Suzy Says

I lost another post, thanks to the terrible internet service. Gah!!!

So you’ll have to wait until I finish throwing a temper tantrum to read my reconstituted post about Christmas.

Sigh.

Winter skies

Ring, ring!

I open my eyes. It’s still dark. Even the cats aren’t asking to go out.

Ring, ring!

Rob! Something must have happened*. Looking at the clock, it’s around 6:00 am, so maybe Meg came home and found Rob in low sugar hell. Grab phone and answer anxiously.

It’s not Megan. It’s someone asking if I’m Megan.

“No. Who is this?!”

It turns out to be the internet people, asking about billing.

“Are you kidding? It’s 6 am!”

“I’m sorry, I thought you were on the east coast.”

If they were anywhere near the US of A, they’d know that California has never been located on the east coast, nor will it ever be.

If they knew anything about their jobs, they’d know that I don’t get the bills. They go to our IT person in San Francisco.

I explain this to them, and hang up. Despite the early hour, I am so annoyed that getting up is inevitable and coffee is optional.

While I’m in the shower, the PG&E meter reader passes by the window, which is located right in the shower and gives a splendid view of the garden. Or a surprised blonde, depending on your point of view. I don’t know which of us was more taken aback. After he fled, Lucky peered in to see what all the excitement was about, and then wandered away, bored.

I was heading to town to run some errands, so I called my brother to ask him if he needed anything. Since it’s an hour’s drive round-trip, we try to spare our sibs an extra trip if possible.

I called him on my cell, because if I call him on my landline, it’s long distance. Even though he lives less than a quarter of a mile away. The problem is that the sibs’ cell phone numbers are registered in Boonville, about a 45 minute drive from here. So even though it’s the same area code and county, it’s long distance. Go figure.

But we have the same cell service provider, so if I call them on my cell, it’s free. However, the cell service at my house is horrible, so the call cut out. I called him back on the cell, and it happened again, so he called my landline and begged me to never call him on my cell again, for fear of an aneurysm.

He needed five gallons of gas, so it was good that we were finally able to talk. Cheap at the price. Note: if you ever have a plastic container of gas in your back seat, you will be amazed by how your car smells like gas, even after the container is gone.

Before I could leave the house, my cell rang again. I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be my brother, and it wasn’t. It was the credit card company, telling me that my account was overdue.

“Uh…I just got an email telling me that payment was due on January 10.”

“Oh.” Pause. “Let me check our records.”

Because, really – why check your records before you call people and harass them a couple of days before Christmas?

It turned out that I was right and they were wrong. I hung up during the apology.

Was it International Stupidity Day and nobody told me?

When I finally got home from my errands, I found a message for Megan on my phone number from my friends at the internet service provider, asking me to call them and confirm that I should be added to the account, despite the fact that I did that THREE WEEKS AGO:

Patience

I handed the whole mess over to our IT person. Merry Christmas! Enjoy!

Despite my new year’s resolution, this one defies categorization.

*It used to be that if the phone rang in the dark, I immediately thought “Mom!” Now I think “Rob!”

Of the many words used to describe me, “patient” has never been one of them. But living in the country seems to require patience, along with rubber boots, fleece, and a tolerance for bugs (so far, I don’t have any of these, either).

Of the many things that either don’t work or sort of work, the worst, to my citified mind, is the internet. I want it to work swiftly and speedily at all times, instead of sluggishly and unreliably some of the time. I want a week to go by without having to call tech support. I want tech support to be in the US of A, instead of Indiah. I want the tech support people to know what they’re doing. It would be a bonus if we could actually understand each other, too.

Yesterday, I spent an hour and a half of the rapidly dwindling remains of my lifespan on the phone with a guy who called himself Jimmy, but who sounded exactly like Apu on the Simpsons. I seriously considered offering his god a peanut as time dragged on and my internet still refused to work. Finally, Apu decided that I would need a technician to come out and try and figure out what was wrong.

Someone was supposed to call me within 48 hours to set up the appointment, which would cost $36. Hmmm, let’s review: I’m paying for at least three days of no service, plus an extra fee so they can figure out why I’m not getting service? Riiiight.

I took my trusty little iBook over to my brother’s place to borrow a cup of internet. It was a good thing I did, since I had some emails from my boss asking me to do some things, which I did while the bees buzzed and the sun shone in the background.

The prospect of no internet was so horrifying that when I got home, I started fiddling around with the various blinking objects, unplugging things and plugging them back in. The desktop computer came back to life, but my iBook had an IP configuration problemo, necessitating yet another call to the far East. After another half hour of trying to explain what was wrong, Apu 2.0 told me I had to call the router provider to get the IP address fixed – even though the destruction of the IP address was caused by all the numbers the earlier Apu had had me type into my system preferences on the first call.

I called the router people, who are also thinly disguised Apus, and they told me I had to call the internet service provider.

I threw the phone across the room.

