Sarah has to stand in line again...and nothing good comes of it.

Good afternoon!

Those of you who follow me on Face Book know that Peaches has mono, and that I've been pretty sick myself with a rotten one-two punch of a death cold and a massive sore throat.  

Well, Friday being a day out of the office for me, I planned to do quite a bit of writing.  But, since Peaches needed a prescription for a narcotic, plans changed.  Instead of calling the script in to the pharmacy, because it was for a narcotic, I had to first stop at the doctor's office and pick up the script from the doctor, after showing the nurse my ID.  I've been taking the kids to the same doctor for more than 20 years.  He's seen me at my best and worst...and my worst was pretty much yesterday.  I'd been up most of the night, nursing Peaches and my cough, which is determined to stay with me forever.  I was exhausted and I looked it.  No matter, I drove to the doctor's office, chatted with the nurse while waiting for the doc to give me the script.  Then, off to the pharmacy.


If you read this blog you know that I go to the Sam's club pharmacy.  I don't particularly like it, but it's on my way to work and they are usually pretty quick about filling scripts.  What's not quick, however, is the line to get the scripts.

Yesterday was no different.  I got there and handed the woman the script.  She said it would be twenty minutes.  I spent the time picking out seven grocery items.  Then I took the cart back to the pharmacy.  At the register was an old couple who, of course, were getting multiple scripts filled and apparently needed detailed instructions on how to take every single one of them.  Normally my reaction would be one of rage, but I was there during old people hours, so it was my own fault I had to wait.  I calmed myself.

There was a gent with a cart,  much like mine with a few items in it, and he seemed to be waiting.  I asked him if he was in line.  He said yes.  Good.  Now the line formed behind me.

At least, that's what I thought.

While waiting for old couple to complete their drug instruction, I noticed a guy wandering around.  He was really, really creepy looking, like some kind of TV rapist.  I could almost see his white panel van with no windows parked in the lot.  He had no cart, he was just sort of wandering around those of us in line.  Yes, he very clearly saw me lined up behind the other guy with a cart.

Old people were finally finishing up and Cart Guy was called up.  As he was getting his scripts and laying his 4 items out on the counter, I noticed that Creepy Guy had parked himself in front of me and directly in front of the pharmacy window.

Now, at this point I'd been waiting in line for at least fifteen minutes.  I'd been in the store for almost an hour and at home I had a child in tremendous pain.  I was not about to let Creepy Panel Van Rapist Guy butt in front of me.  No way.

Face it Creepy Guy, I'm older than you and I've
got way better reasons to pick up this
prescription.

So, as Old Couple and Cart Guy moved slowly away from the window, I made my move.  And, much like my hero, Kathy Bates in "Fried Green Tomatoes" I moved my cart in front of Creepy Guy. 

Now, that should have been the end of it, right?  I was in line before him, I got to the counter before him.  That is the end of the story, right?

If it were, I wouldn't be blogging.

Oh no, counter chick acted like Creepy Guy was ahead of me and I was the one butting.  She looked over my shoulder and said "good Morning" to him!  I looked at her, four feet from me, and I said, "GOOD MORNING!"  She then looked at me, and said, "What do you want?"

I'm not even kidding.  Suddenly, I was the one in the wrong.  Because I didn't let Creepy Guy butt a head of me.  Oh no, now I'm getting attitude from the Sam's Club Pharmacy cashier?  Oh honey, this is not a battle you're going to win.

"I am picking up prescriptions for Peaches and for Skippy."  (Oh yeah, Skippy also had two scripts I needed to get.)

She heaves a heavy sigh and turns around to the rack and picks up a bag.  "I have one bag here, but it has three bottles in it.  One for Peaches and two for Skippy."

"That sounds right."

"Do you have anything else you need to pick up?"  This said with all the weary impatience of a First Grade Teacher reprimanding a naughty child.


"No, that's about it."

"Are you sure?"  And add a side of major sarcasm.

"Yes.  I had three prescriptions, you're holding three bottles of pills.  I think we're good here."

She looked at my cart.  Remember, the guy in front of me had four items and she checked him through with no problem.  I had seven items, and I know they've checked me out with several more than that.  "I suppose you want to pay for those, too."

No, you bitchy hag, I'd like to walk out of here with free stuff.  

"I suppose you could pay for them here.  But you could pay for them up front, too."

At this point, she's keeping her eyes away from me and firmly on Creepy Guy.  Okay, fine. Clearly I'm going to be the bad guy in this scenario.  And the romance writer in me imagines all kinds of scenes involving her and Creepy Guy in the frozen foods section.  "No, I suppose if it's easier for you I can go check out up front." I try to muster my very best bitchy voice.  You know, to match hers.

"Yes, that would be best. Just take this up to the front and they will scan it."

Yes, woman, I'm very aware of how the process works.

