The MOST Unnecessary Cooking Tip...Ever.

Good evening!

Those of you who follow this blog know three things about me:  

1)  I do not do well when I have to wait in a line.

2)  I hate Pick n Save, and especially the one near my work which I call the "racist" Pick n Save because the soda, liquor, junk food and FRIED CHICKEN is in the front of the store while the fresh fruits and veggies are relegated to a back corner that's actually blocked off from site.

3)  I'm a terrible cook.

The last one is especially true.  I'm not so much terrible as I am uninspired.  See, like every home cook, I have six recipes in my head and about another half dozen I can look up quickly and generally have everything I need on hand.  BUT, a couple years ago, Hubby went vegetarian on me, which wiped out every single one of my recipes.  Thusly, for the last couple years, not only have I been not a great cook...I haven't really cooked much.

Case in point:  Last night, deciding we can't get yet another cheese pizza, I decided to try a little creativity in the kitchen.  Hey, I'm a writer, I'm creative, I should be able to build a recipe with what I have in the kitchen.

I came up with a casserole, the food of my PEOPLE, and I called this wondrous thing: STUFF IN BOWL.

I can't remember exactly what I put in there.  It started out as some sort of tuna/rice casserole and wound up being a "clean out the fridge" sort of collection of ingredients.  I'm pretty sure nacho sauce was involved.  

It was NOT a rousing success.

So today I decided I would do a bit better.  I did manage to come up with a recipe for vegetarian tater tot casserole a few weeks back and everyone seemed to like that.  So I went to the Pick n Save by my work, against my better judgement, and I picked up everything I needed for dinner, plus a couple more items.  I broke my golden rule of shopping at that stupid store:  I went over 15 items.  And thus I was forced to wait in line behind the senior citizens who pay with a check, never have two forms of ID, and have 97 coupons, half of which are expired, and yet they feel the need to debate all of them.

After waiting in line for roughly half my lunch hour, it was finally my turn.  I loaded my stuff on the belt, waited for the woman to scan everything, and paid her.  Then, it happened.

We have Cream of Mushroom Soup? WHERE IS THAT?

The woman bagging my groceries  (my other rule is that if I MUST shop at Pick n Save, I WILL go to the aisle with a bagger.) was studying my items.  Seriously. She was STUDYING my items.  I felt like I was in that SNL skit where their at Target and the cashier runs away to get something off a shelf.

I must have made some sort of noise that resembled that of a dying goose...or possibly what I thought I was screaming in my head, "YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS RIGHT NOW!"  came out in actual out loud verbabl words, but the bagger looked at me.  

"Oh yum," says she, "I love those taters tots!"

"Oh?" says I, barely keeping a grip on my patience.

"Oh yeah...you put them in the oven, you know."

I smiled and nodded, but inside my head was EXPLODING with snappy comebacks such as, 

"Really?  I've been eating them right out of the bag."

"Oh yeah?  Well, see, I was planning on setting them out in the sun to solar cook."  (See that's funny because we in Wisconsin don't get much sun January-May.)

"An oven?  Oh, wait, tater tots are food?  Geez, I've been throwing them in the drier like drier sheets!  The laundry gets greasy, but everything smells so good!"

But mostly, what I wanted to yell was, "YES, I KNOW!  AND THANK YOU FOR GIVING ME THE MOST UNNECESSARY COOKING TIP EVER!"

I have really got to start looking into Peapod.  

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.

The road to (my) low self esteem is paved with good intentions...and fat pants.

Good morning!

The fact that I work seven minutes from my parents' house has, in the last few years, been a source of mild annoyance and awkward hilarity for me.  My mother finds the oddest reasons to drop in to my place of business and, in the course of a conversation, will forget that we're in my place of business.  She has no problem discussing, out loud, in my office, in front of NBM with his bat-like hearing about her various issues, including gas and bowel movements.  She's brought up tender topics like my own approaching menopause and always, always, always this new health thing or that to battle my life long war against my weight.

I've always blushed easily, so to say these visits leave me red faced is really not a big deal.  Still, hey, I bet no one else has their parents drop in at their work and talk about hemeroids.  Right?

Well, this week I believe my parents hit an all time high water mark for uncomfortable visits to my office.  And honestly, I'm sure they meant it in the best possible light...but given the fact that my mother has always been a size 4-6 where I've been shopping on the plus side of the aisle for more than fifteen years, this was a stinger.

