Finding Joy in Snarkville

While I try to think that I’m pretty normal most of the time, I think when I’m alone and quiet that I may be forced to admit, I’m a wee bit crazy.  One writer I adore writes of her Mental Health number and rates any given moment on a scale of insanity.  I like this measure because it admits up front that we are merely measuring the level of crazy, not determining *IF* there’s crazy.  Perhaps it is a Southern thing — long ago those of us Southerners came to terms with our crazy (called it eccentric, but still) — I wonder when the Yankees will catch up?

So, while I freely admit that I’m crazy, I think I’d be remiss if I don’t explain why I have a perfectly valid reason to be crazy.  It isn’t like I paved the road to the nuthouse all by myself — I was pushed, pulled, and dragged down to Insanity Land with help — MUCH help.

1. Our dog.  He is the dumbest ball of fluffy fur that exists.  Yes, he is a Cocker Spaniel, which by defination makes him swim in the swallow end of the IQ pool.  In fact, if there is a breed dumber than cockers, then our dog would make that breed look like MENSA dogs.  Case in point, we have no fence (see fences are expensive, our dog is dumb, we like our neighbors, fences are expensive), so when I let the dog out, we have a long lead for him — so he can be outside without me (see there may be snow here at some point and the neighbors don’t need to see me in my PJs every morning) and have ‘private time.’  He HATES this lead — but he doesn’t dwaddle outside because of it — so I declare a win-win.  This morning I let him out, I come back inside make my coffee, feed Duke, sit down and begin to wonder if I’m ever going to see dog face at the door to come back in.  I go outside and there is NO dog to be seen.  The lead is not long enough for him to wander too far and I can’t figure out where he’d get off too.  So, I pull on the lead from the stake in the ground and find that it is leading UNDER the deck (a rocky area full of weeds that we need to get to at some point).  I find the dog laying under the deck.  I call him, he looks pitiful (he always looks pitiful).  I pull on the lead a little.  He does NOT move.  I go in get shoes, walk to the edge of the deck closest to him and call him over.  He slowly comes and I unhook him and he BOLTS for the back door.  I pull the lead back to where it belongs and realize that he’d either gotten lost under the deck and couldn’t figure out how to get out because the lead isn’t long enough for him to wrap it all through the deck OR he was afraid of a weed and wouldn’t go back the way he came.  I think the latter.  I’ve got a dollar on he’ll go under the deck the next time I let him out.
2. Labor Day weekend saw us (I mean Prince) laboring on our deck outside.  He cleaned it.  He stained it.  Then we waited for it to dry.  And waited and waited and waited.  While waiting, I looked out and saw what looked like paw prints.  Oh great, an animal got up on our deck while it was wet — lovely.  I go off on a rant about how we live in a zoo and never can have anything nice and how this deck will never dry and this is why don’t do home improvement, when Prince says, “Um, Honey, those aren’t paw prints.  They are knots from the wood.”  Apparently the deck was so dirty and yucky looking that I never noticed how many knots were in the boards.  Opps.  That rant was fun while it lasted.
3. Patio Chair Cushions.  We threw out the old, icky, GROSS cushions before we moved.  I have lovely chairs without cushions, but my deck is pretty and I want to finish with new cushions so we might be able to eat outside ONCE before the snow arrives (which given the talk around here, might be next week).  However, I am loathe to spend an arm and a leg on cushions (why I’ve been cushionless for nearly a year) and want them to be on sale.  I found sale cushions I like, but then I found cushions for HALF the price that might not be bad — but there 12 colors to pick from AND I can’t decide.  URGH.  Oh and Prince and I totally differ on which ones to pick — so he’s no help.
4. It took us longer to decide on which snow blower to buy than it did to pick out the house we live in.  I wish I was kidding.  I’ve never owned a snow blower before — heck, I’ve never lived anywhere that needed a blower for snow.  I researched.  I asked tons of stupid questions.  Prince reminded me that HE had actually lived in snow and used a snow blower in the past.  I fretted.  I learned a lot.  We happened to be somewhere where the snow blowers were just being put out and we looked.  Prince marveled at something and I said offhandedly, “Oh, well, there’s this one I saw at Sears that adjusts the chute with a joystick.”  (If that sentence makes no sense to you, then you have not spent the past month worried about snow that might not be here until January.)  Prince just stared at me and wondered aloud who I was and what happened to his wife.  So we go to Sears.  We look.  We talk.  I show off all my new knowledge of snow blowers (do you realize it is possible to know so much about them without ever having seen one move? Oh, yes, it is possible.)  I had basically picked one out and Prince talked me into a SMALLER, LESS powerful machine.  Now, I’m forced to wonder who he is and what happened to my “Tim, the Tool Man, Taylor” husband.
5. Home Depot is offering to install carpet for a whole house for pocket lint (or something so little).  I want desperately to re-carpet my whole house.  I think about it constantly, even though I totally agreed to wait until spring (hello snow covered paws and new carpet — and tax refund).  So, now I’m forced to pet carpet samples where ever I go.  And I have issues — I don’t know WHAT I want in carpet.  I know what I don’t want — but seriously, that isn’t helping me pick.  And I’m not looking forward to the prospect of having to move my stuff to get the carpet in here.  However, I found the plaid carpet I NEED in my basement — I *NEED* it.  Maybe I should just carpet the basement for now — and Duke’s room — and our room — and the hallway — and Prince’s office — and the  — and –  and –

