Take A Letter, Maria

I have to thank Secrets I Can’t Keep for this idea.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Dear Subway Restaurant,

When I come in and give you my order and you ask me what kind of bread I want, don’t insist I select my bread from the picture on the glass and let me order only to tell me that all you have is wheat or white.  And don’t look at me like I’m a criminal because I walk out after you start the sandwiches because you don’t know what goes on your own sandwiches and put so little meat on it, it bears no resemblance to the picture on the menu.  All hail Quizno’s!

Not Going There Again,
HAH

—–

Dear Middle School Principal,

I’m in the final year of three kids going through your school.  Do you think, for once, you could provide your automatic phone notification more than one day in advance for things like awards ceremonies, back to school nights, and other things I want to attend, but can’t because I get absolutely no warning?   It just seems to me that six hundred sets of parents have to bend to your freakin’ poor planning just a little too frequently.  How about providing a start time and sticking to it and letting us know what grades start when so I don’t have to sit through 400 names of people I don’t know and couldn’t give a shit about?

Sick of Public Officiousness,
HAH

—–

Dear Western Dental, 

Thousands of dollars have been paid in advance to you to provide orthodontic treatment to two kids.  Your office is dirty, loud, disorganized, your records aren’t kept current, you make people wait forever even if they arrive on time, and you staff doesn’t know its right hand from its left—been sniffing the happy gas, or that works for you?   I can see the $$ flash in your eyes when someone with private insurance walks in and I’d love it if Medi-Cal audited your ass.

Kiss My Root Canal,
HAH

—-

On a lighter note—hey Guy—stole this from the Cap’n, but wanted you to have it so I plundered

.

My Living Will

Okay, I never do this, but I interrupted my Saturday morning slavedriver routine in getting the kids to do their chores to read this:

Last night my sister and I were sitting in the den and I said to her, “I never want to live in a vegetative state, dependent on some machine and fluids from a bottle to keep me alive. That would be no quality of life at all. If that ever happens, just pull the plug.”

 

So, she got up, unplugged the computer and threw out my wine.

 

She’s such a bitch.

 

A Bad, Bad Case Of The Stupids X 10

Recently, I was conversing with a friend who told me that her ex was moving out, but that she was going to let her keep a key, just in case.  It sent me into double-Hell-flashback to a time when I gave a key out to someone I was dating, whom I figured would never use the key, and really didn’t expect her to need to use the key.  Yeah, yeah, and I hoped it would also score me additional getting laid points, I confess.  I was younger then, and I thought I could get away with a lot more than I now know to be true.

So, I go on my merry way after giving the key up, telling her that if she needed to get away from her situation, feel free to “use the spare room.”  Friday night was coming up quickly and I had plans to meet with my hot, sensuous little ballerina girl from Santa Cruz (when she danced up close to you, made you feel as though the earth moved and the heavens parted and who was so limber I still cannot speak of it without weeping). A few friends would join us because a dance floor was just calling our names.  The girls all arrived and we loaded into my car when I realized, after our dinner out, that I needed my credit card and ID for the club.  I swung by the house, and went into the kitchen to grab the wallet.  Several things seemed to be out of place, and I immediately sensed danger.  I quickly scanned the rooms, until I happened upon a very naked, sleeping woman in my bed.  Normally, this would have been a happy occasion, but noooo, it had to be the worst timing ever.

I jumped into the car and said casually, “Um, I seem to have a naked woman in my bed.”  They all laughed and said things like, “Oh, sure…so, why are you here?”  I reiterated that indeed, there was a naked woman in my bed.  I was mildly shell-shocked.   Eventually, they believed me, but the little ballerina glared at me with a “What the Fuck” look on her face. Impending doom.  My sense of optimism told me that somehow this would all work out before the evening ended and the little ballerina and I were scheduled to return to my place.

The hours went by until we were all danced out.  I dropped the girls at their cars and headed up to the apartment with the little ballerina.  I checked the bedroom.  Damn.  The woman was still there, still naked, and the little ballerina was still pissed.  She insisted I tell the woman to move out of my bed into the kids’ temporarily empty room.  I declined. 

