you give me a time frame?
Uh. Hmmm. Time frame?
Yeah. You know. Time frame. A span of time anywhere from four to sixteen hours when I will sit home twiddling my thumbs and then you show up at the last possible second if you bother to come at all.
We'll have to get back to you on that later.
Later? Let's see. To you, shortly means what, a year or two, so later must mean...I give up. The twelfth of never?
Two days later...still no time frame. So I contacted them again explaining that while, in their own, twisted little universe they were more important than air, the rest of us peasants actually had something called a life. At least the phone/cable/heating/appliance repair people had the decency to pretend that they cared about me by going through the motions of scheduling a window, but these tree people couldn't even be bothered to do that much. I mean, it's not like I expected them to actually stick to what they told me. So, how about it? Morning, afternoon, evening? Pick one.
Oh. I wanted a time frame on Monday?
Okay. Do me a favor. Get a co-worker to stick a mirror under your nose to see if you are still breathing because I suspect you may be brain dead.
But Monday was a whole two days away. Did I really need a time frame now?
No. Why don't you wait until Sunday night at 11:59 to give me a time frame, because I would really enjoy trying to arrange my schedule at the last second. Challenges like that are what makes life worth living, don't you think?
Needless to say, I went with another company.
I would like to think that this was an anomaly, but the other day, I ran into the same thing all over again. This time, it was a guy from the gas company.
We decided this summer, after losing our power for the the kajillionth time, to get a generator. Because Tim has to have one that could power a small village, the Empire State Building and The Mall of America all at the same time, we needed a new gas meter.
Okay, when can you do it?
How about Wednesday?
Fine. When on Wednesday?
I'll have to call you back.
Seriously? C'mon. It's Monday. How hard is it to schedule something less than two days away? I'm not asking for a lifetime commitment, just a vague idea of when you think you might feel like dropping by.
I'm not sure of my schedule. I'll have to let you know tomorrow.
Super. Don't worry about me. I only have places to go and things to do, but hey, I wouldn't want to make you commit to something before you're sure.
The next day, he called back with a two hour window for the following day.
Yippee!! A two hour window. Unheard of. He was my new hero...until he didn't show up.
After two and a half hours, I called and asked how late was he running?
Oh. It's not me. It's, um, let's see, who is it?
Gee, I'm on the edge of my seat. Who is it?
It's Mike. Yeah. He got held up waiting for a part on a job. I don't think he's going to get there today. Wait. Who'd you say you were again? Morgan?
Bit your tongue. Bite your tongue. There is only one gas company, and you need this, I told myself even as I pictured eviscerating him, or at the very least slapping him silly.
No. Sinclair.
Sinclair. You're not on the schedule today. No. I have you for tomorrow. Did I tell you today?
It's enough to make you long for the good old sixteen hour window.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
I'm Late! I'm Late! I'm Late!
My parents came to visit this weekend on their way down to Florida, and it was like spending time with the white rabbit from Alice in Wonderland.
First of all, this was the first time they were taking the auto train from here to Florida, and my father had been reading about it on the Amtrak website. I am sooo glad we taught him to surf the net. Next time we have a brilliant idea like that, we should just slam our hands in a door repeatedly. It would be less painful.
"It says you can check in as early as 11:30," he started in on Saturday about fifteen minutes after they arrived.
"But the train doesn't leave until 4...on Monday,". I pointed out. "Why do you want to sit around the station for several hours?"
"I want to make sure we get the 7pm seating for dinner," he informed me, "otherwise, we'll be stuck eating at either 5 or 9."
"So it's first come, first serve?"
"I don't know, but I want to be there early, so we get the 7pm seating for dinner."
Okay. Got it. You want to eat at 7.
"I really want to get there early," he broached the subject again about an hour later. "5pm is too early to eat and 9 is too late."
"What time do they board?". Tim tried a different tack.
"2pm, but I want to make sure we get the 7 o'clock dinner seating," my father stressed.
"So you reserve dinner when you check in?" Tim tried again to clarify.
"I don't know, but 5 is too early and 9 is too late for dinner," said the rainman, er, my father.
"That's a long time to sit in the station," sometimes Tim didn't have the sense God gave a turnip.
Stop. Roll over and play dead. Give up. I tried to communicate telepathically with Tim, but had no more success getting him to listen to me that way than I have when I actually speak out loud to him.
"I'd go around 1," he offered, "otherwise, it'll be a really long day."
"I don't know," my father seemed to waver for a moment, but recovered. "I'd hate to get there too late to get the 7 o'clock seating."
He actually managed to not bring up the subject for at least another hour or two and then only 86 or 87 times more an hour for the next two days.
Each time, we tried to lure him off topic by steering the conversation toward some other aspect of the journey.
"So, does arriving early affect the order in which your car comes off the train at the end?"
"It says it doesn't because of the way they load them on, but it does affect whether you get the 7pm seating."
Shoot me.
"Do you want to order a Netflix movie so you can watch it on your iPad? They have wi-fi on board, right?"
"If we get the 7pm seating, we won't have time for a movie afterwards, so we'll just watch a TV show. That's why I want to get there early."
Shoot me now.
"What do they serve for dinner anyway?"
"I don't know. I couldn't find that on the website, but it says they have three seatings: 5, 7, or 9."
Okay, one bullet for the both of us. We'll stand really, really close.
And while my father was obsessed with getting to the train early on Monday, my mother was just as obsessed with getting to church early on Sunday.
"What time is mass?" she questioned on Saturday night.
"All different times. Sleep as late as you want, and we'll go from there," I told her.
