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!

Kindle Users: Last TWO DAYS for FREE ELSIE W.!

Hey Kindle Readers!

Today and tomorrow, October 26 and 27 are the LAST TWO DAYS for you to get Elsie W.'s FIRST BOOK for free!

CLICK HERE!

Last two days, and then Elsie goes WORLDWIDE for Nook readers, Sony e-readers, and everything else!

Birthday fantasies change as you get older!

Good morning!

My birthday is approaching in a couple weeks and lately I've been thinking about how my birthday wish list has changed from when I was a kid.

From the time I could speak until the time I was old enough to drive I wanted two things:  A pony and Randy Mantooth to fall in love with me.  Every year that was my wish list.  Now my parents were hardly the type to get me a pony, and in the days before the Internet, all this Wisconsin girl knew was the Randy "Johnny Gage" Mantooth lived somewhere in

My birthday and Christmas wish, every year.

California.  So every few months I would "borrow" a stamp and send a letter to "Randy Mantooth, California" and use varying zip codes.  Funny, I never got them back.  Knowing my skill at handwriting, and paying attention to things like return addresses, I probably did something creepy like put "Your Biggest Fan" in the return address. 

In my teens, I gave up the idea of a pony. 

I still wanted Randy Mantooth, or Bruce Willis, or Barry Manilow, or Rick Springfield to show up on my doorstep and take me away from my hopelessly mundane life.  Who wouldn't?  I rarely opened a door without picturing my celebrity crush of the day standing on the other side, pining for me and ready to make me the princess I knew I was.

But birthday dreams definitely change as you get older.  Yeah, in my teen years, I wanted a stereo, (with a turntable and two tape decks so I could tape stuff from the radio, from my record player AND from cassette tapes.)  I wanted a car.  I wanted a word processing typewriter.  (I actually bought that one myself.)

In my early married years I wanted a car that was paid off, maybe a new bedspread, books, CD's, portable electronics (you know, so I could take my tunes with me when I went on a hike, or a run. HAH!)

As the kids got older I started asking for things that would just make my life easier.  Coupons from them for hugs, room cleaning, laundry.  I still put books on my list, CD's, movies,  and maybe a dinner at a favorite restaurant. I still enjoyed thinking about that dream guy standing just on the other side of the door, and I can assure you, hubby did NOT feel at all threatened by that.  Nope, not at all.

Well, my kids are all but grown and I'm in my middle years and I realize I have pretty much all the STUFF I want to deal with.  I'm far more selective about the books and movies and music I request and, I'm finding, I'm getting far more practical.

At this point in my life, I'm pretty sure if Rick Springfield or Randy

Mantooth or any of my dream dates showed up, I'd still be thrilled.  I'd be thrilled because maybe THEY could clean my kitchen and my bathroom and do my laundry and do SOMETHING about my living room while I spent some quality time on my computer writing my next novel.

I mean at this point my big fantasy is that I get a new couch, one that doesn't hurt my hips when I sleep all night on it.  I'd like a new dehumidifier for the basement, one that doesn't freeze up after four minutes of operation.  I have an idea for the living room, I'd like to get one of those storage ottomans, so I have a place to hide all the ratty blankets we use because, thanks to the rising cost of EVERYTHING we can't afford to heat our house much above "brrrrrr."

But my mom sent me an email the other day telling me that in two weeks she's coming to give me my birthday present.  She's going to clean and organize my kitchen.

Ten years ago I would have been insulted. But now, wow, that's an AWESOME gift.  Maybe if I'm pitiful enough the day she shows up, she can start work in my basement, where all four of us seem to be hiding our hoarder tendancies.

But hey, that's a Christmas fantasy. 

According to my leg hair, my big toe should be speaking Portugese.

Good afternoon!

Before we get started, I just want to say, TODD...please keep your fun, snarky comments  (oh, and there will be plenty) to yourself until you read the end!  Thank you!

I am a student of history and somewhere deep in the recesses of my schooling I recall being taught about the Line of Demarcation. Click here to read up on this bit of history!  The thumbnail is that when Christopher Columbus came back from his Spanish funded voyage to the New World, he stopped first in Portugal, and got the Portugese King all riled up about the fact that he was getting hosed by the Spanish because the previous treaty for domination of the whole undiscovered planet didn't give him enough

It looks like a map of the world.
But is it really a map of my leg hair?

land.  So he got the Pope all involved in it and tah dah, the Pope drew a longer line around the undiscovered world and now Brazil speaks Portugese even though everyone outside South America thinks they speak Spanish.