What I did do will go down in infamy as the worst series of errors in judgment of my life.  I pulled out two pillows and two blankets.  The little ballerina got the couch, and can I just say she was just shy of having steam come out of her ears.  I got the floor.  And when the naked woman rose after hearing our activity, she yelled at both of us after I declined to join her in my room and stormed out—my key flying into the door, along with multiple profanities even I was not familiar with—I’m guessing she sensed that the little ballerina had motives less than pure, as did I.  So, she’s gone and I’m thinking, maybe, just maybe I still have a shot with the little ballerina tonight—boy, was that stupid. The little ballerina went into the bedroom and slammed the door.   At least I got the couch. 

I learned several things that night.  Next time, suggest that the three of us just share that comfy big old bed.  No, no, no, that’s not it.  Perhaps it was more like for someone who had the potential for two sure-fire things in one night, I was deservedly left alone for that night and many more and honesty is always the best policy.  Yes, that’s what I learned.  But, I’m telling you, my friend—don’t let her keep the key.  No matter what you think to be true, there’s a very good chance this will come back to bite you in the ass. 

We are finally driven to monogamy not by morality but by exhaustion
~ Erica Jong

Just One Of Those Days

We are being blasted by a severe winter storm.  How that translates here in Northern California is lots of rain in the valleys and snow in the mountains.  The roads in and out of Nevada are closed due to blizzard.  We had 60-70 mph winds for about three hours this morning.  Newscasters are reporting it as “the” story today and the worst storm in years—it’s the only thing on network TV even now, in the early evening. 

The power cut out twice as I wrote this.  Half a million customers have lost power today so far.  I was really getting concerned last night when I heard where I could pick up sand bags.  That’s not a good sign. 

I slipped on a pair of workout pants and a sweatshirt this morning when the wind woke me.  I raced outside because I noticed that my garbage can and recycle can had blown over.  When I got outside, wind forcing me to struggle to stay standing, I noticed the trucks passed right by everyone’s cans because the little mechanical arms don’t pick up cans that have blown over.  So, because those sanitation workers aren’t getting out of their trucks to stand the cans up, no one got their pickup.  The very people charged with keeping our garbage in check left all those cans to tip and blow down the streets.  Garbage bags, wrapping paper, cans, bottles and whatever else people put in those cans were blowing past me into the park.  Jimmy Hoffa’s corpse was rolling down the street, I swear.  I have someone’s Christmas tree in my front lawn.

So, there I am, trying to upright my cans and wave the trucks down who are now on the other side of the street.  The recycle guys just drove right by.  I flipped them off, of course.

The garbage guy actually turned his truck around and let me hold the can up so his mechanical arms could grab my can (he was careful not to exit his truck to assist, but I’m grateful anyway).  So, thanks, garbage guy! 

When I last looked out, other people’s garbage cans were accumulating in the street, slowly pushing their way down the street.  I expect they will all land in my yard in an hour or so.

I spent the next half hour wrestling my lawn furniture in between the house and the fence so they wouldn’t knock out all of my kitchen windows.  I had a bunch of roof tiles fly off and break.  The trees in the back are leaning at 45 degrees.  I came in soaked, frozen, and feeling fully aerobically exercised.

People lost big trees all over town, roads are flooded, lights are out, power is out, and garbage is everywhere.  It looks like a war zone.  I stopped at a store and as usual arrived after the party was over—the flashlight aisle was mostly emptied—I was able to find two—the expensive ones, of course.  Then, I went into the office so I could do the things I wanted to be doing from home.  Got home and the power was back on. 

There are some things you learn best in calm, and some in storm. ~ Willa Cather

Screwing Off

Some mornings, it’s all I can do to get going.  I do, of course, because that’s what I do.  Get going.  But, like this morning, and despite the fact Gina had her 60 pounds and two front paws firmly embedded in my chest as she let me know in her typical subtle fashion that it was time to go out, and it being the first morning fully free and unfettered to do whatever I want, I found that I couldn’t even muster the energy to bend over to pick up the dog bowls and fill them.  Finally, the stamping of eight furry feet made me anyway.  The things I have to do for the ones I love.

I’ve decided that I could, with the proper training, piss away endless days by just screwing off.  I think this is a good sign. 

On my list for this last few days of time off I hope to:

1.                   Figure out the freakin’ iPod at last.  I’ve done things with it before and somehow it has music on it, but I don’t have a clue how it happened.  I’ve been playing the same music over and over and over again until I can’t take it anymore.  I can’t replicate it, despite the fact trained monkeys can even figure it out. 

2.                   Update my resume.  I’m considering a career as a trained monkey, but I don’t think they’d hire me until I figure this whole iPod thing out.