I take the meds and make my way to the front where I'm forced to wait in line behind, you guessed it, masses of old people who apparently have never been to Sam's Club and all of them have 90 items in their cart, and none of them have valid club cards.  As I'm stuck in line waiting hell, I watch Creepy Guy stalk his way out of the building.

Next time, I'm sending Hubby to the pharmacy.

Sarah's pre-Christmas Rant: If you don't know how to use the phone: DON'T TOUCH IT!

Good evening!

When I was in third grade, we had a class in school on phone etiquette.  It was part of our social studies class:  you know, the class that taught us how to function in an every day world without angering those around us?  Yes, social studies.  The study of a society.  And in that class I learned how to answer a phone properly, how to take a phone message properly, how to dial a phone, and how to communicate with someone on the phone. 

Almost 40 years later, I have a job because I can do what, apparently, fewer and fewer people are able to do:  Operate a telephone.

In this day of texting, email, and other forms of non telephone communication, I don't have to look too far to see that future generations are going to not know how to use a phone.  And I don't have to look too far back to find a generation...still living...that has always been clueless "about them new- fangled telephone voice machines."

Every day I dial a phone, and let it ring, and I either leave a message with the voicemail/answering machine on the other end or I talk to the person who answers the phone.  What shocks me, and what the source of my rant is today, is how few people know how to manage a telephone or a telephone conversation.

I've managed to narrow the categories of people who answer the phone to five.  All five are annoying, all five are clueless, and everyone in each of these five categories needs to go take Mrs. Carol Zimmerman's "phone etiquette" class.

1)  Can't be bothered because "Maury" is on.  But then again, Caller ID is just too hard to deal with because that involves reading and whatnot.

I'm shocked...SHOCKED at how many phone calls I make land into this category.  Seriously, if the phone rings, now that we have a little thing called CALLER ID, if you don't want to take a call from someone, you don't have to.  Your voicemail can pick it up.  So there's really no need, if you're deep into a multi-layered plot twist of a paternity test on Maury Povich, for you to answer the phone.  Really. No need. In fact, we as telephone professionals would PREFER you NOT pick up the phone, and then drop it on the floor, and leave it there while your television blares for three minutes which is about the length of patience most telephone professionals have with this nonsense.

This category also includes the people who will answer then immediately hang up the phone without bothering to say anything.  I realize I've been guilty of this in the past, but now I have to think:  Are we really that busy or that anti social that we can't possibly be bothered to say, "No Thank you?" (I guess "No Thank you" falls into the same category as "Thank you."

2)  Two ears, one mouth...can't shut the one and won't open the two.

I love it when people call me to ask questions and then simply will not SHUT UP to let me answer them and then get angry at ME because I'm not answering their questions.  The flip side of that fun coin is that when I do start talking, they immediately start talking again, making any attempt at answering questions impossible.  If you want answers, SHUT UP.  And if you can't shut your yap long enough to take a breath, then don't get bent out of shape when the person on the other end of the line doesn't start talking immediately...leaving a bit of dead air where your voice has been for the last ten minutes.

3)  Doesn't understand how to conduct a phone conversation from stage one.

Okay, let's review:  Your phone rings. You push a button or whatever, opening the line to the person who is calling you.  What next?  Well, obviously you say, "hello?" acknowledging that you're ready to speak to the person on the other end of the line.  Obvious, right?  Wrong!  Many of the people I call simply open the line... and say nothing.  And then I have to say, "Hello?"  And sometimes I get a live person, but more often I get nothing. More dead air.  So I say "Hello" again and then something will finally click in the person's brain and get the ball moving.  Now, what I'd like to say is this:  I say hello and then you say hello and we can start."  But I don't dare.  I have to go through this little dance because the person who picked up the phone maybe has some sort of social phobia  and can't speak into the phone.  I can sympathize, if that's the case, but I have to think there just aren't that many people with that specialized a phobia.

4)  Sure you can take a phone message.  Sure you can...

I leave a lot of phone messages.  A LOT of phone messages.  I will listen to a recording and leave a voice mail message a hundred times if I don't have to talk to some dimwit who picks up the phone but isn't the person I am calling and can't answer the one question I'm asking. I'll say, "Can I leave a message with you?"

Before you correct me, remember, I'm an English major.  Yes, I fully know I probably should say, "MAY I leave a message," but I've done this job long enough to know the problem isn't a matter of manners.  It's a matter of skill.  And rarely does the person on the other end have the skill it takes to write down a name, a phone number, and a four word message.  I say, "Can I leave a message?"  They always say yes.  I say, "This is Sarah from Stuff,Installed, and my number is..." and that's when 99 out of 100 times, the person on the other end will say, "Just a minute."

