Help is on the way

Sunday night. I've been slacking off here so I could enjoy life outside of words on the screen. My son Drake and his fiance Montana were here this weekend, so I spent as much time with them as possible. We went out for pizza Friday night with her brother and his wife, who is currently in labor with their first child, and Montana's grandfather. Her grandad hates me, but I don't blame him. It's Obama's fault. Entirely Obama's fault. Him and his damn bumper stickers.

(I'm sure he's also responsible for Shockwave fucking flashplayer, which decides to crash every night when I sit down here to write.)

In any case, I don't care if an old man hates me because of my bumper stickers. I don't have that many and the ones I do have are just the tip of my political and social and cultural iceberg. I am his worst nightmare, and I really don't give a shit.

He's a man of my father's generation, and for all I know, if he had lived long enough, my dad might have fed his paranoia with Fox news too, and he probably wouldn't like me very much either -- even less than he did when he was alive. He died 31 years ago though, so he avoided seeing how bad I got over the years.

But even if he had lived and didn't like me, I still would have loved him, just like Montana loves her grandpa. I wouldn't have given an inch, and I would have wished we could be closer, but I still would have loved him.

Back to the weekend. We also went out last night to listen to a band. The lead singer is an old friend of my friend Alex. Turned out, Drake knew him too. Small world.

As often happens, somebody asked me when I'm going to have my housewarming party. I made the face I make and said I wasn't sure, but I'd try to have it soon. Drake laughed, because even though he doesn't live here, he's heard that question before often enough.

When we got home, I confessed I didn't think I'd ever throw that big party. I told him I'm overwhelmed by my to-do list and by the list of jobs I wanted to hire done, but haven't found anybody to do yet. I told him sometimes I look at those lists, and I can't even choose one of those things and just do it, so I sit here and scroll through Facebook and read blogs until several hours have passed and I hate myself, so I eat some chocolate and take a nap. Then I unload the dishwasher or do some laundry or practice music or write a blog post or vacuum or pull weeds or plant my garden or cook dinner, and my list stays there on the kitchen counter looking innocuous like a simple piece of paper does, but weighing on me like a piano on an unraveling rope above my head. It's embarrassing that I can't get more done.

He asked to see my lists, so I showed him. He asked me to show him what work I wanted to hire someone to do, so I walked him through. He said, "Mom, I can do most of these things. Why don't I take a few days and come here and work my ass off and get them done for you? You pay for my gas and food, and I'll do the work."

And then he fixed my ice-maker, which hasn't worked since I moved in. All he  had to do was turn on the water to the line down in the basement, which I should have figured out (except .... overwhelmed), and now I've got an ice-maker.

Then today after church we went to a home improvement store for a couple of hours, made some decisions about a dining room cabinet I want to build out and make into a bar, and bought a new screen door for the widow's walk off my bedroom.

It's a little porch that seems like such a wonderful place to sit and drink tea and read a book, but honestly? It scares me to death. Coraline is fascinated with it. She calls it her "flying place," because she thinks she can fly like a fairy. She thinks I can fly off it too. She says, "C'mon, Mommers. Let's fly!" And she means it. She's sure we can fly just like Tinkerbell. My imagination takes a different turn. All I see is a 20-foot drop to my brick patio. Right now the only thing between her and that porch if the door is open, as it often is in the summer, is a fabric screen held together with magnets.

So we bought a wood screen door and some hardware. When we got it home, it was about an inch too wide, so Drake used the electric hand saw I bought for $2 at a garage sale last weekend (serendipity!) and trimmed both sides by half an inch. Then we painted it to match the house. He didn't have time to install it, but he will next time he's here. With a lock way up high.

While we were doing that, I got out some other paint, taped a brush to the 7-foot strip of wood we'd sawed off the door, and touched up some peeling paint on the porch ceiling. Easier than getting up on a ladder. Then I touched up the paint on the porch floor too. And he cut up the branch that fell off the neighbor's tree last week and damaged the fence, which I'll probably end up fixing too, because it's really easy for people to walk away from houses in this neighborhood.

There's something about somebody else working with me that energizes me. I work better in collaboration, or at least with people around. Maybe it's the accountability. I don't know. I've done a lot of work -- in spite of feeling stuck and overwhelmed -- here all by myself. And that's as it should  be. It's my house. It's my work to do. My responsibility.

But having someone here to work with me, to brainstorm with, even for just an afternoon, doing things I'm not comfortable doing myself or simply not strong enough, damn it .... It felt  good. And it's such a relief that he's willing to come back and help with a few of the big jobs.