I bring this up because I've been noticing something interesting...and fairly weird...going on with my leg hair.  See, it's getting to be that time of year again when middle aged women in the northern reaches of the US stop shaving their legs because, well, hey, we're wearing pants to work and sweats to bed anyway, what's the point?  Except for that rare weekend at a waterpark someplace, it's gonna be furry below the knee until Ground Hog's day.

Now, that might see terrible, but keep in mind that I have a skin condition that makes shaving my legs sort of a painful experience, and so really not worth the burning and itching and overall annoyance.  So for the last couple years, since I developed the skin issues, I really don't pay too much attention to my leg hair from October until Christmas, when I'm forced to wear a skirt to church, and then again until the first thaw.

This year I noticed something really, really, really weird.

I was only growing hair on half my legs.

And it wasn't the half I thought it would be.

I can't speak for most women, but shaving our legs is time consuming, and really, if you think about it, stupid.  If you have the courage to be hairy for a couple years, your body figures it out and no longer goes into a hair producing panic every time you shave.  Given enough time, a woman can stop growing leg hair.

The outside of both my legs proves that point.  I do not, really, grow leg hair on the OUTSIDE of my legs...not at all.

Below the knee, on the inside of my legs, however, is an entirely different story...and I'm starting to wonder if there's something going on I don't know about.

On my inner calf, on both sides, I can, and do, produce some pretty impressive leg hair.  Now, it doesn't grow in the way it did when I was in my teens, where I have a week of stiff, black stubble, and then it gets longer.  No, I go from no hair to half an inch of softer, albeit, dark hair pretty much over night, about two weeks after my last "hack and slash" session. (Back in college when none of us had any money, we used our single blade Daisy razors until they fell apart...those last few shaves were

really more of a machete job.  hey, we were 20 and we were idiots.)

I thought I was imagining things when I noticed this a few weeks back, so I did what any blogger who likes to mock herself would do...I shaved my legs, and then I watched.  And sure enough, my legs stayed hair free for several days and then BAM, the inside of my legs were coated with long, flowing locks of hair.  (That's the romance author in me coming out...)

Now don't get me wrong.  I like that I don't need to ever think about shaving the outside of my legs.  But, am I the only one...I can't possibly be the only one this happens to...can I?

CAN I?

On a sillier note, don't forget my friends, you can get Elsie W.'s FIRST BOOK in print by clicking here!  OR, you can get it for the Kindle by clicking HERE! (Those of you who read on a different device, never fear, I'll have it available in a few weeks!)

 

Is there such a thing as a Seeing Eye Mousse Dog? I think I need one.

Good afternoon!

I'm taking a break from the Green Bay Packers/Baltimore Ravens wonder of a defensive struggle  (I love a good defensive game, but come on...the two highest paid QB's in the league, and NO touchdowns in the first half?) to talk about something very disturbing I've noticed lately.

I've forgotten how to use hair mousse.

See, I'm a child of the 80's when mousse and Aqua Net hair spray were the tools we used to keep our teased, curling ironed hair looking slightly damp and very tall.

I love Rock and Roll...and really tall hair.

Over the years I went to very ,very short hair which needed very little in the way of hair product because, well, there was no hair.  But the last several months, under the expert tutelage of my hair girl, Meghan, I've rediscovered my love of tall, heavily layered hair.  And, since my arthritis has made pump spray hair spray almost impossible to use, I've also rediscovered Aqua Net hair spray.  (They keep it waaaaaay down on the bottom shelf, so it's hard for old 80's chicks like me to 1) see it and 2) bend down to get it, but it's there. I sometimes bring Peaches on shopping trips so she can spot it for me.)

So recently, having reached a length of hair I haven't had in multiple years, and having gotten some really cool rock and roll layers, I decided to return to my other hair product standby:  mousse.

Mousse, for those of you who do not know, is a foamy sort of hair product.  You can use it in your hair when your hair is wet or dry, but I prefer to use it when my hair is wet.   The mousse comes out of a narrow nozzle when you push on the little flat part of the plastic top.  Unlike pump hair spray, you can get a decent handful of mousse with one push, so my arthritis isn't as big an issue.

I didn't think I needed any refresher courses on how to use mousse, but, after two disasters, I realize something very sad:  I have, in my old age, forgotten how to use hair mousse.

It's a true sign of senility for a child of the 80's.

The first disaster I sort of laughed off.  I mean, it's been a good 20 years since I've used the product, so OF COURSE there's always a chance that the first time out of the box I'm going to do something stupid like look directly into the nozzle as I'm pushing the flat part.  And that would result, of course, in mousse hitting me square in the face and the neck and the chest, resulting in a complete change of wardrobe and ultimately, a late arrival at work.