She was up at 7.
"What's the mass schedule?" she wanted to know. "What time do we have to leave? I don't want to be late."
We decided on 10:30 mass at a church less than five minutes away. Rose offered to drive, so at 10:10, my mother decided that Rose was late and she would wait outside for her.
"It's kind of breezy and chilly," I warned, "why don't we just watch out the window?"
"She might park the car and get out before we can get to the door, and then we'll be really late."
Okay, you and dad need to get either a hobby or a prescription for an incredibly powerful drug.
"It's 10:17," she fretted as we stood at the bottom of the driveway getting blown apart. "I don't want to be late."
"I know, but the church is less than five minute away," I tried to soothe her.
"It's 10:20, we're going to be late," she pronounced exactly three minutes later.
Maybe a hobby and a drug.
"It's 10:22. We'll never make it on time."
Hobby, drug and smash the watch.
Fortunately, Rose arrived at 10:25, just as I was getting ready to perform CPR...on myself because my blood pressure shot up sixty points every time Big Ben ticked off another second.
I am happy to say that my mother was not late...much.
I wish I could say the same for my father. Sadly, by the time he stopped for gas on the way to the train, he was late. They were stuck with the dreaded 5pm dinner slot.
"I told you so," he pouted over the phone. "I knew I should have been here early. Now, we'll have too much time to kill just sitting around after dinner."
As opposed to the time sitting around before? I wanted to, but I didn't say it.
Hobby, drug, gun, one bullet.
First of all, this was the first time they were taking the auto train from here to Florida, and my father had been reading about it on the Amtrak website. I am sooo glad we taught him to surf the net. Next time we have a brilliant idea like that, we should just slam our hands in a door repeatedly. It would be less painful.
"It says you can check in as early as 11:30," he started in on Saturday about fifteen minutes after they arrived.
"But the train doesn't leave until 4...on Monday,". I pointed out. "Why do you want to sit around the station for several hours?"
"I want to make sure we get the 7pm seating for dinner," he informed me, "otherwise, we'll be stuck eating at either 5 or 9."
"So it's first come, first serve?"
"I don't know, but I want to be there early, so we get the 7pm seating for dinner."
Okay. Got it. You want to eat at 7.
"I really want to get there early," he broached the subject again about an hour later. "5pm is too early to eat and 9 is too late."
"What time do they board?". Tim tried a different tack.
"2pm, but I want to make sure we get the 7 o'clock dinner seating," my father stressed.
"So you reserve dinner when you check in?" Tim tried again to clarify.
"I don't know, but 5 is too early and 9 is too late for dinner," said the rainman, er, my father.
"That's a long time to sit in the station," sometimes Tim didn't have the sense God gave a turnip.
Stop. Roll over and play dead. Give up. I tried to communicate telepathically with Tim, but had no more success getting him to listen to me that way than I have when I actually speak out loud to him.
"I'd go around 1," he offered, "otherwise, it'll be a really long day."
"I don't know," my father seemed to waver for a moment, but recovered. "I'd hate to get there too late to get the 7 o'clock seating."
He actually managed to not bring up the subject for at least another hour or two and then only 86 or 87 times more an hour for the next two days.
Each time, we tried to lure him off topic by steering the conversation toward some other aspect of the journey.
"So, does arriving early affect the order in which your car comes off the train at the end?"
"It says it doesn't because of the way they load them on, but it does affect whether you get the 7pm seating."
Shoot me.
"Do you want to order a Netflix movie so you can watch it on your iPad? They have wi-fi on board, right?"
"If we get the 7pm seating, we won't have time for a movie afterwards, so we'll just watch a TV show. That's why I want to get there early."
Shoot me now.
"What do they serve for dinner anyway?"
"I don't know. I couldn't find that on the website, but it says they have three seatings: 5, 7, or 9."
Okay, one bullet for the both of us. We'll stand really, really close.
And while my father was obsessed with getting to the train early on Monday, my mother was just as obsessed with getting to church early on Sunday.
"What time is mass?" she questioned on Saturday night.
"All different times. Sleep as late as you want, and we'll go from there," I told her.
She was up at 7.
"What's the mass schedule?" she wanted to know. "What time do we have to leave? I don't want to be late."
We decided on 10:30 mass at a church less than five minutes away. Rose offered to drive, so at 10:10, my mother decided that Rose was late and she would wait outside for her.
"It's kind of breezy and chilly," I warned, "why don't we just watch out the window?"
"She might park the car and get out before we can get to the door, and then we'll be really late."
Okay, you and dad need to get either a hobby or a prescription for an incredibly powerful drug.
"It's 10:17," she fretted as we stood at the bottom of the driveway getting blown apart. "I don't want to be late."
"I know, but the church is less than five minute away," I tried to soothe her.
"It's 10:20, we're going to be late," she pronounced exactly three minutes later.
Maybe a hobby and a drug.
"It's 10:22. We'll never make it on time."
Hobby, drug and smash the watch.
Fortunately, Rose arrived at 10:25, just as I was getting ready to perform CPR...on myself because my blood pressure shot up sixty points every time Big Ben ticked off another second.
I am happy to say that my mother was not late...much.
I wish I could say the same for my father. Sadly, by the time he stopped for gas on the way to the train, he was late. They were stuck with the dreaded 5pm dinner slot.
"I told you so," he pouted over the phone. "I knew I should have been here early. Now, we'll have too much time to kill just sitting around after dinner."
As opposed to the time sitting around before? I wanted to, but I didn't say it.
Hobby, drug, gun, one bullet.
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