For a few seconds, I felt like I might eventually get all settled in and have that big party. At least I'm getting close to imagining it.

That's my weekend. That's why I haven't been writing about vaginas or women's issues or what I want for Christmas this weekend.

It's not easy to admit I can't do it all, but I'm feeling better about it tonight. Maybe I'll be writing about a party sometime in the future.

Tell me what overwhelms you. Does the feeling make you put your shoulder down and get 'er done? Or do you find ways to avoid the LIST and then feel like a failure? I can tell you I'm looking for more of the former in my life and less of the latter.

Putting my faith in Miss Serendipity

(clickonenglish.blogspot.com)

Buying a house is both exhilarating and stressful. I'm really excited about my new space, about making it my very own, although I underestimated how long it would take to paint rooms with 12-foot ceilings and highly saturated, dark paint colors. But I'm getting there. I'll post some photos next week.

I also should have suspected I'd have trouble getting people in to do the work I don't want to do myself. That's a given. The electrician I intended to hire for a few small jobs hasn't called me back after almost 2 weeks, so I need to find someone else. He's a friend of my daughter Elvira's, so I wanted to give him the business. I wish he'd told me he doesn't want it. It would have been so much simpler if he'd just said "no," and let me find somebody else 2 weeks ago.

I wrote last night about the trouble I had getting work done over Thanksgiving 10 days week. I was kind of bummed that I wasn't going to get the floors done in time. They need to be refreshed if nothing else, but that's not a job that can be done in a day.

And then Miss Serendipity dropped an answer right in my lap in the form of this blog post on the Young House Love website. Apparently I can do the floors myself with a product called Rejuvenate. It will take hours I didn't intend to spend -- just like everything else has -- but it will also save me the $2000+ the contractor was going to charge me to buff, stain and seal the floors with polyurethane. A win for me.

One thing I was going to do myself, with the help of my future daughter-in-law Montana, was learn to install laminate flooring (something like Pergo) in the upstairs hallway. Yeah, I know, putting laminate over original wood floors in an old Victorian is a sin in a lot of people's eyes, but the floors are in terrible shape up there. So terrible that, after doing some research online, I realized I wouldn't be able to put down laminate, because there's no way to level them.

Miss Serendipity to the rescue again. My excellent friend Chicken Grrrl asked me if I needed any carpet. Turns out her in-laws just bought a house too, and they tore out all the almost new, neutral-colored carpet. She asked if I could use it.

My son Drake was home last weekend, so he went with me to their new house, and we filled my van with carpet and pad. Now I just need to find somebody to lay it. It's not original hardwood, but it's a solution I'm perfectly happy with.

Finally, last week I set up an appointment for professional movers to move my large items over: washer/dryer, couch, wall units and bookcases, dining room furniture. What warms my heart is that the moving company is owned by the parents of the last tenant of my house, who is a dear friend. In fact, she loved the house and wanted to buy it before she decided to move to Austin with her man. I met both of her parents at her going away party, and now they're going to move my stuff into what was their daughter's house.

Connections all over the place!

(I'll be writing soon about the fiasco that was my last move, and why I won't ever hire Two Men and a Truck again. Ever. In fact, if they offered to move me for free, I'd tell them to drive their truck up their manager's ass. It was that bad, and I am a veteran of many professional moves. They would have to pay me to move my stuff.)

I don't expect that to happen this time.

In fact, I am working hard to trust that everything will work out just as it should: that I will finish the work I want to do myself and have done by others on the house (at least what has to be done prior to moving in), that a few of the people who have offered to help me move my stuff will have time to come and help me, and that everything will fit when I get it all into the house.

Truly, the hardest part at this point is waiting to move in. I'll still have a lot of work ahead of me unpacking and organizing once I'm in, but I can do that in my own time .... and I will be in my own house doing it.

Harmony House

Randomness #1126

Last night I wrote that I was struggling to juggle all the balls I've got in the air right now, including that ball that represents my overdue library books, and the $13+ I'd accrued in fees. This morning I was at the hospital getting some blood drawn, a long list of errands resting heavy in my pocket, when I got a text from my librarian friend Steamy Cynthia telling me she had renewed my library books for me.

As I sat there in the crowded waiting room I had to wipe tears from the corners of my eyes. Sweet acts of kindness affect me that way.

