Category Archives: Things That Annoy
…and for me it’s a slowly fading memory, but..
I didn’t leave the planet, I just moved to the country on Halloween 2016.
You see…we moved.
Gosh, that sounds so…I don’t know, innocuous? And most of it was not fraught with insanity-inducing happenings, but the stuff that did happen turned me (momentarily) into the hell-bitch from, well, Hell…with a capital “H”.
The packing ladies arrived at the house a couple of days prior to our move, looked around, and proudly proclaimed this an “easy job, 4-5 hours tops” …and then proceeded to pack for 10 hours with one short break. I had known we had a lot of stuff, but to hear professionals mumbling about “all this stuff…” when they didn’t think we were listening was an eye-opener.
An aside – we’d already spent weeks cleaning/purging/packing prior to this. There was a lot of stuff…just…so….much.
Anyway, at the point where these two lovely workers were glassy-eyed and looked about ready to collapse from exhaustion, they finished. We paid them, twice what we’d budgeted, and tipped them generously to boot.
We knew the move would be expensive – though I don’t think either of us thought to double our original estimate, but we’d sold the house and knew that we’d be getting a chunk of change once we closed on it. So, out came the credit card. We’re so cute when we’re being all optimistic and totally naïve.
Two days later the moving trucks and six young men came to move our stuff from the big city town (40K population) to the country town (3K population). They, too, proclaimed this an “easy job” and how it wouldn’t “take long”. TWELVE hours later, with daylight fading, they were still pretty upbeat but it was not longer an easy job that wouldn’t take long.
It was an epic journey, and everyone was so tired we giggled insanely at every little thing.
Well, almost everything.
The one thing we did not laugh about was the one thing we desperately needed once the packed trucks and our packed vehicles arrived at the new farm in 90-degree weather.
Electricity. That was the one thing we needed. It was so important that I’d arranged for it to be turned on three days prior to the move. I’d arranged this, over a series of phone calls, a month in advance. The last phone call, to confirm, had been the day before the service was turned on to the house.
Guess what we didn’t have? No, really, guess.
You’re so smart.
I proceeded to call the electric company we’d chosen, and in the country calling someone on a cell phone is an exercise in frustration…and sometimes futility. I finally found a good signal in a spot about 50 yards in front of the house and within two minutes the helpful young man at the other end of the phone told me his company didn’t service our home. We had to use a co-op.
I proceeded to scream at the top of my lungs at the poor kid, the gist of my screaming was that I wanted to know why someone hadn’t informed me of that sooner.
I scared the absolute shit out of the kid on the phone, and my movers. Every. single. one.
My husband had to tell them I wasn’t normally a maniacal hell-bitch, but no electricity when I had been so careful to make sure we had electricity, that was the proverbial straw.
I’d been working at my job, coming home and packing, cleaning, packing, sleeping little, and so on for weeks. To say I was at the end of my rope is too cliche. I was at the end of every rope, ever.
We finished unpacking the trucks, in the dark, and since it was Halloween and we were in the boonies and it was dark, the sounds of the forest scared the shit out of the young movers. They whispered about curses and witches and ghosts to one another. I did nothing to alleviate their fears when I said, straight-faced, that the house was built on an “old Indian burial ground” and rumored to be haunted. One of them asked me if I was afraid of ghosts, and I told him that since I was a witch I had power over the ghostly realm. I honestly think he believed me. Poor kid.
We collapsed into bed that first night, too tired to even care that it was sticky and warm. All the windows in the house were open, but if any ghosts visited we were too tired to care about them either.
We got the electricity turned on the next morning, but only because I threatened to sit down in the middle of the co-op’s office and cry until they did. I was desperate, exhausted, in need of a shower, and the nice lady in the office had just told me it would be 1-3 business days before they could get the power on at the house. Instead, she took pity on me and by the time we drove back out to the house we had lights and air conditioning and a working washer and dryer.