Later, when I had recovered sufficiently, I unpacked the hub thing my brother bought me the last time he was in Santa Rosa, and tried connecting both computers to it. It worked, though I now have cables snaking down from the loft and through the living room.

I steeled myself to call Apu and tell him that the house call was no longer required, and got a confirmation number. Then I made a drink. Or two.

This morning, I was heading into the icy embrace of the shower (I do have a nice view of the back yard from there, though) when the phone rang. It was a guy who actually could have convincingly called himself Jimmy, asking to set up an appointment to come and fix the internet.

They say that geniuses are seldom found behind bars, but they are in the the Apple stores.

Tech tard that I am, I was having problems transitioning my new email address to my Mail program (I hate webmail), along with a couple of other things I wanted to have fixed before I vanish into obscurity. So I made an appointment at the Apple store in Emeryville to get things fixed.

The Apple store was bustling, and I was glad that I had made an appointment, since those who hadn’t were being turned away in droves. As I waited, I had time to admire all the shiny new products, and think how nice it would be to have a wafer thin MacBook Air, or a shiny silver PowerBook. I have to admit that my iBook looks a little dingy next to the new kids on the block.

My problems were fixed in an embarrassingly short time. If they weren’t so busy, they’d probably have laughed at me. One more thing to cross off the To Do list.

Meanwhile, another girl was having the opposite experience.

The satellite internet was scheduled to be set up at my new house this afternoon. Instead, they called my sister yesterday morning, just as she was drifting off to sleep after the third of her twelve hour night shifts was over for the week. They told her that they’d be there in two hours. She designated her husband to deal with it, and went back to sleep.

When the installer showed up, he informed my brother-in-law that he’d need to install a pole and embed it in concrete to hold the satellite dish. He said that they’d have to pay for that up front, since the pole person was an independent contractor and not part of the internet company. Note that they did not mention this when the appointment was booked, or two hours earlier when they called to say they were en route.

Fortunately, Rob figured out a way to fasten the dish to the roof (where there is already a dish for the TV, so what’s up with the whole pole thing?). However, the installers did not bring a modem or router, so who knows if it even works. All that annoyance for nearly nothing.

I have a call in to our IT person about it, and it looks like I’m heading up there for a couple of days next week, so hopefully I can get it all straightened out before Moving Day. Less than two weeks away!

Birds on a wire. Maybe they’re listening in.

Ugh. Changing my email address was a total nightmare. As you know, I wasn’t happy about changing it in the first place, but I was even unhappier after the ordeal was over.

I tried to cancel on line, but it said you have to call. So I called.

The recording said they were experiencing high call volumes, so try the on line chat service.

I started the chat, and wrote that I wanted to cancel my account. The agent asked why. I wrote that I just wanted to cancel it. He then replied that I had to call to cancel it. Notice that he did not mention that until I refused to answer his question. I bet you three bucks that he would have done it if I had answered the question. If he really couldn’t cancel my service, why didn’t he tell me that right away?

Irked, I hung up on him, and called again. Good thing that I didn’t have anything else to do this morning.

Despite the allegedly high call volume, my call was answered almost immediately. I guess “high call volume” is code for “We don’t want to talk to you, and will try to convince you to use any other means available to answer your question. But if you insist…”

I made my repeated plea, and was yet again asked why.

Now, I don’t think it’s any of their (insert expletive of your choice) business why I want to cancel. The reason is my will, as Shakespeare put it. So when the agent asked “May I ask why you are canceling your account?” I simply said “No”. This seemed to floor her, and is apparently not part of the handbook, since the silence stretched out for a nearly uncomfortable period of time before she remembered it was her turn to talk. Conversation requires effort on both ends, you know.

She put me on hold to do whatever it is that cancellation entails (A phone call? Flip a switch?) and/or to tell her co-workers what a nut she had on the line. When she came back, she started asking me who my new provider would be, and related queries. I asked why she needed to know. She said it was for “documentation purposes”, and I said it was none of her business. I don’t have to explain myself to them, or justify my decision. It’s simple: I no longer want/need the service you provide. End of story. Or so you’d think.

Then she offered me a lower rate to stay with them. Don’t you love it? We’ll take your money for years, but when you try to leave, we’ll give you a deal.

All in all, it was a bad breakup.

Next on my list was the water company. I figured that if dumping a service provider which had never given me any trouble – until today – was such an ordeal, breaking up with a company whose surreal and expensive bills have been plaguing me for almost two years would indeed be hard to do.

Nope. They didn’t ask why I didn’t love them anymore, or where I was going to get water from now, or my views on fluoridation. They asked where to send the final bill, wished me a good day, and that was it. I guess you never know how a break-up will go.

Remember the Franz Kafka Utility Company? Also known as East Bay MUD (appropriately enough, since their name is definitely mud, at least in my house). You know, the company that charges you 90% fees, 10% actual water consumption? What possible motivation does a person have, other than her own conscience, for lowering her water usage? I got a whopping credit of $1.26 for low water usage this time, and $9 was my actual water usage. The other $90? Fees and service charges.