3.                   Reflect upon my year.  That won’t be too difficult because those challenges I met are for the most part, still hanging around, little bastards.  I think I will do this with a bottle of 20-year old Port. 

4.                   Clean Em’s bedroom before she gets back.  That should eat a full chunk of an entire day – I dared open the door and was nearly sucked into the vortex, despite the fact she swore that her room was clean before she left.  This isn’t exactly screwing off, but it’s going to allow me to sleep tonight.

5.                   Get reacquainted with HMW.

6.                   Read the three Vanity Fairs I have stacked in various bathrooms.  I just haven’t felt the same about the magazine since Christopher Hitchens became such a pompous ass.  Oh, wait, he always was a pompous ass, I just don’t tolerate it as well as I once did.  So, it must be because Dominick (“While I was dining at Le Circque with Queen Whosit and Archduke Pumperwhatsit last week, we were discussing the Saffron murder…”) Dunne, who isn’t writing regularly for them anymore.

7.                   Go talk to my new garbage can and tell it how much I appreciate it joining my household.

They Didn’t Tell Me Teenagers With This Tough When I Signed Up

I’ve thought all day how parents who’ve been through the teenage years never tell you the full story about parenting teens–otherwise the birth rate would be 0.0.   

It’s really hard sometimes, having Notorious B.E.N. out of my purview.  This is one good kid.  I’ve said it before.  He is the “perfect” child everyone wishes for—perfect in the sense he’s easy, outgoing, funny, and caring.  Not so easy in that he has always been so very private, we haven’t known what is going on in his head.  Sometimes, I worry for him in his inability to share his thoughts and feelings.  I get boys.  They don’t talk feelings.  They are rarely in touch with them, so what’s to talk about?  I’ve never doubted he’s been raised right, given a solid foundation, opportunities to make choices, and held responsible if those choices are faulty. 

Last night, something life-altering happened to the “perfect” child.  I had a message at 6:30 this morning from his father.  I needed to call right away.  Every terrible thing imaginable went through my mind, remembering my own Saturday nights out as a 17-year-old.  I prayed, by breathing in and breathing out, that the words out of his father’s mouth wouldn’t be words I would have echoing in my head for the rest of my life.

“Notorious B. was arrested last night.”  I sure didn’t think those words would be a relief.

Seems the boy was doing what untold millions of teens before him had done.  Smoked pot.  Only, he got caught doing it in a closed park.  I just got off the phone with him.  His father had the hard part, but Notorious B. dreaded talking to me for some reason.  I discussed how doing stupid stuff took away choice.  How I love him.  Choices he had made now will not come to fruition.  How I wish I could wrap him up and hug him until he got it.  How he needed to dig himself out.  How I love him. And, tomorrow is a new day to start over.  Parts are not fixable.  Parts are.  He’s got to be the one to do it.  He thought he could.  How I love him.  You can fuck up, but don’t be fucked up.  And, I love him.

We’ll see what he does with his situation.  He’s paying for his own attorney.  I did learn he wasn’t “booked”—no fingerprints or photos—so perhaps it was just a misdemeanor ticket—these are the times I want to scream at his father—ask the right fucking questions!

Debbie Listman of Teleflora-It Sucks

by Uncle Doreen

Sung to the tune of San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Some Flowers in Your) Hair by Scott McKenzie

If you use Teleflora
Beware your flowers will not get there
If you use Teleflora
Their customer service will not care

For those who use Teleflora
Order orchids, carnations will be there
When you use Teleflora
Gentle people start to pull out their hair

All across the nation such an aggravation
People in commotion
There’s a whole corporation with no good explanation
People in commotion screwing your emotions

For those who use Teleflora

You are flushing money down the drain
If twice you use Teleflora
Then honey, you’re just insane

If you use Teleflora
Beware your flowers will not get there…

More About…Not Much

Thanks to Cris at That Side of the Moon for giving me something to write about today.