Last week after I wrote that I was having trouble choosing paint colors in my bedroom, she reserved a bunch of books on decorating bedrooms and color choices in general, and had them sent to my local branch of the library. (She works at a different one.) I had the same reaction then. Sappy.

So now you know. The way to make me cry is to do something nice. It doesn't even have to be for me. Surprise anybody with kindness, and I'll probably cry about it.

I'm still struggling with the bedroom wall color though. I finally decided on what I thought was the perfect color, and I bought a gallon of that color .... turned out it was too light. So today I went back to Home Depot and bought another gallon 2 shades darker. It looks perfect in the can. On the wall it looks like I've been fingerpainting with poop. I have never painted in a house that changes the color of paint once it's on the walls like this one does. I will not put put up the eggshell white flag though.

I recently started watching The Blacklist for one reason and one reason only: James Spader. What is it about this man that compels me so? He's not traditionally handsome. He talks funny, like he has to chew his words into submission before he reluctantly lets them go out into the world. He plays the same basic character over and over, and yet I never get tired of him. I was devastated when Boston Legal was cancelled. He was brilliant in that show.

I want to have him over for Thanksgiving dinner, because I'm certain he would adore my pumpkin pie. And then, of course, he'd have to spend the night, because I always make extra homemade whipped cream his wife would probably be angry that he didn't spend Thanksgiving with his family, so she'd tell him to not bother coming home. I could live with that. Whipped cream makes up for a lot.

Today, as I mentioned,  I was at the base hospital, which is a conservative place, quite unlike hospitals in the city where you might witness all manner of craziness. And that's why I was so puzzled when I noticed that the woman ahead of me on the sidewalk, who appeared to be in her 40's, had something that looked suspiciously like a thin striped tail hanging down from her .... well, her tail area.

What the hell is that? I thought. It can't be a tail. Why would she be walking through the base hospital with a tail made of fabric hanging out of her shirt? It's striped so it can't be a .... what the fuck else could it be?

I hurried to catch up, because I was afraid I was gaslighting myself. The man who was with her was older -- maybe 10 years older. I thought maybe I'd misjudged her age, and she was a very large 9-year-old who was there with her father. She turned to talk to the man and .... nope. In her 40's.

As I got closer I realized the tail was part of a sweatshirt that looked like something my 2-year-old granddaughter Coraline might wear. The hood was a cat face with gray ears lined with pink, and at the end of the sleeves she had paws hanging down.

Well, hey. Who am I to judge someone else's fashion choices? I just think it I were going to wear a tail to the hospital, I wouldn't wear a flat, obviously fake, tail made of fabric. I'd wear a big, fluffy, furry, red fox tail that hung down to my knees and bounced when I walked.

But that's just me.

What kind of tail would you wear to the hospital?

It's in the mail

Although you might think from my writing here on this blog I'm endlessly the most cheerful, easy-going gal you'd ever meet, I'm sorry to say it's not always the case. Take yesterday morning. I was feeling the Monday morning blues: overwhelmed, possibly even cynical, definitely testy. I had reasons, but none I want to write about here. My friend the Hot Italian, who really knows her way around a metaphor -- straight up or mixed -- said no wonder I felt like that: Jenga bricks were being added to my already shaky tower.

Perfect metaphor. Jenga tower.

Well, we all feel that way sometimes, don't we? I had work to do to keep that tower standing, so once I'd told the Hot Italian about it and received assurance that I wasn't just being a whiner, I headed over to my new house to paint, not so much looking forward to another solitary day climbing up and down an 8-foot ladder breathing fumes.

I arrived, and as I walked up the porch steps I noticed a small, square box had been left beside the front door. I didn't remember ordering anything with my new address, so I figured it was something somebody had sent to the previous tenant.

Nope, it was addressed to me! That's cool, I thought. My first package at my new house. The return address told me it was from the couple I bought the house from. They live all the way across the country, so I've never me them. I certainly didn't expect a package. I stuck it under my arm, carried it in and set it on the fireplace in the parlor.

I changed into my painting clothes, still feeling pretty low. I flipped on the lights in the dining room and made a mental list of everything I needed to get done. It was long.

I was going back into the parlor to turn on my CD player when I saw the box on the mantle. How did I forget my first package in my new house?

I grabbed it and headed to the kitchen where I'd left my box cutter the day before. When I walked in, I had to smile, just a little. When I'd left the night before we were under a tornado warning. The day had been gray, rainy and windy -- a keep all the lights on kind of day. I think I'd carried that turbulent weather into the next day.