Well, they’re in bad company. A couple of months ago, I got an email from PG&E telling me that I saved 20% on my gas and electric over the winter (miserliness has its privileges), so I’d receive a 20% discount on my bill. I didn’t see the discount on my next bill, so I called and asked about it. Oh, they said, it can take a month or two to show up on your bill. Check next month.

So I checked this month, and it still wasn’t there. I called again, and this time, I was told that the credit had been applied to the March bill. I asked why I had received an email in June saying I’d get a credit. Exasperated, the phone peon said I had received the credit in March, but was notified of it in June.

Here’s a hint: tell people when it happens. And instead of saying “You’re going to receive a credit”, say “You HAVE received a credit”, and state the amount.

Also: maybe give all the phone peons the same story? Just a suggestion.

I love it when I pay a bill on line*, and get an email saying, “Your payment request has been received.” Please, please! Take my money, I’m begging you! Don’t reject my check – I’ll be crushed!

The next worst thing is when you pay it on line, and immediately get another bill for the next month. Within minutes. Or possibly seconds. You never get to enjoy the feeling of being paid up. You always have one more bill waiting for you, hanging over your head like a virtual sword of Damocles.

Today, I paid a bill on line, and two hours later got an automated call reminding me to pay the bill I had just paid. They couldn’t even be bothered to harass me in person. That’s even worse than immediately getting another bill.

Meh.

*If you pay EBMUD on line, they charge you several dollars as a “convenience fee”. Convenient for whom, exactly? See a theme here?

I always have a hard time getting to sleep when I know I have to get up early the following day, yet I have an amazing ability to be able to sleep right when the alarm goes off (like most of my few talents, this is not a lucrative one). Somehow, once I’m yanked out of sleep by the tyrannical peeping of the clock, the pillows are in just the right position and the bed is a haven of comfort and bliss instead of the arena of insomnia it was just a few short hours earlier. Maybe I should try setting the alarm to go off at bed time.

This morning, however, I had an awakening ruder than the alarm clock. And to add insult to injury, it was before the alarm was set to do so, robbing me of precious minutes of beauty sleep (and a really good dream about shopping in Paris). A resounding crash, followed by lesser noises, abruptly cancelled the rest of my napping program. I pulled off my Marilyn Monroe sleep mask to find the room basking in the cold, pearly light which means early morning fog. Looking at the clock, I saw that I should have had ten minutes more of unconsciousness – not enough to attempt an encore.

Sighing, I got up to see what the noise was. The kitties were sitting innocently by the closet, looking like they belonged on a sappy greeting card in their fakely innocent cuteness. They had found their way into the closet, knocked the suitcase onto the clackety hardwood floor, and in doing so, crashed the closet door resoundingly against the window frame, topping it off with a few pairs of shoes cascading onto the floor from the shoe rack hung inside the door. I tripped over a lavender suede Manolo Blahnik mule as I shoved the suitcase back into the closet and slammed it shut, scattering kittens across the room.

As I went through the living room on my way to the coffeemaker, I noticed that the paper bag I use to collect newspapers and other recycling was unaccountably on the couch instead of in the kitchen. Not surprisingly, its contents made a little trail from the original location. As I collected them, the alarm went off.

I know you’ve been wondering why you shouldn’t hitch-hike (I hope you haven’t already started thumbing your way across the country, especially if you’re a fetching blonde wearing a cute hat) and where on earth I’ve been lately.

For now, you’ll just have to take my word about the perils of catching a ride with a total stranger, particularly the totally strange kind of stranger, but I promise to elaborate more fully soon. It’s been such an icky week that I haven’t had the energy or frivolity to blog. I’ll give you a brief recap and spare you the details, because that’s how much I love you.

The DMV: Really, need I say more? Even though I had an appointment, just being there was depressing. The lines for those who didn’t have appointments was so long that it doubled back on itself twice. A disinterested security guard tried to keep the line in some kind of order. As I waited for my number to be called, I thought that these were really the huddled masses yearning to be free. Or at least to be free of the DMV. When my number was up, it turned out that I was missing a piece of essential paperwork, so I’ll have to go again on Tuesday. I know, I know, you wish were Me.

The Farmacia Whatsit: For those without health insurance or a sugar daddy, there is the misleadingly named QuickHealth. Quick it is not, and the frustration can’t be good for one’s blood pressure. I made two attempts to see a doctor this week (don’t worry, I’m fine). The first time, I was told it would be three hours, so I abandoned hope and left. The second time, I was told it was a mere two hours. I asked if I could make an appointment, and they said I couldn’t. I pointed out that every time I came, it was hours of waiting time, and they said to come back at 3:00 and they’d put my name on the list. So it was sort of a non-appointment appointment. I did have time to peruse the shelves and wonder what things like belladonna cream were for (isn’t that one of the poisons medieval women used to make their pupils huge when that was the style? Like arsenic to make complexions white in Elizabethan times and botox now?) before I finally saw the doctor.