You're the only one
big enough for these pants...and no more
wire hangers.

See, here's what went down:

My grandmother lives in a very nice old people's home where they play bingo and win little prizes.  I'm not sure what grand prize bingo tourney g-ma won, but the prize was a plus size pair of women's sweat pants...in turquoise.  

My grandmother used to be a sturdy woman.  I take after her and my aunt that way.  Old age  (She's 97) has taken its toll and she's shrunk a bit as old women will.  She's no longer that sturdy of a woman.  "She still thinks she's this big," says my mother, "but she's much smaller."

At this point, my mother is holding the sweat pants up...while standing in my office...and I know all too well just where this is going.  But I'm a good daughter.  I have to wait for the boom.

"So I tried them on, and they are way too large for me."  She says, a smile on her face.

At this point my face is so hot I can feel the make up sliding down my neck.

"So I figured they'd fit you just fine.  You know, for when you're writing."

She hands me that rolled up wad of soft material and I take it.

"See, hold it up...look, they'll be just fine on you."

Did I mention NGTJ and PM are both witnessing this?  Thank heavens NBM, who is a health nut and will, on ocassion, express enthusiasm when NGTJ and I talk about diet and exercise.  (He's nothing like my old Evil Bossman, though, so I give him points for that.)  

Yes, my coworkers are witnessing my mother and father standing there, handing me these massive sweat pants, and talking about how all the females in my family tried them on and decided I alone was large enough to wear them.

Earlier in the day PM, who had a fairly lousy week, expressed the desire to shoot himself.  When parents left (but NOT until after they then launched into all the gory details of my father's upcoming cataract surgery...the perfect diet plan.  Have a parent give details of an upcoming procedure.  You'll never want to eat again.)  I asked him if he did, indeed have a firearm with him, because I, too, wanted to shoot myself.

Peaches' boyfriend, a very sweet boy who is funny and awkward and fits in around here pretty well, heard this story and made me feel a bit better:  "I'm sure she meant it in a nice way, though, right?"

She probably did.  

And, curse it all, they are comfortable pants.

Yes, I'm wearing them right now.

Shoot me.

It's the most wonderful time of the year...for me, anyway.

Hello all!

I know, I've been a bit AWOL this month.  It's February in Wisconsin and we are in our 99th day of ridiculously cold and snowy and awful winter with no end in sight.  Other than the fact that at this point we're immune to the cold and we're shoving our kids out to the bus stops when it's -45 F with the windchill where six weeks ago we were wailing that they must stay home and be safe  (face it, NO ONE wants to go to school in JULY) not much funny has been happening to me in a while.

As we approach March, however, I am joyful.  Why?  Because NOW is my favorite time of the year.  From now until June 25 I get to do my favorite thing:

I get to yell at people to take down their Christmas decorations.

It's the most wonderful time of the year!

See, this started like most things do in my life:  My husband and I were walking one evening, and we noticed someone who hadn't removed their Christmas lights from their house, and it was April.  "Take them down already," says Hubby.

And thus, my mania was born.

Awesome in December.  Ridiculous in March.

My family cringes now as we drive or walk by a house and they've still got holiday remnants on their house or in their yard.  I have no problem at all rolling down my car window and yelling "TAKE 'EM DOWN!"  at the top of my lungs.  (This is especially fun when it's really warm and we're walking and the homeowners in question are cooking out.  And remember, Homey don't run...especially from angry homeowners.)

I wanted to start yelling about January 15th.  See, I'm the lowest common denominator of everything.  Basically, if my family and I can manage to get the stuff down by the 15th of January, then everyone else should, too.  BUT, Hubby, on this one thing in our lives, is far more liberal than I am.  He insists I wait until Groundhog Day (Feb 2) to start berating our neighbors and complete strangers.  He's also mentioned that this year, given the severity of the winter, I should hold off until at least St. Patrick's Day.

Not a chance.  We all managed to get the lights up in this weather and 80% of us got them down in this weather.  SO TAKE THEM DOWN!

I look forward to this time of year like most people look forward to Christmas.  I'm giddy, I'm counting the days and I shout out the first "TAKE 'EM DOWN" with all the glee of a child staring at a loaded Christmas tree.