Too bad we couldn’t locate a lot of our clothes. Somehow, in the move, everything seemed to get separated. We spent four days unpacking and we wore the same clothes all four days. I’d wash them every night, and we’d put them on every morning. We finally found all our clothes, so with that and electricity things were looking up.
Then, our real estate agent called..the old house may not have sold after all. Maybe, perhaps. We need to re-negotiate here. With ginormous credit card bills looming, we listened and we compromised and we got the old house and some land we owned sold.
We spent the rest of the week unpacking everything, and in the end were really only missing a couple of small items and only found a couple more broken.
It’s been a few months now, and we are loving our new home. It’s magical, it’s beautiful, and it’s where I intend to spend the rest of my life. I told my hubby that if he ever got the notion to move again I’d go straight for his throat. After seeing me react to the whole electricity debacle I’m pretty sure he believes it.
We all have them, the things that you see or do or see others doing that freak you right. the hell. out.
Here’s a partial list of mine:
1.Getting a text from my dentist’s office about how excited they are to see me on such and such date. Really? You look forward to inflicting pain? Dentists are freakishly weird.
2. Having the vet’s office ask me which of my “kids” or “babies” I’m calling about, AND when I’m there and go into an exam room, they announce that so-and-so’s “mommy” is waiting in such-and-such room. I’m pretty sure mating with animals is illegal…wait, it’s still illegal to mate with critters, right? Tell me I’m right. PLEASE. Because, if it’s not then I’ve crossed over from freaked to full-on fecked up.
4. I skipped 3.
5. You just went back to look.
6. Drones. I actually swatted at my hair the other night, thinking the drone overhead was a swarm of bees trying to kill me. In my defense, it was my first droney-bee encounter, and it was high enough above me that I missed. Dammit.
7. My frat-boy neighbors, a/k/a The Dronemasters. They NEVER sleep. Never. Go to bed at midnight? They’re up. Get up at 2:00 a.m.? They’re up. 4:00 a.m.? They’re up! They do this every night, then all their vehicles leave during the day. I think they’re vampires…and now I’m really freaked out. And lest you think I’m that neighbor peering out my windows at the frat boys, may I remind you that I can’t see their house from the only window I have that faces them. I have to go outside to verify this. I’m just looking out for you. You’re welcome.
So, what freaks you right-the-hell-out?
Remember just yesterday, when I told you about the busted television?
And how the ‘incident report’ was supposed to be filed so we could make a claim against the cable company?
Yeah, it didn’t happen.
The incident report, not the bustage.
I was the one who had to call in the incident report, on Monday the 16th, and then yesterday I called on the status and spoke to a customer service supervisor named “Frank” (yeah, right…I’ve worked in call centers before and if his name was “Frank” then mine’s Xenia, Keeper of Figtail Feifings).
Frank: Hi, I’m Frank and understand you are checking on the status of an incident report?
Frank: I’m reviewing the notes, and it looks like the technician’s supervisor filed the claim on Monday.
Me: No, he didn’t.
Frank: Excuse me?
Me: I filed the claim, because when I called on Monday there was no record of it.
Frank: Oh, well ma’am I’m just reading the notes.
Me: And someone is lying. That ‘someone’ not being me.
Frank: Uh…well, I do see here that you called on Monday to check on it.
Frank: The claims person noted that he called you and left a voicemail on Tuesday, the 17th.
Me: That’s two.
Me: Two lies. No one called me, and no one left a voicemail. So, actually, that’s three lies.
Frank: Ma’am, the notes say he called (my home number, which we never use) and left a message to call him.
Me: Impossible. That phone has no answering machine, nor voicemail.
Frank: Well, Ma’am I’m just reading notes.
Me: You’re spouting lies, granted they are not your lies, but lies nonetheless. And, further, he just called once and that’s it? What did he think was going to happen? That I’d just go away? I’m out an $800 television. Not likely I’d just let that go.
Me: How about this…I give you a good number to use and you have whoever call me on it?