So I didn't expect the dazzle of sunshine streaming in through the big windows in the kitchen, shining off the blonde cabinets. I found a warm patch to stand in while I slit the tape on the box.

Inside I found a pretty navy blue bag tucked into a nest of brown wrapping paper. I pulled it out slowly, just to make the unwrapping last.

I'm not going to bore you with my slow unwrapping of the contents. Inside I found 14 keys to the house. I was delighted. I'm always afraid I'll lose all my keys. I'd already had 6 more made in addition to the one the realtor gave me. Now I have 21 keys, even though all the locks on all the doors are keyed the same. Now I know I won't run out of keys. I think I might have one of them framed.

I also pulled out a garage door opener in a zip-lock bag. I haven't tried it, but I'm sure it operates one of the 3 garage doors. A artful rubber stamp with the address of the house on it, for stamping the return address on envelopes. A box of gourmet chocolates flavored like classic cocktails. (It was like they knew me! Booze-flavored chocolate!)

And a hand-written note that said they wanted to congratulate me on buying the house, and to assure me the house was a good old house. They gave me some helpful tips for routine maintenance and wished me luck.

I stood right there in my new kitchen and cried. The timing couldn't have been more perfect. It felt like more than a package from two people -- strangers, and yet not strangers -- that I now share a history of ownership of this house with. It felt like a sweet, kind reminder from someone out there in the ether that everything was happening just as it should. And I was standing exactly where I was supposed to be standing: in a bright patch of sunlight in a beautiful Victorian house that's been sheltering people for almost 140 years in a city I love. So close to the heart, I can walk downtown if I want to.

Isn't it funny how an unexpected kindness can jolt you out of the Monday blues? That's what happened. Suddenly I was ready to get busy ... those rooms weren't going to paint themselves.

When I finally quit at about 8:00 pm, my shoulders aching and my stomach complaining, I realized I hadn't given much thought to my shaky Jenga tower all day. One simple act of kindness, and I once again had faith that my Jenga tower was going to be just fine.

There's nothing that can't be fixed with a lifetime supply of keys and a box of chocolate.

Working the pole

Maybe I'm one of those writers who writes things into reality. If so, that could be pretty cool, and I can expect to win the lottery even though I never buy a ticket. Or maybe the handypenis has simply become ubiquitous through no fault of my own. Doesn't matter, really, except that it happened again -- today, after I just wrote about it yesterday.

Last Wednesday I was painting the 10-foot kitchen ceiling in my new house using a roller and an extension pole. It's my extension pole, and I've used it many times -- in my old house in the suburbs and now in my new old house in the city. It's a simple gadget. Nothing to it -- just twist and extend or intend ... wait, that's not the opposite of extend. Shorten. I've done both a hundred times.

I was painting just like I have been, needed a little more pole to reach a corner, twisted ...... and nothing. The pole didn't twist and slide like it always had before. I twisted and twisted and twisted. I read the directions printed just under the plastic handle that helps with the twisting. Of course I was doing it right. It's too simple to not do it right. Twist one way to unlock. Twist the other way to lock. What the fuck?

I twisted and twisted and twisted both ways. It didn't budge. I banged it against the counter and twisted some more. Nothing.

I finished painting and cleaned up. I knew the next time I used it I'd have to extend it for the 12-foot ceiling in the dining room or risk permanent neck injury, or worse, paint drips in my hair. Twist .... twist .... twist ..... nothing. I finally gave up and left it propped against the ladder. Surely it would pop right apart next time I painted. It just needed a rest.

Today I went back to paint. The first thing I did was grab that pole and twist. Nothing. Twist .... twist .... twist.

Fuck me, I thought. Now it's a job for a penis. I've done everything I can to make this simplest of tools work ..... I need a handypenis.

I set to work cutting in the kitchen ceiling for the second coat, knowing my friend Rocky was coming over at some point to see the house for the first time. Every so often as I climbed down off the ladder to move it, I'd twist the damn extender. It was stuck tight.

Rocky arrived, and I took him on a tour of the house. I said nothing about the extender. Eventually we ended up back in the dining room (where he voted for the red ... but too late). As we talked about paint colors and other jobs I need to do, I picked up the fucking piece of shit pole.

I thought, Surely this time it will work and I won't have to ask Rocky to use his penis powers.

I gave it a mighty twist ...... nothing. I sighed.

"Rocky," I said. "I'm afraid I have need of your penis."

"Really?" he said. "What do you need my penis for?"