Now I'm not a monster.  I start gently enough.  I typically start with "Turn 'em off!" This is for people who insist on lighting those Santa lights and those silly inflatable reindeer and the 9 foot tall Frosty well into January.  Come on...turn 'em off.  Once Groundhog day rolls around, I'm on it, but my car windows are still rolled up.  I probably won't really up the volume until the first real thaw...(given the way this winter is going, that could be June.) that's when I roll down the windows or stroll past the house and yell out loud.

The thing that gets me the most are the wreaths.  Live wreaths annoy me the most post-Christmas because, unlike lights, they don't typically involve getting a ladder out to remove them and yet, it seems like 97% of everyone who gets a live wreath leaves them up year 'round until they get a new wreath.  WHAT IS THAT ALL ABOUT?  Seriously...you think it's cool to have a dead, brown, dried up wreath hanging on your house in the middle of summer?  You think your house looks awesome with that red ribbon, which is limp

Oh brown wreath...so pretty...

and filthy because it's been through all kinds of weather, is still attached to the brown wreath this is still attached to your house?  TAKE IT DOWN!

And those of you who haven't taken down your Christmas tree?  If it's in front of a window, you best pull the drapes.  Finding someone who still has their tree up at this point in the year (and there are two houses on the street between my house and my husband's work that yes, still have their trees up in the house.) is like gold to me.  I clap my hands gleefully and shout, "YOU CAN'T BLAME THE WEATHER ON THIS!  TAKE IT DOWN!"

But why, I'm sure you're asking, do you stop yelling June 25th?  (well, for lights...not for wreaths.  I can't stop yelling about wreaths) Because once we cross June 25th, we are officially closer to the next Christmas, and therefore homeowners, provided they've had the guts to ignore me, get my nod of approval because now they are way ahead of the game.

Great in November, very prepared, awesome.
BUT THIS WAS TAKEN IN MAY!

So, here's fair warning to three of the four houses across the street from mine (the fourth house is currently empty.)  TAKE DOWN YOUR DECORATIONS!

That line of houses on my way to work:  TURN THEM OFF!  It's almost MARCH.  Turn off the lights!

And to everyone who still has a wreath hanging on your house:  Go outside RIGHT NOW and TAKE IT DOWN!

And if you hear someone yelling something as they drive by your house...that's probably me.  Come on out and say hi.  I might even help you remove your holiday decorations.

Some say misogyny. Some say chivarly. I say "You were wrong and I was right!"

Hey there, ho there kids.

It's cold up here in the Upper Midwest. 

When I say that, I don't mean it's the usual January type of cold where we get a chill when we cross the street to chat with our neighbors without our coats on.  I mean the actual high temp tomorrow of my home town is not going to cross the 0 degree line.  (And that's Fahrenheit, for those of you who deal in Celsius.  Fahrenheit means freezing is 32 degrees.  So....zero...that's pretty fartin' cold!)  And then, we have this delightful thing up here called WIND CHILL FACTOR which is going to bring the "feels like" temp down to a rousting -40.  And for funsies, we've had nothing but wind and

Do not adjust your set.  These are actual negative numbers.

constant, daily snow, so we are buried under drifts that move every day.  It's an adventure.

I'm telling you about the cold only as a preface to yet another one of my super sensible customer care phone calls I took the other day.  At Stuff, Installed, our customers tend to skew a bit elderly because much of the stuff we install involves elderly safety.  So a few weeks ago when we got the first bout of DEATH COLD an older gentleman called.  This is how that went.

Man:  May I speak to someone who knows about the showers you install?

ME:  Sir, I'm the customer service person, what can I do for you today?

Man:  I'd like to speak to someone who knows about the showers you install.

ME:  Sir, I can help you with that.

MAN:  I'm not sure you can.

Okay, I refuse to get all bunched up about sexism.  He's old, I tend to sound younger than I am on the phone, so let's just say he didn't think someone the age of his grand daughter could help me and not assume that he doesn't think a woman can help him with his stupid shower problem.

As it turned out, I could.  See, his shower was frozen.  That's what he told me.  Not uncommon up here when things get frigid.  Pipes freeze all the time.  I sent a tech and all was well.

Mostly because I never miss
a chance to quote this movie.

However, no one told me the whole story of that repair.  Sometimes I think the repair guys don't tell me how things turn out because they don't like having to go on repair calls.  To quote "The Breakfast Club"  'It's an imperfect world.  Screws fall out all the time.'