What follows is a multi minute search for a writing tool.   During this time I want to shout all sorts of colorful things into the phone about how telling a person they can leave a message is a verbal contract and by making said person wait and then repeat 2/3 of the message because you didn't have a pen is clearly a breach of that contract.  But then I realize that a person who agrees to take a phone message without having clear view of a writing tool is probably not going to know what I'm talking about when I talk about contracts.

5)  Drunk, angry, stoned, asleep, and driving.

I realize this seems like a repeat of the first category, but it's not because this includes those who dial me and get me, and then are furious because they got a live person on the other end of the phone.  Or, and this is always my favorite, I dial the phone and get the person who is clearly in the middle of some sort of personal crisis, so they start screaming at me and demanding to know where I got their number.  "Um, you gave it to me yesterday and told me to call you back today."  

I love being called a liar.  Because, see, I have nothing better to do with my day than to open the phone book...(what's a phone book, grandma?)  and start dialing random numbers.  Yes, that's exactly what I do.

This category also contains third shifters who need service calls, but refuse to answer their phones until they are dead asleep and therefore they get to rage at me about calling them when they are asleep.  I worked third shift.  If you don't want to answer the phone, you don't have to answer the phone. No one has a gun to your head.

As for those who are in an impaired state of mentality...stop.  Stop using the phone.  Stop filling my voicemail with incoherent mumbles and then stop complaining to my corporate office that I don't return phone calls.  Stop calling my number and hanging up just as I answer. And if you're in a bad mood, how about if you sit down with an episode of Maury?

Stop yelling at me when you answer the phone when you're driving.  You're breaking the law, not me.

And by the way...if you're in the middle of a domestic dispute, don't dial the phone, don't answer the phone, don't look at the phone.  I don't want to hear you and your significant other scream at each other.  Well, I do, because it's sort of entertaining, but really, it gets old when you decide you're going to treat me like some sort of free couples' therapy.

6)  You might be old, but you have had a telephone in your house since you were a child.  Stop pretending you don't know how to use it!

I've done the math.  Every person alive today (and I'm talking about industrialized nations here, I'm sure there are people on an island someplace where this isn't true.) has had a telephone in their home at very the least their entire adult lives.  My grandmother is 97 years old.  She's almost blind, she care barely hear, and she knows how to use a phone.  Ad if my grandma can manage it, everyone else can, too.  That means you don't get to pretend you don't know what to do when someone calls you.  You don't get to yell, "WHO? WHAT?  HUH?"  every time I try to say something.  I'm not Alexander Graham Bell.  Phone reception is pretty awesome these days.  Stop pretending you can't hear me.

Also, stop pretending you don't know what a phone is for.  Believe it or not, I'm not buying the idea that a darling little old lady is just randomly picking things up in her house until the ringing stops.  Don't answer that phone and then start shouting at your house mate that you "don't know what the hell the call is about. It's some damn thing or another."  Stop.  You know how to listen.  I know this because the minute I mention a big old discount you're able to focus in on what I'm saying.

And for the love of all that is holy, don't pretend you didn't get my 77 previous messages.  If you have voice mail or an answering machine, you've probably had it for eons and therefore you know how to get the messages.  The only person I've ever met who couldn't retrieve her voice mail message was Elsie W.

Do you really want to be in her category?

And finally, this isn't so much a category as it is a pet peeve of mine and since I'm giving you my pre-Christmas rant, I may as well throw this in:

Answering machines have been around for a long time now.  And yes, we've all fallen victim to wanting our outgoing messages to be personalized, funny, cute, whatever.  That said, let me just clue you in on how things are in 2013, now that we have voicemail, and digital everything.  I can speak to this because I've made about 1600 phone calls this month and this is what I run across all the time:

A) Sound clips taped from the TV or your favorite radio station are terrible.  No one can understand that garbled mess.  Erase and start over, this time with your own voice in a normal volume level saying normal adult things. you might be the biggest Princess Bride fan  (but you're not...because you're not me) but listening to some fuzzy, echo mess of you telling us you'll call us back and then Wesley saying "As you wish" from across the room is only a good idea in your head.  In real life it's terrible.  Stop it.

B)  Your children/grandchildren might be the apple of your eye, but their goo-goo gaa-gaa mess on your outgoing message only annoys everyone.  Yes, everyone.  Yes, even your best friend.  I'm the only one honest enough to tell you.  They aren't cute, they aren't adorable, they make everyone who calls you want to poke their ears out. And oh yeah, unless your pets have developed opposable thumbs, stop putting their names on the outgoing message.  I have four cats.  Do you really want to listen to, "You've reached the home of Sarah, Hubby, Peaches, Skippy, Jasper, Tacocat, Belle, and Jude" every time you call me?  Are you planning on leaving a message for the cats?  Then STOP!

C)  Only Dr. Suess is allowed to speak in rhyme.  You are not Dr. Suess.  Stop trying to come up with a cute rhyme on your outgoing message. It's terrible.  Stop it.