Storage: Yet another depressing foray to the storage. Every time I roll open the door, there’s death and divorce staring me in the face. Not to mention three generations worth of crap. I’m beginning to think I’m going to have to take a load of boxes, a roll of garbage bags, and some vodka and spend a few days sorting and trashing. Want to help?

You all know I can find the cloud in every silver lining, so you probably won’t be surprised to learn that my emotions on the recent election are far from unmixed. Although I’m thrilled that Mr. Obama was elected (and to be a witness to history in the making), I’m equally disappointed that nearly half of my fellow Americans voted for John McCain. As Iggy Pop would say, what the hell? What the heck?

I’m also appalled that Proposition 8 passed. I am so disgusted with my fellow Californians for passing a law of intolerance and hatred. Shouldn’t the new Obama day usher in an era of tolerance and unity?

I tried to open the comments again, but not surprisingly (given my complete and total lack of any kind of techperstise whatsoever), it didn’t work. I’ll have to call Movable Type and/or find some tech savvy kindergartener to fix it for me.

I can’t stand the thought of calling MT, because I’ve spent most of the day on the phone with faceless corporations, unmaking and remaking reservations to go to Florida against my will. Against my will, because it’s for a conference, and it’s on the other side of the country. Before you get all excited about the Florida thing, remember that I already have sun and ocean, and I’d have to travel 3,500 miles for more of the same. Plus uncomfortable work clothes and, you know, work.

The whole thing started when I foolishly booked my tickets on Expedia. The confirmation I received from them showed me leaving Oakland at 2 pm on May 4, and arriving in Tampa at 12:30 AM on May 4. Not humanly possible, I think most of us would agree, unless I have secret (even to me) powers over the space-time continuum. The reservation should have been leaving May 3, arriving 4. Given that the conference starts on May 4, there’s no way I would have booked the tickets to arrive the day after it starts. Clearly, the problem here is not my lack of techpertise, but a problem with Expedia’s system, which allows hapless travellers to reserve tickets that have him/her arriving 14 hours before s/he leaves.

Quite a trick.

Another good one is the choices you get.

1. Change ticket to the originally requested dates. This costs $150, plus a $30 Expedia-induced processing fee, plus the difference in fare, if there is any after all those fees. The value of the ticket is $295.
   
2. Get a “credit” for the ticket, which must be used within one year. Oh, and when you use it, there’s a $100 fee, or approximately one third the value of the ticket.

I selected option 2 as the marginally less painful of the two screwings offered. In both scenarios, Expedia/United have been paid for a service they failed to provide, because of their error. They each blame each other, by the way. And I get to pay $100 not to go to Florida.

Or so I thought.

I cancelled everything, and the guy actually giving the conference, a Fromage Grand in this tiny business world, called me personally and begged me to come. He even said he was a close personal friend of my boss, etc., etc. and agreed to pay all expenses. Even he could do nothing about the greedheads at Expedia and United, but presumably he also suffers from being only human. In return, I have to bring him a box of See’s chocolates, specifically, “the good ones”, Nuts & Chews. I have the nuts part covered.

My boss observed recently that “nothing works anymore” (I hasten to add he did not, at least at that point, mean Me), but rather the world in general, and he may be right. The evidence is certainly piling up in the chaos I call my life:

Cable & Internet
You guessed it, more fun and frolics with yet another utility company. In this case, the internet has the work ethic of a particularly lazy and capricious sloth. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes, just to make it interesting, it stops working in the middle of something. This is especially effective when the user has been lulled into a false sense of security by the internet service actually working for a day or days at a time*.

The service itself is bundled into the phone and TV cable, and though my understanding of such esoterica is extremely limited, I will just say that when the cable guys come to “fix” the internet, nothing works for the duration. The phone unexpectedly cut me off during a very important conversation with the fabulous K, which is how I learned this hard way.

Over the past couple of weeks, I have seen more of more cable guys than I have of my friends and family. One visit lasted more than three hours, during which they changed all the cables, climbed around under the house, and had incomprehensible consultations with still other cable guys by radio.

The internet remained unmoved.

On the most recent visit, I was still in my pajamas and just waking up in the living room (see “Bed” below) when the latest guy in the series appeared. They are supposed to call first, but this guy didn’t get the memo, since he just turned up, peering in the door at PJ-clad Self. It was quite embarrassing. Or like the beginning of a porn movie. “Did you call for…service?” “I certainly did!”

Bed
Somewhere between here and there, the salt flats of Utah and the Donner Do Not Pass Go, my bed was mortally wounded. I did not become aware of this important fact until I got into bed, having been fully preoccupied with checking off the list of my earthly possessions as they were unloaded from the giant truck into my tiny house and wondering where I was going to put everything.