Well late last week Skippy bon Old Fart called me back, and this is how it went this time:

Man:  I'd like to speak to someone who knows about the repair I had two weeks ago.

ME:  Well, if you give me your phone number I can look that up and I'll be happy to help you.

MAN:  I had a fella out here two weeks ago.  I can't remember his name, but he fixed the problem.  And then the problem came back and I fixed it, but now I have the same problem. You go find that fella and ask him to talk to me.

ME:  Sir, I would need your phone number to look up your account and find out what it is we fixed and who it is we sent.

Man:  May I please speak to someone who knows about the repair I had two weeks ago?

At this point, I realize this could go on for awhile, and I am running out of patience about as fast as frost crystals are running up the INSIDE of my OFFICE door. 

ME:  Sir, I'm the only one here, so I'm hoping you'll give me your phone number, or your name, so I can look up the account and help you with your problem.

Man: (gives me the phone number.)  I had that fella here, he knows what to do.  But I have an idea how to keep this from happening."

ME: I see we fixed a frozen pipe?

Man:  Yes.  The part of the shower pipe that attaches to the shower head is right up by my roof and when it gets cold like this it freezes.

ME:  Let me understand this:  The goose neck shaped pipe that is attached to your shower head freezes because it's close to your roof?

MAN:  Yes.

ME:  Sir, I think you may want to look at your insulation.  Pipes freeze in this weather, but an interior goose neck shouldn't freeze.  I think this is an insulation issue.

Man:  Well the fella that came over, he knocked in the pipe and that fixed it, so I did the same thing when it happened again.

ME: Well, sir, I honestly believe you may need a bit more insulation in your roof.  (At this point I'm trying to imagine how cold it is in his shower if that short bent pipe that leads to the shower head freezes.)

Man:  May I speak to the fella that was here and fixed it?

ME: He's on the road at the moment.

Man:  Well, I have an idea that will fix this and I need help with it.

ME:  (because I have zero self esteem)  What's your idea?

MAN:  I want a bath tub thing, the part where the water comes out...what's that called?

ME:  Faucet?

Man:  No, the thing in the tub where the water comes out.

ME:  Faucet?

Man: No, wait...the pipe thing where the hot and cold water pour out of the wall.  The spigot.  No, that's not right.  Wait, faucet!  The faucet!  I want a bath tub faucet put in the pipe that goes to my shower head.so that when I turn the water off I can open the faucet and let the water run out.  That way the water will drain out of the shower head and it won't freeze.

Well, that's a good idea, with one small issue:  THAT'S NOT HOW FAUCETS WORK.  Opening a faucet is called TURNING ON THE WATER.  Now, you all know that button thingy on your faucet, the one you push down when you're done taking a shower?  That's call a diverter, and I'm thinking that's what he figured he'd do, just push that button and water would drip out of the faucet.  But that's not how things work.

Me:  Sir, I don't think we can do something like that.  (I look at his complete order.  It's a walk in shower.)  First of all, we'd have to rip everything out. (I look at his order more.)  Sir, do you have a hand held shower head?

MAN:  Yes.

ME:  With a hose?

MAN:  Yes,

ME:  And the shower head is attached to a hose and not to the wall?

Man:  Yes.

Me:  (Banging my head on the desk.)  Sir, the no pipes are freezing in your house.  If your shower head is too close to the ceiling on days like this where it might be freezing, I suggest you let the shower head dangle to drain all the water out of it. I also recommend you get your insulation looked at.

Man: No.  I want a bath tub faucet put in so I can drain the shower head.

Me:  Sir, in all honesty, I don't believe we can do that.

Man:  Well, then I want to talk to someone who does think we can do that.

Now, at this point what I wanted to say was, "No one in this building thinks we can do that because it's crazy, it's going to unbelievably expensive, and if you'd let your hand held shower head dangle upside down on these cold days it'll be fine.  You'll make it through this winter and let's face it, you aren't going to be around for next winter you old fart.  So stop saying insane things, and treating me like I'm a nine year old girl."

But I didn't.

Instead, I spied PM who just walked in, unaware that I was going to dump Mr. Nut Case on him. 

Me:  Sir, you know what?  My manager just walked in.  I'm going to have him talk to you for a moment.