D)  The "press this number for this person"  Really?  Is your land line THAT busy that you have to have multiple lines for each child and each pet?  (true story)  I'm not pressing six to speak to Mr. Cuddles.  And chances are, if I want to talk to your kids, I'm not calling them on the phone.  So unless you are a business, stop it.

Well that's enough rant for this eve before Christmas Eve...I await your angry retorts or your comments of praise.  Whichever you prefer!

Strangling myself on a door handle wasn't even CLOSE to the dumbest thing I did this week!

Good afternoon!

This really should be a "Five for Friday" BUT since it's SUNDAY and I can really only think of four things...it's not.

This past week seemed to be, for me, a series of really, wildly unfortunate events, or just terrible choices.  So instead of burying a week of embarrassing, frustrating, and down right goofy moments of my life, what does a good blogger do?  A good blogger blogs!

Sooo, enjoy!


Yes, I can be taken down with a necklace and a door handle.

My grandmother was a big fan of the long necklace and I wear one of hers all the time.  It's not a precious antique or anything like that.  It's just really, really long string of odd shaped pearl-like beads.  I wear it looped twice around my neck, so that one loop is right up at my throat and the other dangles almost to my waist.

One of the things I do at work each day is, at the end of the day, go to the shop and make sure the two back doors are closed and locked.  It's not a difficult thing to do and 99% of the time the doors are closed and locked.  But I do it because in those last five minutes of the day I try and do as much as I can AWAY from my desk so I don't get that last minute phone call that puts me at my desk past quitting time.

This past week I was wearing my double looped necklace while doing this. Now I've worn this necklace to work a million times, without injury, but on this day, on this one day, the bottom look of the necklace caught on the door handle while I was opening and closing the door and checking the lock.  I did not notice it so when I turned to check the other door, I couldn't move and, thanks to the fact that I at first had no idea what was going on, the upper loop of the necklace instantly strangled me.

You'll be happy to know the necklace is in tact, the doors are locked.  As for oxygen loss to my brain, well, who will notice, really?  (Especially after you read the rest of this list.)

And if the necklace and door handle can't finish the job, French fries might.

For quite some time now I've not eaten French fries.  I used to LOVE THEM, but as I age, I find they don't really agree with my digestive tract all that much and, frankly, since I have to limit my caloric intake more and more with each passing year, I'd rather not eat something that doesn't make me happy anymore.

Last week, however, I had a craving for Culver's French Fries, extra crispy.  (If you go to Culvers, you can order them "extra crispy" and they have to double deep fry them.  MMMMmmmmmmmm.)  So I got a small order at lunch and ate them in the parking lot where I eat lunch and take naps along with about a half dozen other office drones from other businesses.  (We don't speak, we nod to each other from our cars and everyone keeps their radio volumes down.)

I then decided to forgo the nap and instead clean out the rubbish from my car.  Somewhere in the up and down motion of cleaning the floor of my car, my body said, "Well if you're just going to toss your stomach contents around, then you may as well have them back."

Yep, I blew chunks in the Culvers parking lot.  More specifically, I blew French fries in the Culvers parking lot.  Unfortunately, it was the same day Peaches and Skippy came down with some sort of stomach bug, so for a brief bit I thought I was actually sick.  But...no...it was just my fat old body telling me that 1)  We are done with the French fries and 2) physical activity immediately after eating is never a good idea.

Oh I'm sorry...I thought the express lane was for 15 ITEMS or less...not three items and your endless personal and financial issues.

Immediately after said barfing episode, I got a text from Peaches requesting white soda and crackers for her stomach ailment.  Since I wanted to distance myself from my soiled parking space, I ran over to the local Pick and Save  (and we all know how I feel about that store) for TWO THINGS!  TWO THINGS!

I figured, two things, and the express lane only has three people in it, I'll be in and out quickly.

WRONG. I chose...poorly.  See, the first woman in line had about 30 items...and was trying to redeem a cash reward from her store card before the reward expired.  (That would be...on that very day.)  She was arguing with the clerk about the amount of the reward. 

The next woman behind her only had two items.  And seven coupons.  And she also, wanted to redeem her cash reward from her store card...again, because those rewards were expiring.  SHE argued with the clerk about how many of her coupons she could use.  (again, this is in the EXPRESS LANE.)

The gent directly in front of me had 8 items.  I counted them because I had so much TIME in line.  He had a store card, which he had out and ready and he was paying with a credit card.  I was overjoyed.

She scanned all his items:  two bags of peanuts, two loaves of bread, three of those HUGE chocolate bars and the BIGGEST bag of sugar the store carried.  He handed her the store card, which took off half his bill, leaving him with about $20 to pay. I had to wonder just how much that huge bag of sugar was...but I didn't have a chance because old guy then said, "Well, you have to take the sugar off, because that's  three more dollars than what I have."