Yes, I know I’m nuts — but I seem to be getting it from everyone around me.  So, when you see my sitting in the corner twitching and muttering to myself — you will know….it is not *MY* fault.

Alternative title: How to waste an hour and half trying to pay a bill

Alternative title the second: Really, I have money, you want money, why is this so hard?

So, you remember how I moved?  Remember how when you move you have things to change, like phone numbers, addresses, and various bills?  You all know how when you say “Moving is a pain in the butt” — you aren’t really talking about the packing and unpacking part, because the real pain is all the dang paperwork.

First, there was the post office.  I filled out the paperwork for my change of address.  I filled out the paperwork to hold my mail for the transit time.  I did everything I was supposed to do.  The post office LOST all of my mail from the time I left the Snark State until after I arrived in Mid-Snark.  Oh, yes, that was fun.  Now my postman regularly gives my mail to my neighbors — Perhaps he is doing his duty to have us all meet and exchange letters.

Second, there was turning off everything in Snark State and turning on in Mid-Snark.  My personal favorite was the cable company who sent me a final bill that was FOUR times higher than my monthly bill.  Why you might ask?  Because they didn’t show that we’d turned in the equiptment.  Good thing I have the receipt for it.  Then they ‘found’ the equiptment and gave us a credit — but not before I spent hours on the phone tracking it down, then waiting for the check to arrive.  URGH.

Finally, there was our cell phones.  After moving here and finally settling in, we changed our numbers.  So, we spent an hour at the local cell store changing our numbers making sure the plans didn’t extend and such.  Then I got the bill.  I got a bill that when I went to pay it, my bank flags as I’ve paid this within 30 days.  (I need to stop and say, I PINK, Puffy heart my bank.)  So, I go digging.  I realize that this is a new account number and I call.  Sure enough, the new phone number changes my account number — which means that I have a credit balance on my old account.  HOWEVER, that credit can not be applied because the old bill hasn’t closed and the new bill is due.  Forty-five minutes later, I finally had it worked out that would not be writing a check only to wait for a check back from them.  Shocking, I know, but I was pretty sure that the miracle of computers was such that it would allow a transfer of the funds from one account to another without wasting my time or any paper.  Idealist I know.

Well, today, I get the bill from the old account and I call.  I had to call, because it is not automatic to do this, and they could not set it up ahead of time.  So, I called.  I explained what I wanted to do to the first person.  She had to get someone to help me.  On hold.  She comes back and says, “We can’t move the balance because the two accounts are in two different states.”  UM, NO.  I wish to speak to someone else.  I get the guy who wouldn’t move the money — says something about policy about the two different states or something.  I explained, this is NOT what I was told; please read the notes in the system; and wasting my time would not make me happy.  On hold again.  He comes back and says, “Oh, the policy changed and I wasn’t aware.”  So, I said, “That means you didn’t try and said ‘No’ before you knew the facts — way to go for customer service.”

So, he moves the money around.  And he says, “Ok, the balance on the new account is $XX.XX”  Um, no.  I wrote a check, based on exactly what the last person told me do for $YY.YY.  The difference between $XX.XX and $YY.YY is $6.  Yes, I totally fought for $6.  I got it.  I got off the phone and looked at the timer — 45 minutes.

I’m glad that is done and didn’t waste anything like paper — apparently my TIME is fine though.  URGH.

Now, I’m off to Old Navy to buy my child much needed pants (why does he have to keep growing) and hope that some retail therapy will take the edge off.