Man:  Good. Now I get to talk to someone who knows something.

I'm sure he didn't mean that the way it sounded.  I'm sure he's from that era where men were men and women made pot roasts and dusted. I'm sure he meant to protect me from the evils of his frozen shower head and his obviously inferior insulation.  I'm not a women's libber, but I'd like to think that after being on this planet as long as I have I can command a certain amount of respect when I tell someone I know what I'm talking about. 

But I had a very good laugh.  After a very long conversation, PM came to my desk. 

Me: So, what did you tell him?

PM:  I told him we couldn't do something like that.  I suggested he have his insulation looked at.

The sad thing is...the guy probably did it because PM told him to.

Five for Friday: Actual customer calls I had to deal with this week.

I think the title says it all, so let's just get to it

5) "So what you're saying is, it's my son's fault."


Monday is my long day.  I open the Stuff, Installed phones and I close them.  It's 13 hours.  Most of the time I don't mind but this past Monday I should have known the week was going to be weird and ultimately the customers were going to break me. This was the last in a series of calls from the same woman, starting at 3:30 Monday and ending at 6:30.  It started innocently enough.  She'd scheduled some service work for 3:30 that day and she was calling to make sure she was still on the schedule.  She was, I said, and off she went.

That's when PM informed me that the repair guy had already been there, that her older son had let him in.  Hey, sometimes our guys run ahead of schedule.  I've never seen anyone get upset about us being early.  Except for this woman.

She called back half an hour later(after PM had left for the day) to inform me that our guy had been there and hadn't fixed anything to her liking, mostly because what she told us she wanted fixed and what she really wanted fixed were two completely different things. And then she, PM, and I spent the next three hours calling each other back and forth, with the final phone call, the one above.  After all her issues, we thought, had been eased, she found one more thing to fire at us.  Apparently, her adult son let our guy in and then left the house.  This is not unusual.  Our customers leave all the time,and we complete the work and lock up.  In her final, tearful rage, she wailed about "what kind of business would do that?  Stay in the house when everyone is gone?"  This piggybacked on one of her original complaints, that we'd entered her home without her permission.  (Her son was 21 and had let us in the home on numerous other times.  I don't know what she's doing in that bathtub, but she needs to stop doing it because she's clearly in need of too many repair calls.)  I explained again, that our repair guy had been let in by her adult son and it was completely within her son's rights to ask the guy to leave and come back later, but he didn't.

Which is when, deflated, exhausted, but still very, very cranky, she fired this at me, "So what you're saying is, it's my son's fault?"

The battle had been epic and no way, NO WAY was I going to throw gasoline on the waning flames.  I said, "What I'm saying is that should this ever come up again, your son needs to know he has the right to tell us to come back later."

It was only Monday night.

4)  "Maybe we should just take up a collection."

One of my many duties at Stuff, Installed is I process the payments for all new and completed installations. That means if a check bounces, if a credit card is denied, or if a payment is short, I'm the one who gets to discuss this with the customer.

We have a customer named Willie.  Willie is a sweet man, but he is one of those exhausting people who 1) mumbles 2) is really too old to be driving or operating a telephone and 3) has the attention span of a flea.  Willie had his stuff installed late last week and gave us a cashier's check to pay the balance once the job was done.  Little problem, the check was $8 short.

Everyone in the office groaned at the idea of the string of phone calls this would involve to get the $8 from him, and NBM came up with the idea for Willie's sales guy, my buddy Tank, to call him and get the money.  Well, Tank called him, but didn't get hold of him.  Tank had to leave a message.  And here's the thing about phone messages:  I'm 99% sure that of the over 100 phone messages I leave a day, only about nine people listen to them.  I'd like to test this theory by singing Rick Springfield songs or growling instead of leaving a proper message, but I haven't had the courage.

So a day later, I get this phone call:  "mmmmmmmmmm sum un call me?"
I say:  "Is this Willie?"

Reckon I'll git that $8 to ya mmm hmmm.

What followed, and I'm not kidding, was a twenty minute conversation about how he was going to get the $8 to us, a conversation that took several detours around subject such as his wife (who was either dead and "going home to Jesus" or was getting out of the hospital.  I'm not sure) to how he pays his bills.    I suggested he drop it at the showroom, which he'd done with the other payment.  NGTJ was not amused since she'd met Willie in the showroom, and she hadn't quite recovered.  So I then suggested he mail the money.  And then he had to write down the address...of the place he'd been.