Dude, you are paying with a CREDIT CARD! 

I know that feeling.  I've been there more often than I care to talk about, with credit cards.  BUT, I also know that if you're banging on the ceiling of your limit, you add your totals BEFORE you get in the EXPRESS LINE.

Finally, after the longest 9 minutes of my life...and remember this is the EXPRESS LINE, it was my turn.  I had my two items there, and I put one of those plastic dividers between my two items and the soup the woman behind me was getting.  She said, "Oh, you don't want to pay for my soup?"

Looking back, I may have been a bit short with her when I yelled "NO! I AM NOT PAYING FOR YOU SOUP!"  But hey, I'd just spewed in the parking lot and spent 9 minutes of my life watching three people  (and does it surprise any of you that they were elderly?  Nope, that's how my life goes.) try to argue and adjust things with a Pick and Save clerk like we're at some camel market.

And finally...I get vengeance on Woodman's gas station for making me look uncool.

I like Woodmans' markets.  We just got one here in my home town, but there are some hither and thither around Wisconsin.  Woodmans' markets are low priced and do not take credit cards.  They do take debit cards.  And, they have gas stations.

While visiting my friend Linda this weekend, I realized I needed gas.  I decided that, before we went to breakfast, I would fill up at the Woodmans'.  I'd never gotten gas there before, but I thought I'd give it a try.  I pulled up to the pump and got out.  I realized I hadn't pulled up far enough and there was no way the hose would reach my tank.  So I had to get back in the car, start the car, pull the car forward about a foot, and then stop it again.  Not cool.

THEN the pump said, "PREPAY."  No problem.  I always prepay because I don't like going into the gas station.  I got my debit card and looked for the slot to plug it.  There was none. Nope, they wanted me to PREPAY by going in to the station and paying up front.  Not looking cool at the moment.

So I go to the station, and hand the girl my debit card.  She tells me to go fill up and she'll run the card when I'm done.  I do so and return to the station where she hands me my card and tells me to swipe it.  Which I do.  "Oh you have to wait until I tell you to do it."

I thought you just did. 

Well, no matter, she then says, "Go ahead and I swipe it again.

This time, the machine pretty much explodes.  I mean, there's no explosion, but it shuts down and it shuts down hard.  It starts something she calls a "reboot" and she, clearly, has never in all her years at Woodmans' seen this.  (Note:  She looked all of 17, so it's not like we're talking a vast experience here.)  We wait a few minutes, but here's the thing: when the computer goes into reboot mode, apparently NOTHING ELSE is going to happen in that gas station.  So, to the old gent who gave her his license and then went to pump three, and couldn't get gas?  Yeah, that was me...and I'm sorry, but you're at the receiving end of my wrath from the other day at Pick and Save.

To the woman who came in to prepay and heard clerk child say, "It's going to be a few minutes, I have no idea how long,"  Sorry.  But hey, at least you didn't have to wait in line for twleve minutes...like the guy behind me did.

And to the guy behind me who thought getting gas was going to be a quick little errand, sorry.  But, no, I'm not really, because you were good looking and gave me something to look at while clerk child was trying to say clever things about how long we'd have to wait.  (Hint:  She failed at that.)

So yeah, thanks Woodmans' gas, for helping to perpetuate the world view that I'm super uncool.  Next time, you can mess with some other complete dork who may, or may not, be able to unwittingly shut down your gas operations for twelve solid minutes on a Saturday.

Friends, this is going to be my last blog for the month of November.  Most of you know that I do nanowrimo in November and this year I'm hoping to write almost an entire novel.  Pretty steep stuff, considering I haven't written anything since November started.  So I'll be out until after Thanksgiving.  In the meantime, check out past blogs...because there's no way you've read them ALL, OR, click here to purchase my past novels AND THE FIRST ELSIE BOOK to pass the time until we meet again!

Five for Friday: The crazies may be gone, but my job is still insane...and hilarious.

Good afternoon!

I was starting to think that, with the departure of Elsie W., Noelle C., and Aqua Girl/Pandora, my job was no longer going to be funny.  I especially thought that when the newest in the line of ISP's showed up.  Her name is Kay and folks, I'm delighted to say that since Kay showed up, I no longer wish to die every single day.  I no longer wish to leave Stuff, Installed. 

Now part of that is that Kay is hilarious.  She's a fluffy girl, like me, and we laugh a lot.  Yes, she's twenty years younger than I am, but her sense of humor and mine a very close.  I think our boisterous laughter is starting to confuse NBM.  He doesn't know how to deal with two women in the office who like each other and have zero interest in him on any level.