So the movers put the bed back together here, as they taken it apart there, and either didn’t notice or didn’t care that the center beam, which supports the whole cheap IKEA thing, was broken. Possibly they thought it would be funny for me to learn this the hardwood floor way after nearly a month of inflatable bed hell.

Either way, I was summarily dumped like a first wife when the trophy wife rears her cellulite-free rear. I propped up the broken beam with bricks, but this was a band-aid on a fatal wound. Since I now had all my all-too-many belongings, I got out the inflatable bed I kept on hand for guests. It features a sort of stand on which the inflatable mattress resides. As I unpacked it, I noticed that the stand

has a disturbingly bier like appearance.

I should have realized this was a sign, because the inflatable bed died a thousand deaths. At least it was already on the bier. All I had to do was give it a proper burial.

The dead IKEA bed, on the other hand, got an improper non-burial. I had to pull it apart with a hammer, and discovered that it was cardboard inside. It’s always upsetting to discover that someone you’ve been sleeping with is not who you thought they were. The remains of the bed remain in my driveway until I can figure out an inexpensive way to get them to the dump.

I went bed shopping, and discovered that they are surprisingly expensive (like children’s clothes, where the amount of fabric is in inverse proportion to the price). I actually ended up buying one from Wal-Mart. While I was waiting for it to arrive, I slept on the pull-out couch in the living room like the early Mary Richards, hence the close encounter with the cable guy (see “Cable and Internet” above). On the bright side, it has yet to collapse, but I still can’t believe I resorted to Wal-Mart.

I have the worst bed karma ever.

Car
The car itself is fine, despite the ticket, but I still haven’t received my license plates. It’s been three months since I bought it, so this may be a record. I finally made an appointment at the DMV, and and when I arrived there and saw the line and its huddled masses quality (I?m sure they were all yearning to be free of the line), I was glad I did. I eventually learned from a girl named Brazil that the dealership didn?t do the required smog check, or, if they did, failed to report it. I checked my bill of sale, which indicates the smog check was done, and, more importantly, that I paid for it. Brazil suggested that I call the dealership, so I did. They said they’d call me back.

They didn’t.

I called the dealership twice more. The last time, I refused to hang up until I got an answer, any answer. Eventually, I was assured that they?d submit the necessary paperwork to the DMV and I?d receive my plates in two weeks. Now, where have I heard that one before? I?m hoping that it just slipped through the cracks at the time I bought the car and that they really will do the paperwork this time. I?d hate to have to go to Fremont and wait for it. I?d rather wait at home, even if I am waiting for Godot.

*Great. Now I have that One Day at a Time theme song in my head. As if the constantly barking dogs next door weren’t enough.

Mail these days is rarely, if ever, fun. Since most of us use the instant gratification of email instead of the delayed gratification of the USPS, mailboxes now rarely contain love letters or cards or just plain letters. Sometimes you get a birthday card, and sometimes a postcard from a friend whose life is far more interesting than yours, but my mail mostly consists of items meant for the former occupants (who apparently don’t know that their friends at the post office would forward their mail if only they had been asked) and bills.

Last week, I got two horrifying bills in two horrifying days. One was for gas and electricity, and they wanted $127 from me. The other was from the Franz Kafka Utility Company, and they wanted $107. Apparently odd numbers are oddly popular among the odd. I was mystified by both bills, since I turn the heat off whenever I leave the house, turn it down to 57 when I go to bed, and rarely keep it above 65 or 66 ever. I also only light the room I’m actually in. I tried those eco lights in the bedroom, but it made it look like a dentist’s office or the dressing room of a cheap and cruel department store, so I had to go back to the warm glow of real light bulbs. I do have the ugly eco lights on the porch and in the laundry room, where atmosphere and appearance are less important, but every time I drive up to the house and porch light is on, I think, God, that light is ugly.

It’s not pretty being green.

Anyway, I was pretty much resigned to the gas & electric bill, but there were so many inexplicable line items on the FKUC bill that I called them and asked them what the FKUC. The person on the phone was very nice, and nearly the first thing she asked me was if this was my first Oakland water bill. She wasn’t surprised to hear it was – apparently my reaction to the bill is pretty much universal. The good news: the $15 new account charge is a one time thing – unless I move elsewhere in beautiful Oakland, in which case I will get to see it and pay it again.

The bad and the surreal news:

• The “water service charge” isn’t for the water usage. It’s for the meter, long since paid for, that the FKUC uses to read the water usage. The actual water charge is listed under “water flow charge”, and is considerably less expensive than the charge for the long paid off meter. Does this make sense to anyone?
• The sewage charge was nearly $40, and that’s apparently the least it will ever be. I asked what the most could be, and was glad I was sitting down when she informed me it could go as high as $110. As soon as she said “it can go up and down”, I knew I was in trouble. Has anyone ever known a charge such as this or, say, an adjustable mortgage, to actually go down? Didn’t think so.
• Since I don’t have a dishwasher or water the lawn (the Almighty, as my father used to say, has been doing an almighty good job of that lately) and turn the water off when I brush my teeth, etc., I couldn’t understand why the bill was so high. Here’s fun news: it isn’t. According to my utility company, I am a good citizen who uses half the water that the average Oakland resident does.