I give him my cell number
Frank: Thank you, and I will get this message to the claims supervisor right away.
Me: Isn’t it nice to know you work with people who lie?
Me: I’m not saying you are one of them, but then given the track record of your company just this week alone, how do I know?
Frank: Ma’am, I see you’ve been a customer for over 20 years and I assure you….
Me: (cutting him off) Never mind the assurance, just handle this issue.
Frank: Yes, Ma’am..
And, I hung up.
I can take most of the world’s idiocy, but I cannot handle liars.
They make me all stabbity.
Oh, and guess who called me an hour later to schedule an appointment to come out and settle the claim?
I missed the first few texts, because it was late and you know, ninjas…
“Are we just going to stay in this awkward place, where we don’t talk ever?”
“Please talk to me.”
“I miss u.”
And that’s when I picked up my phone off the charger and realized I had suddenly become a teenage boy named ‘Alec’.
At first I giggled, and briefly contemplated being ‘Alec’ for the lovelorn, but then decided I’m not mean enough, so I picked up the conversation with…
“Sorry, wrong number”
“Cut it out Alec”
“Wait, is this seriously the wrong number?”
“No problem. Good luck”
“Alec, stop it”
“Ashley gave me ur number and ur just tricking me”
“Look, you have the wrong number. Check with whoever gave it to you. I’m a grandma, not a young man.”
“Alec, seriously stop it.”
“No, you stop it. I am NOT Alec.”
At this point, it’s nearly 11:00 pm and my hubby says, “Just turn your phone off.”
“No, I’m not going to be held hostage by a lovesick teenager.”
He shakes his head.
My phone’s text sound goes off again…
“I memorized ur number, and that is it.”
“Fine. Call me then.”
My phone rings, and as I pick up to say, ‘Hello’, I hear an audible gasp on the other end.
“See?” I said, “I am not Alec. You are texting the wrong number. Stop it.”
*click* – she hangs up, so I text her…
“See? I was not kidding.”
I put the phone down, and think the whole thing is over.
Ten minutes later….
“Ma’am, I am so sorry.”
“It’s okay, honey. And I wish you luck.”
The next day…
“Still not Alec.”
“Alec, who answered your phone last night?”
“No, it was a woman”
*okay, feck it, I give up*
“Yes, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a long time…..”
When I was a kid my parents bought a condo in a really nice community. It had lush common areas, a large floor plan, even a small back yard with a storage shed.
It was perfect.
It was also intended as a retirement community, but apparently Mom and Dad didn’t get that memo.
As I reached the teen years, my penchant for mischief increased exponentially. It didn’t help that the elderly residents of the complex were batshit crazy, but I think had they not been already me and my cohorts would have pushed them over the edge in due time.
One of our favorite spots to hangout, act goofy, play our music on portable radios, smoke, and eat junk food, was a common area between two large buildings that had a lovely hillside to roll down in summer or sled down in winter. One building had windows facing the common and if we were out there one nanosecond past dark a blue-haired woman stood in her window taking pictures.
Naturally, we posed and strutted or tried to time jumps in the air so she’d catch us mid-somethingcrazy. We’d also crank up the tunes and dance for her.
She’d then take those pictures and distribute amongst the various bulletin boards in the complex. Or, if she knew our parents, she’d go straight to them with the incriminating evidence of….kids being kids…dun..dun…DUNNNNN!
She called the police so many times on us that we got to know each of them on a first-name basis. They were decent enough, understanding, and exasperated with batshit crazy blue-haired women, and unruly teenagers. Whatever they were paid, it wasn’t enough.
Fast forward to a month ago when my sweet neighbor across the street apparently sold her house to me and my friends from lo those many years ago.
They act crazy, racing around the yard and up and down the street on their John Deere riding mower, have turned the workshop into a mini-club complete with a full drum set, and play music loudly at 7:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning.
I’ve lived in this house 18 years, and never called the police once. And now, I’ve called the police to complain five times in the last two weeks.