Part of the reason I like my job once more is because, well, I'm a genius.  Rather, I'm being hailed as a genius.  See, in order to get someone normal into that ISP chair, I had to figure out how to make the work schedule more normal.  NBM wasn't going to do it, he's not an outside the box thinker.  But, after some serious pondering, I hit upon a plan that not only gave Kay a two day weekend, but also gave me...a THREE DAY WEEKEND!

Yes, I now work a 12 hour day on Mondays...but I have Fridays off!  TAH DAH!


The downside to all this, however, is that my face book posts are no longer filled with misery and stupidity. I was starting to worry that I was no longer funny.

And then I started to really listen to our customers and I realized that I am working in a gold mine of ridiculousness.  Which brings me to my five for Friday:  Five things that happened in the last ten days to remind me that my job is still insane and hilarious:

5)  "My job is wait for someone to insult me like that."

I'm really starting to think that the AARP population is out to make my life difficult on purpose.  Earlier this week a gent walked into my showroom and started asking me questions about what we do and don't install here at Stuff, Installed.  He asked if we installed toilets or sinks.  I said no, and explained what we do.  He asked if we installed windows.  Again, I said no and again I explained what we do.

He then asked me, "Well what good are you?"

Hey, I'm a lady.  And I was wearing jewelry and perfume and nice lady like looking clothes that day and darn it all I didn't feel the need to have Mr. REALLY Old Spice question my purpose in life. 

And so I let fly with, "I wait here all day for people like you to ask me that very question,"

4)  "And I assumed you weren't a jackass. Guess we were both wrong."


Mr. Really Old Spice didn't stop his insults. Most of you know I have a candy dish on my desk.  And when people say, "May I take a piece of candy,"  what I say, nay, what everyone in a polite society says is, "Sure, help yourself."

This jackwagon decided he was going to be cute.  When I said that, he picked up the whole dish and started heading for the door. Now, granted, he was old, so it wasn't like he was moving at the speed of light, but still, I sat down at my desk and waited to see if he was really, truly, going to walk off with my entire pile of candy...and the dish as well.

By the time he got to the door, he stopped  (I think he was winded from the walk) and he looked at me and said, "Hey, you said I could help myself."

Now, I wanted to say a lot of things.  But what I said was, "Well, I didn't think you were the kind that stole from ladies.  But hey, if you truly need that candy dish, well, you're right, I did say help yourself."

It took him about five minutes to old man stroll back to  my desk, put the candy dish in its spot and go back to the door. 

3)  "Just how filthy are you?"

Part of my job at Stuff, Installed is to take customer calls  from people who have questions or problems with the stuff we install.  Most of the time it's very simple and I'm able to solve a problem in a few minutes.  I'm just that awesome.  But then there are days that I get a call that's so wildly out there I start to think about just how I managed to fall into a job where all of our customers are naked when they are using our product.

This week I took a call from a lady, let's call her Edna.  Edna was old, OF COURSE, and had a problem.  See, we installed a bath tub in her home.  Now we installed that tub almost ten years ago.  But hey, there's a lifetime warranty on the tub so long as she doesn't do anything stupid with it, like clog dance in it wearing golf shoes or drill a hole in it.

Edna wanted to install a safety bar.  No problem, I said, and I quoted her a price.  All was well.  Then Edna launched into a complaint I'd never gotten before.

"When you installed my tub I had a lever that I could pull up and down to empty the tub. But when you installed my tub you put the stopped in the drain and that's how I'm supposed to get the water to drain out, but pushing on that stopper."

I'm with her so far.

"Well, when you installed the tub, you told me I couldn't have that lever because you didn't install that kind of thing."

"That's correct," I tell her.  "You drain our tubs by pushing on the stopper in the drain."

"Well I just say your TV commercial and I watched it very carefully and you have that lever on your tubs now, and I want one."

I curse the day we ever put together a TV commercial.  It's a nice commercial, don't get me wrong.  But we can't afford to run it during prime time, so we run these commercials during the day, on the Game Show Network, or on those networks that run reruns from the 1950's.  The people who see our commercials are people who are watching 1950's TV during the day.  They are not people who can see the TV screen that well, or who can hear all that well.  I know because I take calls from them and 99% of the time the TV is SCREAMING in the back ground.

"Well, Ma'am, I don't know what to tell you, but we do not install those levers."

"You are trying to withhold the lever from me.  I want you to install that lever because I don't want to get out of the tub and then have to put my hand in that nasty bath water to empty the tub.  And now you're lying to me because I watched that commercial very carefully."

(It might not even be a commercial for Stuff, Installed.  Most people confuse us with the other 99 stuff installation companies out there.)

I tried to explain to this lady that I wasn't lying to her, but in the back of my mind I just couldn't help wondering just how dirty this woman was...and why she was so loathe to put her hand in the water mere seconds after she'd been SITTING IN IT.