I’d hate to see their bills. But then, I hate to see (and pay) mine, too.

Speaking of paying bills: remember that ticket for not pausing enough at the stop sign? Yeah, well, it was worse than either utility bill: $159 (again with the odd numbers). And they charged me a “convenience fee” for paying it on line. I wonder whose convenience that was?

I’m 34 today. 34 in the queue for technical assistance chat, which may well end up being a technical assistance rant, at least on my part. I’ve spent all day battling the evil PC, which we all know stands for Piece of Crap, and as anyone who has ever had one, looked at one, or thought of one will not be surprised to hear, I have accomplished nothing. Except the fraying of my already frazzled nerves and the losing of what remains of my tiny mind.

You may think the loss of my once resplendent mind is the reason for the chat thing and the queue thing, but it’s actually cheapness and indignation: if I were to actually speak to one of the tech support monarchs, those regal creatures bedecked with pocket protectors and with no need of sexual protection ever, it would cost me $10. And the wait would be 30 minutes.

Of course, the wait may still be 30 minutes, but I can bitch to you while I wait, like letting the gas escape slowly from a Champagne cork instead of wrenching it out, causing an explosion (and a sad waste of Champagne).

You may also be wondering why I’m even touching or thinking about the Egyptian curse of machinery when I have a perfectly good iBook. It’s because the folks who run the website which I use for work decided not to risk their manicures by putting in the Mac language (or whatever you geeks call it). So I have to use a PC for some of my work, thankfully not all of it.

Hoping to get the piece of work done before the moving madness crunch hits on Monday, I fired up the Evilosity and have been suffering ever since. Freeze-ups, error messages, you name it. Everything but productivity. Driven to desperation, I downloaded a software upgrade that was supposed to fix everything. All it fixed was my little wagon, since I got an error message on attempting to install it after paying $60 for the upgrade and am now in chat queue hell with no-one to chat to about my misfortune except you, my adoring audience.

I’m now 23. Is that too old to cry in public?

Update: All the tech support in India couldn’t fix it. I feel it is a personal triumph not to have hurled Self or PC in front of speeding train. I am referring the matter to our part-time tech person after the move. I hope she’s more patient than I am!

What else to do on the last morning of this winter but wait for the cable guy? Hopefully, he’ll be a little more efficient and a little less scary than this one.

I’m already bored, and it’s not quite 10 am. You know how I feel about boredom.

I wish I could tell my boss I’d be in sometime between 8 and 12 (or, even better, 10 and 2), and not have to call if I’m late or don’t bother to show up, as is often the perfidious way of cable guys. They have time to waste, and it’s all yours.

In other ennui-related news, I’m heading to Detroit in a couple of days. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not Detroit that’s boring – quite the opposite – but I’m going for another money manager interview marathon, and with my classic bad timing, I picked a day that my dear and amusing Kathleen is out of town, being dear and amusing elsewhere instead of with me. There’s always next time – and I’m pretty sure there will be a next time. Maybe not soon enough, though.

For now, I’d settle for the cable guy being here now.

Update:

Turns out I was actually waiting for Godot. No cable guy, Carrey-esque or otherwise, deigned to show up.

I called the cable company, who told me that my appointment was for Thursday the 20th. I pointed out that Thursday was the 22nd and that I would not have booked anything for Thursday, since I’m going to Detroit that day. I further pointed out that I had confirmed today’s appointment twice with them. They said Thursday was the best they could do (also, apparently, both the least and the most), and I asked, quite reasonably, if they guaranteed that someone would show up before noon on Thursday.

Of course, they said, there are no guarantees.

Wondering where I’ve been all this time? The answer is simple and dull: working and going to the doctor. Neither of these activities is sufficiently amusing for reportage as far as I’m concerned. I’m (not) doing it for your own good!

Really, I wonder why anyone wants their children to become doctors or lawyers. Given the fact that if your life has either doctors or lawyers in it, things are not going well, that means the public at large will either dread seeing your kids (at least professionally) or avoid it at all costs, and they will serve as the punchline for jokes as long as they stay in these undesirable professions.

But enough about them. Back to Me. For me, a week without doctors is like…well, someone else’s life. A very young someone else. The doctor of the week last week was the eye doctor. He horrified me by informing me that I have to get bifocals. Really, the grey poodle hair must be on the horizon. I can hear the beating of its wings. On the bright side, both he and the purveyor of the breathtakingly pricy old lady glasses* both thought I was 10 years younger than I actually am (thank you, Dermalogica!).