What I didn't realize, until about the fourth time I said the street number to him, is that Willie was not only on his cell (which he's been known to simply drop or hang up in the middle of a conversation...phone skills are not his strength) but he was also DRIVING.  This didn't click with me until he said, "Mmmm, I drop fawn n paer. I gone hit sum fin mmmmmmmmm."

20 minutes on the phone with Slingblade later, he got himself to the bank where a teller and NGTJ had a quick conversation that cleared everything up.  I can't shake the picture of Willie's car crashing through the bank doors and him shuffling out to the teller with his phone in his hand...

We were close to giving up and just taking up a collection but the check showed up in the mail yesterday.  And no reports of death by old man's car crashing a bank.

3) "What kind of business are you running?"

One of my duties every day is to call the people whose stuff we are installing the next day and ask them if they have any questions about the installation.  Normally these calls take 45 seconds.  Not on Wednesday. No, on Wednesday I called a woman who said, "No, no questions.  Except..."

Oh boy.

Apparently she was having some plumbing installed.  And the plumber was there to prep things and while he was there, he is a plumber after all, she asked him to snake her drain.  Well, yes, he's a plumber, but he doesn't snake drains as a regular rule because he works on the mixer valve and then gets out.  So it wasn't unusual that he didn't have a snake in his truck.  This woman, however, was shocked.

"What kind of business are you running that you only have one snake in the whole company and your plumber doesn't have it?"

I could have given her ten reasons, but I didn't have the strength to argue.  I sensed we had a bigger battle ahead.

I hate it when I'm right.

I have to ask, when it's winter, if they have some indoor space in their home where the installer can set up.  Apparently, this woman had an issue with this question.

"I was never told I had to have space in my house.  My salesman told me I needed a garage.  I have a garage.  I have big rooms in my house, but there's furniture in there."

"Well, Ma'am, it's going to be -0 degrees out there tomorrow and snowing, so it makes the install easier..."

"I have no doubt it makes it easier for you!"

(I was going to say it makes it easier to control the materials if we can work at room temperature rather than below freezing because they don't have to wait for it warm up...which means the install takes less time.)

"And what kind of company are you running there that you need space inside someone's home to install something in their home?  I've never heard of such a thing."

Really?

Then she hits me with this:  "I told the sales guy I thought getting this work done in the winter was going to be a problem but he said oh no, it'll be fine."

"And it will be fine, ma'am.  We do installations in the winter all the time.  But your job needs a little work space and since it's going to be cold and snowing all I ask is that maybe you please move some of your furniture aside so he can work inside and your installation takes less time.

She argued this point for a very long five minutes.

Finally, I gave up.  I said, "Ma'am, it's fine.  He'll work in the garage."

"Well then I'll have to move my cars out of the garage and it's going to be cold and snowing."

I write fiction...and I can't possibly make this stuff up.

2) "Just clean it for me."

I'm not a sales person.  If I were, I'd probably do what all our sales guys do at Stuff, Installed.  I'd tell the customer whatever I had to to get them to buy the stuff we install.  And I might gloss over some things, and use vague terms for other things.  The end result of this practice is the following phone call I had on Thursday.

"I want someone to come and clean my bath tub."

"Ma'am, I can't have a tech come out and clean your bath tub."

"Your sales man told me in April that this was going to be a trouble free tub and I wasn't going to have to DO ANYTHING with it.  Now it's got a soap scum on the bottom that's disgusting."

"Ma'am, I have some really good cleaning tips for you to try."

"I've tried everything you told me to do and I can't get it clean and my cleaning lady can't get it clean and I need someone to come out here and clean my tub."

Let's review what she just told me:  She hasn't cleaned her tub in 9 months and now it's gross.  She called before, we told her how to clean it and neither she nor her cleaning lady were able to clean the tub.  (I'd fire the cleaning lady, but that's just me.)

"Ma'am, we really don't send our repair techs out to clean your bath tub."

"Well then your sales person lied to me.  I just wish I'd never heard of Stuff, Installed.  I spent all that money and you aren't going to come out and clean this tub?"