"Well I'm going to have someone else put that grab bar in because you're just lying to me about the lever."

"Ma'am, I would not recommend having someone else install the safety bar because if you have someone else drill a hole in our product, you will void your warranty with us."

"I don't have a warranty with you."

I could go on...but I'll just say she accused me a second time of lying to her, this time about having a warranty.

2)  Three accents, two time zones and one computer later we discover that I'm not the idiot.

My computer has been a source of aggravation since the day I started at Stuff, Installed.  It's slow, it's unreliable, and it shuts down for no apparent reason some days.  But hey, I'm not a whiner...at least not at work.  But two weeks ago NBM realized that everyone's Internet was too slow for words and since it was starting to affect his ability to access ESPN.com on his work computer, he had someone come in and look at things. The tech informed him that if he had to work on my computer, he'd quit.

I got a new computer a week later.

I was not all that excited to install it.  See, even though my computer is slow, everything I need is right where it's supposed to be on it.  NBM assured me that the IT guy at our home office in Tennessee would transfer all my files from my computer to another computer in the office, we'd install my computer, and then he'd transfer all the files to the new computer.  "Should take five minutes" says NBM who has the technical knowledge of, well, let's just say I'm his go-to person when he can't figure out how to operate Face Book. Which is pretty much every day.

I won't bore you with the details, but the transferring of files from old computer to other old computer took two solid days.  See, the IT guy in Tennessee got stung by a Brown Recluse spider and had to leave early and the IT guy at the home office in Canada couldn't figure out what Tennessee had done with my files.

One day three, I called Canada after installing my new computer.  Canada again couldn't find my files, so I called Tennessee. Tennessee wasn't picking up his phone.  Finally, on day FOUR, Tennessee transferred my files from the second computer to my new computer.

Couple things:  I couldn't print.  I couldn't scan, and there was clearly no word processing program on the new computer.  I couldn't open any of my files.  Sure, they were there, but I wouldn't open them.

I called Canada because THAT'S where the computer came from.  After answering several questions, Canada again reloaded my files. This time I could open them...but still couldn't print or scan.  (No big deal...it's just that that's WHAT I DO ALL DAY.)

On day five I got an email from Canada.  Turns out...they sent me the wrong computer.  They sent me a computer destined for some other desk...one that was going to load all sorts of fancy programs and that's why it literally had NOTHING on it. They'd also sent us a second computer, one NBM was going to use to replace another ancient machine.  Canada wanted one of those back.  Since NBM didn't feel like crawling under my desk to get mine it was agreed he'd send the other one back.

One day six, I called Tennessee twice, asking that he help me load a scanning program onto my new computer. I never heard back from him.

But I'm a smart girl and I have an empty desk next to mine.  So now, on Monday, which will be day nine of the five minute file transfer, I'll hook up my old computer on that desk and I'll officially have command of two desks and two computers.

All because IT won't return a phone call.  Probably another spider bite.

1)  "Well, if you're out of band with, you're out of band with.  And yes, I see how that is my problem."

I fill out permits for building inspectors.  This involves talking to a lot of older guys, guys who were builders and plumbers, but retired and now inspect building and plumbing.

Last week I mailed a permit to a small town.  The building inspector is roughly 100 years old.  A couple days later I called to schedule the inspection.  He scheduled it, but informed me he hadn't received my paperwork yet.  I said it was weird, since I mailed it a week earlier and the town was four miles from my desk.

He inspected the building a few days later and still insisted he hadn't received the paperwork and the check.  (The check being the more important thing.)  He then had his secretary call me. She's younger than he is...by about four years.

She asked me a series of questions, implying that I was lying about mailing the forms.  Then she asked me where I'd mailed the forms.

"I mailed them to the address at the top of the form."

"Oh, well, there's your problem," she said.  "That's our physical address.  We don't get any mail here."

"Where should I have sent it?"

"Oh, to our P.O. box."

"I see," says I.  "And is that P.O. box number on the form?"

"Where did you get the form?"

"From your inspector.  He faxed it to me."

"Well he got it from our website.  And we ran out of band with on the website and just didn't have enough room for one more line on the forms.  So the P.O. Box number got left off the forms and it's not on the site."

So let me get this right.  You don't get mail at your actual location  (doubtful, since I've mailed things to them many times) and you have to get mail sent to an address you don't have listed anywhere on your forms.  And this is my problem how?

Oh yeah, my job is still insane. 

I know where the Daryls are!

Good evening!

I thought I'd be writing about the insanely goofy things that seem to keep happening to me every time I get into the pool at Gold's.  I mean, granted, I should have known no good would come of me trying to replicate the foot stomp the guy in the speedo did a few weeks back. What was I thinking?  I'm old.  I'm fluffy. I have an arthritic toe!  Slapping my feet on the deck of the pool was...in a word...ill-advised.