This week’s doctor is the cardiologist. Ologists in my opinion are not good. I’m not looking forward to the last doctor’s appointment of the year, though I’m hoping to actually get some answers. After all those years of school, why can’t they just tell you what’s wrong and how to fix it?

Early new year’s resolution: total doctor avoidance, other than necessary check-up and mammogram.

*Note to self: get better, or at least more entertaining addictions, instead of spending thousands on unenjoyable things such as anti-depressants (though I have broken that particular bad habit, it set me back plenty – at least financially) and bifocals.

My mail is delivered to a post office box. Partly because the building was out of mailboxes when I moved in (remember, no-one is supposed to live here), and partly because I can go and get the mail when I feel like it, instead of having it just appear, like an uninvited guest.

The truth is that the mail is seldom fun, but it really outdid itself this time, containing the following (all in one box!):

• A charming missive from my bank, returning a check I had foolishly attempted to deposit by mail, and informing me that they can no longer accept deposits by mail (even though they list an address for mail-in deposits on their website). I am beginning to think Kafka has been reincarnated as my bank.
• A letter from my friends at the State of California Franchise Tax Board, trying to get me to pay $1,000 in import tax for “importing” the grandfather clock I inherited from my late father. Faithful readers may recall that I went down this road already about three years ago, and that the road ended in my not having to pay the tax and my stepmother giving me a sedative.

  Why they are trying it on again after all this time, I don’t know. The Governator must really need some cigars. Anyway, the paperwork from Round One is with the rest of my stuff in storage, so I asked my sister Beth to send me a copy of Dad’s Will, which specifies the clock is mine, and I can prove that I don’t owe them a thing, except my abiding contempt.

• The Third Edition of one of my father’s books, Principles of Ecotoxicology, dedicated to his memory and with a forward praising his personal and professional achievements. I collapsed into tears. It’s amazing that almost 5 years after you lose someone, you can feel as bad as you did when it first happened. I hope I can face the copy of his Will with more courage than I could the copy of his book.
  

For reasons beyond my control (read: the mail), I received my new bank card approximately three weeks after the old one had expired. Now there’s a reason to go postal.

My bank card doubles as a Visa card, and since my only other Visa card was rudely and summarily sold my Pacific Heights tenement, but I couldn’t get any, since I didn’t have the bank card.

In the immortal words of the immortal A.A. Milne, “He could see the honey, he could smell the honey, but he couldn’t quite reach the honey.”

Having been assured that the card was on its way, I haunted the post office where I get my mail to the point that the guy behind the counter now thinks I have a crush on him. I began to think of alternate ways to get money. Rob a bank? Too risky. Set up myself as a charity? Too much work. Find a sugar daddy? Way too old.

In the immortal words of the immortal A.A. Milne, “Piglet lay there, wondering what had happened. At first he thought that the whole world had blown up; and then he thought that perhaps only the Forest part of it had; and then he thought that perhaps only he had…”

I had come to the end of my rope when the card magically appeared. I reinforced the crush illusion by hugging the post office guy. I skipped away to activate the card and start using it. Yay!

I really should have known that my happiness would be short-lived. Have I learned nothing in the past few years?! Apparently I have equal amounts of optimism and bad luck. The card was declined. “Declined” is now my least-favorite word in the English language. It’s even worse than “work” or “boredom” (these are synonyms in Suzy vocabulary).

I called the bank, filled with righteous indignation. It had taken my card forever to reach me, and now they wouldn’t let me use it, even though their very own automated systen had given me its impersonal blessing to go ahead and spend with impunity.

The bank informed me that the card had been flagged for fraud detection, given that it was almost a month between their mailing it out and my using it. Bankers appear to be even more impatient than I am, assuming death if you don’t pay your bill for two months, and fraud if you don’t use your card for a whopping three weeks. They assured me that they would decline to decline my card now. Yay!

I bought enough groceries for the Brady Bunch, gloating over a stocked refrigerator (including wine).

I really should have known that my happiness would be short-lived.

I got an email from the incomparable Candi, the hostess with the mostes’ over at the aptly-named No Hassle Hosting, telling me that my card had once again gotten a D. I once again called the bank. Guess what? They had put the fraud tag back on the very next day after they took it off. They were at a loss to explain it (how scary is that?). They were so apologetic that I considered asking them to come on over and clean the house for me, and maybe pick up a pizza on the way. They promised me earnestly that I would never again get a D as long as I lived.

So far, so good. But I’m just waiting for the next bad grade. See, it’s like this. I really should know…

With thanks to my father, who told us Pooh stories so often that we nicknamed him Pooh. And apologies to the divine Miz Cline.

The apartment has finally been sold. Other than the breathtaking rudeness and generally unpleasant personality of the woman who bought it, the most shocking thing about the entire depressing process was the fun-filled discovery that the seller gets to pay the buyer’s real estate agent, too. The grand total for both agents was $35 grand. Grand for the agents, that is.