"I need you to use your penis to extend this pole. It's really easy, but for some reason ...," I twisted that fucker so hard it should have broken, "... I can't get this to turn and extend. I've done it many times before, but ....."

You know what's coming, don't you?

He laughed and grabbed the pole .... gave it a twist and .... nothing! He twisted and twisted and twisted and nothing!

I laughed. "Yes! Yes! It's not just me! Even you can't do it. Your penis is worthless against this pole!"

He asked me how it was supposed to work, and I explained it. He twisted some more ..... it remained locked. He got that look on his face that men get when their penises don't work. (Not like that, you with your dirty mind!)

I started to gloat. "Ha! Looks like a penis can't fix everything! Looks like my pole beats your penis ...."

Just as I said it, the damn pole came apart like it was buttered. My ego deflated with a whoosh and popped out of existence.

"Here you go," he said, holding it out to me. "All fixed."

I twisted it and extended it. And then shortened it. Twist. Twist. Twist. It worked. 

"Thank you for using your penis to fix my extension pole," I said bitterly. It's not that I wasn't grateful, but what the fuck? It works by twisting! That's it! Twisting!

"No problem," he said, probably feeling gallant as a fucking knight of the Round Table. "Let me know if you need help with anything else. I'm quite handy."

"I will," I said, hanging my head in defeat. "Thanks again for the use of your penis." I showed him to the door.

Penis: 1. Vagina: 0.

For now.

Ch....ch .... ch ..... changes

You'd think buying a house would be no big deal for me. I've bought and sold several over the years, as is a necessity for a military wife. In fact, the last 3 years of renting has been a step way back in time for me. So buying a house is definitely the right thing for me to do. There are a couple of big differences this time though.

1. This is the first time I've bought a house by myself. Even though I usually found the house, chose the house, made the house a home -- albeit always a temporary home -- LtColEx did the jobs I wasn't as comfortable with: finding the loan, negotiating with all the various money and real estate people, even paying for it. We each did what we were good at.

This time, I'm on my own. I know I made an excellent choice, but there's nobody to share both the joy and the trepidation of making such a big purchase. I've spent some sleepless nights worrying about the (possibly illegal) hoops the mortgage company put me through, how I would get the work done I want to do to the house, how I would get everything moved, where I will put everything, what if I fucked up? ...... Nobody to roll over to, shake awake, and talk it out with.

I'm just going to say it: It's lonelier buying a house by myself. For decades I had someone to make these decisions with .....

And yet, it turns out, I'm doing fine. My realtor has been a fucking rock through the whole difficult process. I trusted him completely, and he never disappointed me in the 3 years I dragged him around looking at houses. Poor guy. He must have been so relieved when I finally said, "This is the house. This is the one I've been looking for."

My friends and my kids are excited for me, and I know they will help me fill my house with many happy memories.

So, yeah, I'm doing this alone for the first time, and for the first time it's all mine. which leads to the second big difference.

2. This is the first time I've bought a house that isn't pre-sold. Military people don't have the luxury of painting the dining room red or the teenage daughter's bedroom black. We had to be ready to move when we were told to move, and often we had only a few short weeks to both sell the old and then buy a new house.

The houses I chose were always houses that could be re-sold, and sold fast. I'm an expert at finding just the right floor plan and making the house look comfortable and welcoming, but not too quirky. Oh, they've all had my stamp on them, but I always had to consider the sale. In a sense, none of them were ever really mine.

The last house we/I owned for 17 years. Nobody would have predicted we would stay there more than three, but we loved this area so we made it happen. The last few years, during my divorce, I rebelled and did 2 things that weren't in the military wife's rule book for moving in a hurry. I painted the front door purple, against the advice of everybody except the realtor who helped me find the house I just bought. He said he didn't give a shit, and if I liked the door purple, go ahead and paint the fucker purple. I did it.

I also let Elvira turn the pretty purple and pink fairies on her wallpaper border into dark Goth fairies using Sharpie markers. She got about halfway around the room, working in spurts over a couple of years. I'm not sure the new owners noticed her handiwork before they bought the house; it may have been a surprise.

Everything else I did in the house was with the knowledge that I would have to sell it one day. That's why in one of the worst real estate markets in decades, I still had a contract on the house within 2 weeks of putting it on the market. My realtor had predicted the house would sit for at least a year.

This time I bought the house I wanted with no thought of reselling it. I plan to die in this house. It will be up to my kids to either sell it or live in it when I'm gone.