All of that happened, except for one thing:  I wasn't looking directly at the nozzle.  Nope, I was actually aiming for my hand, which was positioned 20 inches below my face.  And I still managed to hit myself in the face, the neck, and the chest which resulted in a complete change of wardrobe since I managed to unleash so much mousse on myself it felt more like I was trying to unfrost a cake.

Go ahead, laugh.  I did.  Hey, that's funny.

This morning was NOT funny.  I was getting ready for church and, having learned a thing or two from my last fail at the mousse, I was more careful, way less cavalier, about dispensing the hair product.

This time I managed to hit my glasses, my pink boom box, my jar of moisturizer all located on the shelf 18 inches to the left of my target...my hand...AND I HIT THE FLOOR!

It didn't take a CSI to see, with so much spatter, that the person operating the can of mousse was clearly, maybe getting a little senile.  I mean, really, who forgets how to put mousse into your hand?  I used to do it in the dark, after a night where not only did I get no sleep, but I probably took someone's dare to try and cram myself into something.  (In college, I was much smaller than I am now, and I was able to crawl into fairly small spaces, like a drier, or under the bookshelf headboard of our dorm bed, or into a washer...yes, the agitator made that one very uncomfortable.)

So I'm thinking maybe I need to get a service dog that can help me release the mousse from the can into my hand.  I'm pretty good from there, although I have managed to hit my shoulder a couple times, I am getting better at that. 

Some would tell me to just give up using mousse.

Are you kidding?  Have you seen how tall my hair is lately?  I can't possibly give that up!   (I'm not saying I'm John Stamos height yet...but it's close!)

Gloria Vanderbilt, thank you for listening, Now, Lee...it's your turn to feel my wrath!

Good evening!

It's been about two years, maybe a bit longer, since I published my well received rant about Gloria Vanderbilt's black slacks and how, while the jeans fit, the slacks were ridiculously tight in the waist.

Well, friends, I'm here to tell you that I don't know if my blog is just that well read  (welcome those of you reading in Russia!)  or just I'm not the only fluffy girl who didn't appreciate the nasty surprise Gloria's dress slacks gave us when we got them home, but I can say this:  We whined, she listened, and Gloria Vanderbilt black pants are back on the list of things I love!  (Take that, Oprah!  I can love things, too!)

Yes, I found, after several months of fruitless searching, buying, and returning, that Gloria's black fit comfortably, and were perfect for that fuzzy "office casual" look we are all forced to wear.  Well done Gloria!

Now, to my next rant.  While Gloria figured it out, Lee jeans has let me down in a huge way.  For two years, more than two years, I've purchased Lee Comfort Fit pants in size 14W.  I've not bought one other pair of pants than LEE in more than two years because I knew that a 14W would fit.  14W is a rare thing, because sometimes a 16W is just a tiny bit too baggy, but something happens in when you try to jump from a 16W to a 16...makers of "misses" pants feel that those who are size 16 are still thin and therefore do not need any space in gut or butt area.  They make the pant leg fluffier, but not the waist.  And it's true, too, for a size 18 without a W.  Seriously, why is there one INCH of difference between a Lee comfort fit in a 16 and a Lee Comfort fit in a 16W?

But I digress.  For TWO YEARS  I bought Lee Comfort Fit pants in Size 14W and rejoiced because hey, a 14W is the tiny size in Fluffy Girl Land.

But now...now, when my 14Ws are falling apart after two solid years of wearing them everywhere all day, every day.   (I have three pair, brown, blue, and black.  They go in a rotation.)  And now, I'm in the market to put down some serious buckage on Lee Comfort pants.

But no 14W to be found. Not in the stores, not online, not on Lee's own website.

No, only the 16W which is WAY too big.  I look like I'm wearing a pair of blankets on my legs.  And I tried the 18, the 16, and the 14 in regular sizes because, in a fit of optimism, I thought I could squeeze myself into one of those.  No.  The legs fit perfectly...on all three pair.  BUT THE GUT AND BUTT areas were far too tight...if I could even get the pants zipped.

Riddle me this:  In what world would a woman have the exact same sized thighs, calves, and height...and be wilder thinner or wider in the g and b area?  But apparently, all Lee's models are 5" 5' tall, have 30 inch thighs, 16 inch calves, and a 34 inch hip. (oh, and no gut)  Until we get to the 16W where everything balloons upward. 

So congrats there, Lee Jeans.  You have now lost a dedicated customer because none of your seamstresses can MEASURE.

I'll come back when you decided to acknowledge that women with larger guts do not always have pontoon runners as thighs.  Get your measuring straight and we might talk.

But for now, I'll plunk my dollars back at Gloria!

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.