I can’t help resenting paying the Other Agent, when all he did was make a spacious apartment in Pacific Heights with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge from the roof garden and beautiful period details sound like a tenement in Hunters Point. A really good agent can make you totally ashamed of your place in under five minutes.

So let’s take a farewell tour of the place I lived in and loved for well over a decade.

Here’s the outside of the building which dates from 1927.

It’s three blocks from Nicolas Cage’s house
and the famous Haas-Lilienthal House, now a museum.

Guess we all just love to slum it.

This is the living room, which I painted a sunny yellow.

You can see the 250 year old grandfather clock, which has been in my father’s family ever since it was made. The rocking chair was made by my mother’s grandfather from cherry wood, with mother-of-pearl inlays. The plant is called Frank.

Another view of the living room, looking toward the kitchen.

The desk was my beloved godfather’s.

The kitchen, showing the wonderful old Wedgewood stove (it’s more than 50 years old and the best stove I ever had).

Behind the stove and sink are the handmade Italian tiles I had put in. The counters were made by my brother from quarter-sawn white oak. I really hate it that the new owner appreciates none of these things. She complained bitterly that there was no dishwasher. Undoubtedly, she’ll yank it all out and replace it with stainless steel everything and never cook in it, just show it off.

The bathroom has William Morris wallpaper (the frieze is called Willow Bough, and the rug matches) imported from England.

The doorknob on the closet is lead crystal, as are all of the doorknobs in the apartment. The tub is a real cast-iron clawfoot, dating from 1890. I painted the outside green and the feet silver.

Last of all, the bedroom, with another Morris rug and the 1920’s dressing table I got at a yard sale 20 years ago. It turned out to be surprisingly valuable.

You can also see the bay window with a glimpse of the garden.

So there you have it. It doesn’t look that bad, does it?

Now is the summer of our discontent….

A construction worker, talking on a payphone (how retro is that?):

“And that’s why this city drives me crazy. Honest to God!”

Two guys on bikes:

Guy One: “That’s the kind of bullshit I’ve had to work with here.”
Guy Two: “it’s all bullshit here.”

Maybe I should move.

I already have two summer-related stupidity injuries (Calamity Suzy did not stay in Florida):

• A scrape on my left elbow. This was due to breezily informing a friend and hammock owner that I knew all about getting into and out of these summery contraptions. I may have gone so far as to boast that I had “skills”. The hammock promptly dumped me on the ground in a graceless heap to prove that I was just as wrong as I could be. That’s the “mock” part of the hammock. Yes, it mocked me for being such a ham.
  
• A burn on the fingers of my right hand, incurred while attempting remove skewers of shrimp from my barbecue unassisted. I discovered that you really shouldn’t hold onto the barbecue with your bare hands (or fingers). Kids, don’t try this at home.

In Which Suzy Learns Why a Hospital is Not Like a Spa:

• People go to spas voluntarily. No-one really wants to go to the hospital (reasons to follow).

• Spas smell like herbs and soothing aromatherapy products. Hospitals smell like hospital food.

• Hospital food tastes (and looks) as good as it smells. Filling, but not delicious. Spa food is generally cunningly arranged greens with a fat free, yet fancy dressing. Delicious, but not filling. Common ground: nearly impossible to convince staff to give you booze with or without food. And in the hospital, it could only help.

• Hospitals make you wear that very unattractive clothing item, apparently made of inferior quality sheets, which reveals the derri&egravere, no matter how attractive or unattractive. It remains a mystery to me why they feel this side of you is the good side – or at least, the side to be on display. Spas give you fluffy robes which pretty much conceal all. Common ground: when staff is doing things to you, whether in the spa or &agrave l’h&ocircpital, modesty is thrown to the winds.

• Spas make you slimmer. Hospitals are svelte-defying when you drive there and then sit there all day, watching your mother sleep, making awkward conversation, or watching tv. The most cardio I get is looking for a nurse or feeding Mom about a million of those high school cafeteria sized tubs of vanilla ice cream. Needless to say, spas are big on cardio, but not on ice cream. Also, diving into comfort food and comfort wine after escaping the Big House for the day doesn’t downsize a girl, however down she may be.

• Spas are tv-free, though not otherwise free. Hospitals, at least when you’re on Medicaid and Medi-Cal, are.

• They call you a patient when you’re in the hospital because you have to be. You’re always awaiting some kind of ministration. Your spa visit is on your schedule.

• You can easily get your nails done at a spa. At Mom’s hospital, they claimed to have a visiting manicurist on Tuesdays, but when we tried to actually get her to visit, no-one knew her name or phone number, rendering our efforts null and void.

• Spas tend to make your skin look better. I now sport a collection of stress-related(read: hospital visitation-induced) zits that would be the despair of any high school student. Big, honking, painful ones, too. They undeniably give me that youthful air, though.