So I can paint the rooms any color I want. I can use the rooms any way I want -- if I want to sleep in the dining room, I can sleep in the dining room. It's in an historic district, so I don't have total freedom on the outside, but it looks fabulous on the outside. It's just the way I would have wanted it anyway.

Now I'm going to admit that this level of freedom is damn intimidating. I'm having trouble deciding what colors I do want to paint .... or if I want to paint. Over half the people who gave an opinion on the corpuscle room thought I should keep the red. That one was easy though, so that's the one I tackled first. I'm not a red-room person. That I know. So I'm painting it.

Part of the master suite

Same with the master bedroom, bath, and closet, which are a mustard color. Just not my color, so I'll be painting there too and taking down some industrial chic door hardware. But I'll admit, I'm stuck on what color I want to paint it. I've spent so many years painting rooms in neutral colors, I'm not sure what I like.

Chicken Grrrl keeps reminding me that paint isn't permanent. And she's right, but it's a hell of a lot of hard work, painting is. My perfectionism is in full swing, telling me I have to get it right the first time.

Piano here

Another voice tells me I've got plenty of time to live there and make decisions about how I want to live there. If I don't like where I set up my office, I can move it. As long as there's a room for my grand piano -- which there is -- everything else will work out.

3. This one kind of goes along with #1, but this is the first time I've had to do it all myself. LtColEx and I had a great arrangement when it came to things like home repairs and facelifts: I chose the projects and materials and colors; he did the work. I didn't bother him while he worked, except to throw raw meat into the room several times a day. It all balanced out.

With this house, I'm doing the painting he would have done, and, although my shoulders are feeling it and I'm slower than a sloth, I'll get it done, and it will look fine. Or if it doesn't, I'll work at it until it does.

Laying a floor in the upstairs hall -- which has to be done -- will be a new challenge. I'm sure there are Youtube videos though, and a friend has offered his chop saw for the laminate flooring I'll probably have to install. I'll choose the "wood," and I'll get the job done. Later I may tackle some downstairs rooms too. (I was disappointed to find out the floors have been refinished too many times to do them again. Not even close to a dealbreaker though. Just an adjustment to make.)

Some things I'll have to hire done, and that worries me. Women get ripped off so much more often than men, and I've been there. I'm almost tempted to hire a male actor to hire a contractor. I have a plumber and an electrician I can trust though. And I'll find somebody for the other work, or I'll figure out how to do it myself. I also have lots of handy friends who will give me advice and guide me.

I'm writing this to persuade myself, and it's working ... for a few minutes anyway. I hope this doesn't sound too whiny. I really am terribly excited to make this house my home. I felt it the second I walked in the door. The very second. This house was meant to be my house. Maybe that's why all this feels so important. I want to get it right.

Since I made the commitment to write every day this month, and I'm totally overwhelmed already with the house and TEDx and Thanksgiving, I'll probably be writing  a lot about the process of doing the work and moving. I hope it's not too boring. I'll sprinkle a few vaginas into the mix though, and maybe even a couple of penises. Like salt and pepper.

Dialog with DP&L: Don't try this at home

Thursday morning about 9:00: a call to Dayton Power and Light (DP&L).

Me: I'm calling to have service transferred to a house I just bought. The address is blah blah blah.  I need to have it done as soon as possible, please.

Annoyed DP&L customer service representative: I can't transfer service. We already have an order to cut off service at that address today.

Me: That's unusual. I guess the previous owners did that. I wonder why they would do that. Well, just leave the service on and sign it over to me. Here's my account number.

Annoyed DP&L customer service representative: We can't turn it back on until tomorrow. The order went out with the technician at 7:00 this morning to shut it off.

Me: Can you just contact him and tell him to leave it on?

Annoyed DP&L customer service representative: I can send him a page if you're at the house, and you verify that it hasn't already been shut off.

Me: I'm not at the house, and I can't go over there until late this afternoon. Why don't you just send him the page and tell him if he hasn't turned it off, he should leave it on? And if he has turned it off he can just ignore the page.

Annoyed DP&L customer service representative: I can't do that, ma'am. I can only page him if you're at the house and can verify that the power has not been turned off.

(Repeat the above 4 sections about 7 times.)

Me: That doesn't make sense. It's just a page. If it's not off already, we can avoid the gap in service if you just page him now.

Annoyed DP&L customer service representative: Ma'am, I cannot page him unless you are there and the electricity is still on. The technicians receive the orders at 7:00 in the morning and then they go out and work all day. (Raising her voice.) They work from 7:00 in the morning until midnight. I cannot send him a page unless you are at the house and the electricity is still on.