Had this not been the phone call that immediately followed both calls #3 and #1, I would have fought harder.  But I was as broken as I've ever been by customers.  I'd won one battle, (call #1) and I think of call #3 as a draw, since I lost one point, but won the overall war of opinion about the company.  So yes, I lost this one.  I sent a repair tech out to clean her tub.

As a sort of honorable mention, I have to bring up a phone I got on Thursday.  It didn't make this list, but it made the repair tech's list.  He's cleaning a tub and then he's going to another house to pull hair out of the drain. No, that's not part of our warranty either.  But I hadn't recovered by Thursday morning and the minute she started yelling at me about how we didn't care about widows and she was going to THE INTERNET to tell everyone she hated us, I had no fight in me.  So,  sorry Roger the Repair guy...you're on janitorial duty today.

And now:

1)  "Well this is just too much for me to handle."

This was one of my first phone calls on Wednesday.  A young woman called to tell me she had a leak in her home in the bath space she installed.  I was ready to schedule a service call but I had a few more questions to ask, and I'll just write this out the way it went down.  We'll call the lady Tammy.

Tammy:  I have a leak.

Sarah:  okay, where's the leak?

Tammy:  I can hear water dripping when the shower's on.

Sarah:  Does it drip outside the tub area?

Tammy:  No.  But I can hear it dripping when the shower's on.  I'm afraid it's dripping into the basement or between the walls or something.

Sarah:  Do you hear dripping when the shower is turned off?

Tammy:  No.

Sarah:  Do you see a puddle outside the shower or in the basement?

Tammy:  No.

Sarah:  But you think you have a leak?

Tammy:  Yes, because I hear water dripping when the shower is on and then it stops when the shower turns off.

Sarah:  Okay, let me just process this:  You have a leak but you can't see any evidence of the leak, you just hear water when the shower is on.

Tammy:  Yes.  And I'm afraid it's leaking into the basement.

Sarah:  What kind of ceiling do you have in the basement?

Tammy:  What do you mean?

Sarah:  Is it a finished, dropped ceiling, or something like that, where the bathroom floor would be hidden?  Can you remove a ceiling panel and look for a wet spot or something?

Tammy:  I don't know.  My husband looked around for water.

Sarah:  Did he find any?

Tammy:  No. He looked all around the shower area and didn't see anything.

Sarah:  Did he see anything in the basement?

Tammy:  I don't know if he actually went into the basement.

Sarah:  Okay, before I disrupt your day by scheduling a service call, we need to figure out if you really have a leak or not.

Tammy:  No, we have a leak.  I can hear the water running when the shower is on.  My husband told me to call you.

At this point Sarah thinks Tammy's husband told her to call us because he realizes he's married to a nut case and he's tired of dealing with her.

Sarah:  Okay, but before I send someone out, we have to figure out if the leak is coming from something we installed or if it's coming from a part of the plumbing that we didn't install.

Tammy:  Well, you installed the shower.

Sarah:  Yes, but I can tell you that in my house I hear all kinds of water noises when the shower is on.  Sometimes it's just water running through the pipes.  And you haven't seen any evidence of a leak.  So here's what I'd like you to do.  Can you go downstairs and look around in the basement and see if there's any puddle or anything?

Tammy:  My husband told me to call you. He looked all over the bathroom and didn't see a leak.

Sarah:  Right, so now we need to look in your basement to see if there's any water down there.  So can you just walk down to your basement and look for a puddle?

Tammy:  This is just too much.  I'm going to have to have my husband call you.  I can't do anything else.

And then she hung up.  I felt great.  I avoided sending a repair guy out to fix a leak that didn't exist.

And then I scheduled him to clean a tub and dig hair out of a drain.  He probably would have liked the phantom leak.

So that was my week.  We can only go up from here...

Okay, it's not "Rocky Horror" but it's close enough for us!

Good evening!

I'm BACK!  My computer stopped playing nicely with my blog and I thought I'd lost my blog there for a few days.  NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Drop. Your. Inhibitions!

But I'm back and it's a new year.  New Year, same silly stuff happens to me.  Case in point, my friend, Scarlett, sent me a message by Face book Monday night, informing me that The Princess Bride, our most favorite movie ON EARTH, was playing on the big screen at a theater close to my work.