However, no, I'm not going to tell you how I managed to further cripple myself by giving in to the urge to do that weird foot slap walk the speedo did.  Nope, not gonna tell you.  Not gonna do it.
Instead, I'm going to tell you about the other time in my life when ridiculous things seem to happen to me...without fail.  When I'm standing in line for ANYTHING at Sam's Club.

For those of you who aren't familiar with Sam's club, it's one of those buy in bulk warehouse stores.  They've added a few things since they opened their doors and now you can get big screen TV's, tires, prescription meds, eyes checks, hearing checks, and oh yes, your toilet paper...in gross.  It's the one stop shop for people with unlimited storage space.  (Or with children who can't seem to eat enough peanut butter to satisfy them.  Seriously...you should see how much peanut butter we go through.)

Now I get why people join Sam's.  If you buy in bulk, you get a better price.  We buy fruit there, the milk prices are always good, and face it, with four cats, we have to buy kitty litter by the truckload.  I get it.  I have kids.  We have a ton of cats.  We need to buy in bulk.

And yet...it seems like every time I'm in a line at Sam's club...I'm behind an old guy who is gumming up the works because 1)  He's in self checkout and hasn't a clue what he's doing; 2)  he's at the pharmacy and forgot what his doctor was supposed to order for him...and he forgot his birthday...and he forgot everything; 3)  he's in customer service asking all the question that could possibly be asked about everything because he's an old guy and has no place else to go.

I'd like to make a solemn vow at this point, and I'd like all the retired people to sit up and listen and maybe adopt this as their own policy:  I solemnly swear, when I have retired, and I have NO PLACE ELSE TO GO AND NOTHING ELSE TO DO ALL DAY I will get on with my daily business and be off the streets and out of all lines by 4:30 in the afternoon when the people who are still employed start their shopping and errands.  I will do this because, as a retired person, I have ALL DAMN DAY to get in lines and ask questions and forget things in front of people, and I don't need to be doing it during the time of day when exhausted mothers and fathers are just trying to do ONE LAST THING before they get home and order pizza...again...because they're tired...again...and have to get up and go to work early in the morning.

Now, I'd like all retired people to raise your right hand...I'll wait...because that's what retired people MAKE ME DO EVERY TIME I'M AT SAM'S CLUB!

Today was no exception.  I had four stops to make after work and one of them was to return a pair of pants to Sam's.

Let me stop here for a moment and just say, if Sam's doesn't want people to return clothing, they really should provide a trying on room.  And if pants makers don't start getting some sort of standard for women's pants, I'm going to have some sort of attack.  Seriously, any pair of pants that is in my size and labeled "SUPER STRETCH"  should FREAKING FIT!  I should not have to lie on the bed and suck in my fat if I've purchased a pair of pants in my numeric size that are labeled "super stretch."  There should be a standard.  A 16 should fit no matter what the label.  I should NOT be able to wear a 14 in some pants and a 16 in others and then not be able to even zip up an 18 in another brand.  That's just wrong.

Anyway, back to the standing in line.  So I'm in line waiting to return a pair of pants.  That's all I wanted to do.  Go in, return, leave.  Any other store in the world, this is a four minute transaction tops.  I know.  I've returned a lot of pants.

At Sam's, however, I got behind this retired couple who, I'm guessing, wanted to hear the complete history of Sam's club while trying to take out a home loan at the customer service desk.  I realize Sam's doesn't do home loans.  I'm pretty sure Old Person One and Old Person Two did not.  Not, given the amount of time they spent asking questions of the Sam's club employee.

But this post isn't so much about the retired couple in front of me as it is about the two old guys behind me. 

Back in the 80's there was a very fun show called "The Newhart Show."  If you're not familiar with the plot, it doesn't matter.  The biggest laughs came from a named Larry.  Larry was a derfy looking guy who had a line he said every time he came on screen followed by two derfier looking guys:

"Hi, I'm Larry. This is my Brother Daryl, and this is my other Brother Daryl."

And we laughed every single time.  Every. Single. Time.

Well, for those of you wondering where the Daryls wound up...I can tell you. They were standing behind me in the customer service line at Sam's club this afternoon.  And they were there, and I'm not kidding here, JUST TO STAND IN LINE.

There they were, standing there, sipping Coca Cole out of those gigantic Styrofoam vats Sam's sells.  And they looked just like they did back in the day, just a bit older, but certainly no cleaner!  A female employee of Sam's stopped to see if she could help them, maybe direct them somewhere or point them toward the door where their essence of Coke and old man wouldn't be quite so...sturdy.

"No thanks," they told her.  "We like standing in lines."

And there it is.  The reason I keep getting behind retired people at 4:30 in the afternoon. They have nothing else better to do, so they like to stand in lines...and clearly, none of them is finished doing that until well after 4:30.