Me: I would think a guy who is going to work 17 hours today would appreciate a page either way if it would mean he didn't have to go out today to turn it off and then go back out tomorrow and turn it back on. It's not going to hurt a thing if it's already off and you send him that page, but if it is still on, it will save him two trips to the house.

Annoyed DP&L customer service representative: Ma'am, I really can't do that unless you're at the house and can verify that the power is still on. You have to be at the house or I can't send the page. Also, you'll have to go to the house and turn all the breakers off so he can turn the power back on. The breakers have to be off.

Me: I don't need to turn off the breakers if you send the page and stop the order. You can send the page. For some reason you don't want to. In fact, in the time it's taken you to tell me the same illogical thing over and over again, you could have sent out at least 5 pages.....

Annoyed DP&L customer service representative: I will not send a page unless you are at that house. Do you want to call me back from the house?

Me: No, I can't get to the house for hours. By then I'm sure the technician will have been there, because I do not believe he's going to wait until midnight to do it. You could make life a lot easier for him and for me if you'd just send that page.

Annoyed DP&L customer service representative: Ma'am, I am not going to send a page unless you call me from that address.

Me: How would you even know where I was? I could call you back in 10 minutes and tell you I was there. Nothing you've said has made sense. I don't have to go to the house for you to send a page. Just let him know and we'll be done with this.

Annoyed DP&L customer service representative: That is not our policy.

Click.

Thursday night at 8:30 I go to the house, and, using a weak flashlight find my way to one of the back rooms in the basement to the breaker box, where I shut down all the breakers.

Friday afternoon: 4:00 pm. I'm at the house and the electricity still isn't on. I call DP&L and get a different customer service representative.

Me: You were supposed to turn on the electricity at my new address today. Can you tell me when that might happen? I want to make sure it's still going to be turned on today, because I haven't been able to do any work here.

Second DP&L customer service representative: You didn't make an appointment for your power to be turned on today. In fact, there's a note on your account that says not to turn it on until you call from the house and say that the power is off.

Me: What? I was never supposed to call from the house. I told the woman yesterday that I couldn't call from the house.

Second DP&L customer service representative: Well, there's a note that says you said you would call from the house to verify. You didn't actually call to have your power turned on. We can turn it on Monday.

Me: No, Monday is too late. You were supposed to turn it on today. I did call to have it turned on. That's the reason I called. The woman I talked to yesterday was mad because I wanted her to page the technician. She hung up on me. She did this on purpose so I wouldn't have electricity over the weekend.

Second DP&L customer service representative (still being friendly even though I probably sound like a raving lunatic): Ma'am, our technicians went out with their orders at 7:00 this morning .....

Me:  I know all about that. One of them should have had an order to turn on my electricity, because I was told by that unfriendly customer service representative yesterday that it would be done today.

Second DP&L customer service representative: I'm sorry. The note says you had to call first.

Me: And I'm telling you I told her I couldn't go to the house and call. I told her that at least 5 times.

Second DP&L customer service representative: The best we can do is to send somebody out Monday between 7:00 am and midnight.

Me: No, that's not the best you can do. You can page somebody and send him out today like you were supposed to.

Second DP&L customer service representative: If you had called back yesterday ....

Me: I never agreed to call back yesterday. Wow. She really got me, didn't she? All she had to do was put a note on my account that says something I never agreed to and I'm without electricity for 3 extra days. If she had sent one stupid page this would have been avoided.

Second DP&L customer service representative: Ma'am, I can have one of my supervisors review the tape from yesterday if you'd like.

Me: What I'd like is for you to turn on my electricity, but if having your supervisor review the tape will make that happen, go ahead.

Second DP&L customer service representative: I'm going to put you on hold then. Just a moment .....

Bad music plays loudly for about 4 minutes. I pace as the sun starts to sink below the tree line.

Second DP&L customer service representative: OK, ma'am. My supervisor is going to review the call. It will take a few minutes ....

Me: Oh, the call took more than a few minutes.

Second DP&L customer service representative: Well, then, would you like to remain on the line or should I call you back?

Me: You should call me back because now my phone is dying, and I have no way to recharge it because I don't have any electricity! 

Second DP&L customer service representative: OK, ma'am. I'll call you back at that number after the call has been reviewed.

We hang up. I pace some more.