There was no way I was missing this. The last time I saw this movie on the big screen was when it was in theaters the first time.  I was in college.  Now, Scarlett is just a tiny bit younger than I am, so she was in grade school when it came out and somehow missed seeing it.  Over the years she and I have bonded because of this movie, so we knew it was going to be a girl's night.  Since it was close to my work, we decided I would just leave from work and meet her at a local eatery that had a cheap happy hour.  Oh year, happy hour AND Princess Bride?  Sure, it was a Wednesday night, but I was IN!

I was set for a really good night.  I got to the place and got The. Best. Parking.  Spot. EVER.  Right in front of the eatery and next to the theater.  Whoot!  I got a table at the uncrowded bar and headed for the ladies room.

Friends, if you've been reading this blog for any length of time you know I have issues with public restrooms.  This time around...there was no hook on the stall door.  I know, I know.  Someone, a few years back, got their purse/sweatshirt/baby in a carrier stolen because it was on a hook in a stall and now places have been removing the hooks to avoid the theft.  Well, let me tell you something:  I'm a fluffy girl.  As a matter of principal, I try hard not to use the plus sized handicapped stalls.  So I'm in the stalls that are getting to be like airplane seats:  More and more narrow.  And it's winter here in Wisconsin.  It's so cold I had to put my inner lining in my coat which means I have more fluffiness and less mobility.  Think Randy from "A Christmas Story."

So I'm in the stall trying to find a place to put my purse, and, since I don't have enough room to remove my coat and if I had the room I wouldn't have any place to put it, I give up and just go with my coat on.  Not ideal...but okay, whatever.

When I get out, the next thing is the sink.  It isn't a sink...it's a trough.  And it's the kind of trough that has three faucets, but the soap is on either end...and there are people on the end faucets, so I'm stuck in the middle, and I have to wait, with dripping hands, to get some soap, and I have no place to put my purse because there's NO COUNTER and I wedge my purse between my knees.  So there I am, hands dripping, sweating because I'm in my double layered coat, and walking funky because my purse is between my knees.
One of the women moves away from the soap and I waddle/stagger to get some, but oh yeah, THAT DISPENSER IS EMPTY.

At this point I'm starting to think the Bleacher Buddy might be a good investment for me.

I finally get out and back to my table and I decide yes, I'm having a grown up martini.  I'm already one in by the time Scarlett arrives, and we order some semi healthy appetizers.  She gets a mai tai and quickly catches up with me.

An hour and another beverage later, we are ready for the movie.  We get to the theater,find our seats and giggle about how awesome it is to relive our childhood...okay, Scarlett's childhood, my young adulthood...now that our kids are grown and don't need us except for laundry and when they need to locate their insurance card.

There were a nice handful of people in the theater.  I was pleased with the showing and it was clear there were several who worshipped this movie almost as much as we did.

Not, however, the people directly in front of us.

Somehow, and that large room with ample seating, the only three people who HADN'T EVER SEEN THE MOVIE showed up and sat directly in front of two women who had polished off two beverages and not quite enough food to sop up the silly.

Stop. Wrecking. Every one's. Good. Time.

How do I know this?  Simple.  The movie opened and all around us, people were whispering the lines of the movie.  I was amazed and really, really jealous of Scarlett, who, when she says she knows every line of Princess Bride, was clearly not kidding. She knows EVERY SINGLE LINE!

We were having a BLAST.  We weren't being loud.  Everyone was being respectful and whispering along and laughing and having a great time.  Except for the three people in front of us.

How do I know this?  Well, about twenty minutes in, two of them moved.  And when I saw they moved, I mean they moved as far away from every other person in the theater as they could, which put them right up in the front row of seats.  Now, folks, honestly, it's a movie that came out in 1987.  It's been on VHS, DVD, Blue Ray and on basic cable for years.  How are there still three people in the world who haven't seen this movie and how on earth did they wind up in front of us on the one night it was on the big screen?

Okay, so two people moved to the front row, which put a nice buffer between them and the rest of us who continued to enjoy the movie...and now perhaps a bit louder since they moved.  What we all didn't realize until later is that there was a third person, someone who didn't want to damage their neck in the front row, but someone who also couldn't seem to get the plot of the movie without being away from PEOPLE.  She got up ten minutes after her friends and moved down by them.

The rest of the night was awesome.  We in the back half of the theater cheered, awwwwwwwed, and laughed through the rest of the movie, and there wasn't one person who didn't say, "WUV , TWUUUUU, WUV."

No, there were three.  But they were in the front row.