I’ve refrained from getting out the camera and standing at my window to take pictures.
I’m not ‘that’ old woman, not yet anyway.
Which reminds me, it’s time to get the bluing added to my hair.
I don’t think so, and neither will you after this….
Seriously, though, every female in the world should see this video.
And, every male for that matter.
And not in a blatant, roll-over-you or fall-on-top-of-you way.
No, my car knows that if it’s going to kill me it will have to do it subtly.
Like, pretend it’s been shot and make me think that I’ve been shot.
That’s what it did on Sunday.
I was driving home from the store when I heard the loudest BANG! come from the driver’s side door.
I looked for a hole in the door. Nothin’.
I looked for blood running from me, somewhere. Nothin’.
Then, apparently because I hadn’t died from the non-shot shot, the driver’s side window suddenly SUH-LAMMED! down into the door frame.
I admit a twinge of pain in my chest as I reacted to that one.
Or it may have just been that I’d suddenly forgotten how to breathe.
Fortunately, I remembered.
I got home, and since hubby was mowing the front yard he yelled over the lawnmower “Shut your window!”
“I CAN’T. It’s GONE!” I replied, as I proceeded to wave my hand around in the window frame where there should have been a hefty piece of tempered glass but now there was just dusty, grass-filled air.
As if the fact that I was gone a short time mattered, hubby said: “You were gone for like 5 minutes. What happened?”
I shrugged, “I have no idea, but the glass is inside the door. Maybe we can get it out and I don’t know, duck tape it in place.”
He looked at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears.
Needless to say, that idea went nowhere. Fast.
Also needless to say, I tried anyway and got nowhere. Fast.
The next morning I was waiting at the dealership – the only place that could fix the car quickly – and I spent the day at home, playing with my new Kirby.
That sounds way more kinky than it is.
A Kirby is not a “who”..it’s a “what”.
It’s a fancy-schmancy (read ‘expensive’) vacuum cleaner, and hubby bought me one recently.
When I went to pick up the car, the bill was well over $400 and included words like “replace” and “regulator” and probably “flugelbinder”.
I admit that I grew faint reading the numbers. So much so, that the ‘Service Advisor’ (why isn’t anyone just a plain-old mechanic anymore?) offered me a hefty discount if I promised not to die right there on the service-bay floor.
So, although well-played Vlad (my car’s name is Vlad, because he’s an Impala – wait a moment, you’ll get it) you failed to kill me…barely.
Better luck next time.
My mother calls me, and this is how it goes…
MOM: Hi there, honey, just wanted to let you know I’ve changed my e-mail address and it’s firstname.lastname@example.org
ME: Again? You just changed it.
MOM: I know, but AOL was pissing me off.
ME: You had Yahoo! mail, Mom.
MOM: Then Yahoo! was pissing me off.
MOM: And I need your cell phone number again.
*she’s just called me on my cell*
ME: Wha? You called me on my cell.
MOM: Yes, but I don’t know what the number is.
ME: I…wha…um….okay. (at this point, there’s no logic I can use to make her understand “Contacts”, so I just go along with it) I’ll e-mail it to you.
MOM: And while you are at it, can you send me all the kids’ e-mails too? I lost the list when I changed e-mails.
ME: Okay, but I also mailed you a typed copy.
MOM: Yeah, I don’t know what I did with it.
I send her the information she asked for and another week goes by…….
My cell phone rings.
MOM: Hi honey, just wanted to let you know that AOL was pissing me off, so I have a new e-mail account.
MOM: …and I’m going to need your cell number, and everyone’s e-mail address again.
ME: *unscrewing the flask and taking a giant swig* Okay, Mom (I say way too brightly)
And another week goes by, and my cell rings again.
MOM: Hi honey, Yahoo! was screwing up my e-mails so I changed accounts…..
ME: *unscrewing the lid to the convenient economy-sized bottle of Xanax* Imagine that………