Second DP&L customer service representative (calls back in about 5 minutes, less time than it would take to listen to that entire call): I'm sorry you had to wait, ma'am. We reviewed the call, and you did call to have the service turned on. We'll send somebody out this evening before 10:00.

Me: Really? That's great. Thank you. I appreciate that you took the extra time to find out that I was telling the truth.

Second DP&L customer service representative: Yes, ma'am. It does seem the other representative was a little testy.

Me: Yes, she was. And so was I with you just now. I apologize for that. None of this was your fault.

Second DP&L customer service representative: It's OK. I understand why you'd be frustrated.

Me: I really am sorry I took it out on you though. You've been very helpful. Thank you so much.

Second DP&L customer service representative: You're welcome. Is there anything else I can help you with today?

Me: No, just the electricity will be fine. Thank you. Good bye.

About 9:30 that night my son Drake and I go over there with a friend he brought home with him. I take the ever weakening flashlight down the treacherous basement steps and flip on the breakers. Nothing. Not one goddamn thing.

We go through the house with our cell phone flashlights.

Saturday and Sunday afternoons I go over to tape off and paint in whatever light is coming in through the windows.

Monday morning about 9:00 I call again.

Me: The electricity was supposed to be turned on at blah blah blah on Friday. It's still not on.

Final DP&L customer service representative: Have you looked at the color of the tag?

Me: I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm not at the house because I don't have any electricity. Could you please just make sure it's turned on today?

Final DP&L customer service representative: Let me check ..... Ma'am, the technician turned on the service at that address on November 8.

Me: That was Friday. The service was not on Friday, I promise you.

Final DP&L customer service representative: All I can tell you is what's in your record. He said he turned it on November 8.

Me: (sigh) OK, I'll go over there and see if it's on this time. Thank you.

Final DP&L customer service representative: OK, ma'am. It should be on. Is there anything else I can help you with?

Me: No, just the electricity will be fine. Thank you.

Final DP&L customer service representative: You're welcome. Have a nice day.

Believe it or not, when I went to the house and flipped the breakers, the electricity was indeed on. I have no idea when it was turned on, but I had lights today to illuminate the corpuscle room's slow transformation.

Somebody is very lucky I didn't have to call DP&L again .... and it's probably me. Bitches can hurt a persistent, logical customer with just a note. You do not want to piss them off.

Oh, the joys of owning a home again. I'm smiling as I write it.

Corpuscle room

It's one of those nights. I walked in the door, sat down in my black leather desk chair, looked at the clock on my computer that read 2:23 am and thought, Oh, shit. I only meant to stay out until midnight. Why am I so easily seduced by wine and a live band and dancing and good friends?

And then I thought, I'm really fucking hungry. I really want some potato chips again. Ms. Bourbonpants, I will never forgive you for this.

And then I thought, Why do my shoulders feel so tight? Surely that's not from dancing ..... Oh, yeah. I bought a house with a red dining room that looks like the inside of a corpuscle, and I spent the afternoon cutting in white ceiling paint around the lights in a 12-foot ceiling while Trick Shot stood on the other side of the 8-foot ladder she loaned me to make sure I didn't fall off.

Yeah, I was feeling so smart the other day when I found a 6-foot wooden step ladder for $2.50 at a thrift store. I knew my two 5-foot ladders wouldn't get me to the top of this room, but I was sure a 6-foot ladder would raise me high enough.

Nope. I was wobbling on around on the next-to-last rung of that new/old ladder when I realized I was going to need the next size up. Damn it.

I was on my way to a big box store to spend $70 on an 8-foot ladder when Trick Shot sent me a text to see if I wanted to go out tonight and listen to a band we like.

 I said I'd get cleaned up and go after I bought a ladder and did some painting. Turns out she had a better ladder than the one I was going to buy, so she loaned it to me, and we were in business painting the ceiling of the corpuscle room

What? You thought I was kidding about the corpuscle room? Totally not kidding. I have lots of work to do, but the first thing I must do is tame the red blood cell. This room looks like something out of Stephen King's nightmares.

I will admit though, opinions vary. About half of my friends and all of my family think I should leave the room just the way it is. Others, me included, think it has to go immediately.

Bottom line? It's my house. I win. The transformation of the corpuscle room has begun: first the ceiling, then the walls, then the flickering orange candle bulbs in the chandelier.

I'm sure the work will go much faster once I have electricity. That story is yet to be told.

What do you think? Would you paint the corpuscle room? Or would you leave it the way it is and throw one hell of a Halloween party every year?

Wordless Wednesday: My house