My uncle once: knocked up someone besides his wife – and it’s come back to haunt his entire family 45 years later.
Never in my life: used any drug harder than pot (a million years ago)–which according to our Governator, shouldn’t be illegal.
When I was five: I crushed on my first teacher, Mrs. Primrose – and Tina Messenbrink (T. on left).
High School was: the holding cell during a prison term that lasted way too long.
I will never forget: the moment I fell in love the first time.
I once met: Ronald Reagan – don’t be hatin’ on me.
There’s this girl I know who: looks real good looking at me looking at her.
Once, at a bar: I look at the clock, the pool table, and how many quarters are up.
By noon, I’m usually: about done for the day and could use a nap.
Last night: spent watching Sarah Sidle make a less than dramatic exit from CSI.
If I only had: more time.
Next time I go to church: the building may crumble.
Terry Schiavo: who the fuck does Jeb Bush think he is?
What worries me most: is what will happen with my daughter when I’m gone.
When I turn my head left, I see: my beautiful, 2-year-old tricolor smooth Collie, Gina.
When I turn my head right, I see: the darkness and my reflection in the window.
What I miss most about the eighties: the fact I was still traveling the world.
If I was a character in Shakespeare, I’d be: Touchstone—no, Jacques—no, Touchstone, er, Jacques—in “As You Like It.”
By this time next year: I’ll have figured out a way to make everybody in my life happy and still get what I want.
A better name for me would be: Splash, my Girl Scout counselor name – far more indicative of my playful nature (seen only by those I know very well)
I have a hard time understanding: abuse, injustice, idiocy (were I to make a joke about this, a priest, a Congressman, and George Bush would be walkin’ into a bar)
If I ever go back to school I’ll : get that master’s in museum science
You know I like you if: I talk to you for more than 10 seconds. I’ve got a little Calvin Coolidge going on. Remember the joke? Woman walks up to President Calvin Coolidge at a White House reception, and she shakes his hand—“Mr. President, I bet my husband I could get you to say three words.” Coolidge shook her hand and said, “You lose.”
If I ever won an award, the first person I’d thank would be: Al Gore, the inventor of the Internets.
Darwin, Mozart, Slim Pickens & Geraldine Ferraro: people I’d take to the beach for a little beachwalking, stone-skimming, and seashell collecting.
Take my advice, never: ride your bike with no hands and then wonder what it would be like to also close your eyes at the same time, and actually try it.
My ideal breakfast is: Mountain Dew, two eggs over medium, three slices of bacon, extra crispy hash browns, and wheat toast with apricot jam washed down with an overdose of Tricor.
A song I love, but do not own is: I don’t own any anymore, thanks to the burglar, so it’s wide open – and I need to replace several hundred of my favorites. Probably The Cure’s Love Song right now
If you visit my hometown, I suggest: doing a U-turn.
Tulips, character flaws, microchips & track stars: flashbacks to the early 80s living in Europe
Why won’t people: just do things my way?
If you spend the night at my house: plan on spending it with me if you’re cute! Oops. That was pre-Magical Samantha. Now, I’d say, “I will provide you with a very nice guest room with private bath on the main floor. Except Sela Ward or Michelle Paradise – for them, I’d make an exception.
I’d stop my wedding for: I don’t believe in weddings.
The world could do without: the twisting of religious concepts—it’s the root of all evil in the world—in the Middle East, in the US, everywhere.
I’d rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: sleep with a man. I’m heterophobic that way.
My favorite blonde is: my mom.
Paper clips are more useful than: rubber bands.
If I do anything well, it’s: kiss.
And by the way: 46 is the best year of my life!

Dell Doesn’t Suck The Way Teleflora Does

I have a Dell computer. After my 6-month old Dell computer was stolen by the burglar last November, I had to buy a new one. I went ahead and got a better one, as I had big plans to use all kinds of multi-media whiz bang thingies at some point in the future. Of course, I haven’t, but I could if I wanted to, and that’s what it’s all about, right? I’ve owned several Dells, and griped and moaned about all of them except this one. Especially the heretofore crappy customer service.

The XPS410 is approaching one year old now and things are starting to go awry. First, the fan was acting up. Then, the 16-card reader wasn’t operating. I’ve procrastinated my way through the last few months, but I knew I better call while I had two free minutes between dropping the hot dogs in the water and dropping the Kraft Mac & Cheese in the water (another stellar dining experience at the harried Hahn House). Bills still needed to be paid and picking up had to be done because the maid was coming today (I know, but I am who I am).

First, I got the call center in India. I gave him the service tag number and was told I needed to be somewhere else. Of course I did. I felt the hairs on my neck stand up with irritation and annoyance. That always happens, doesn’t it? But, in this case, it meant I needed to be in the priority express service queue in the North American Technical Support Center.

What does this mean, you ask? Well, what it means is not only do I get fast service, I get highly efficient service. He connected to my computer remotely and did all the work I would have had to do if I’d not been in the priority express service queue.

He was nice! He was highly knowledgeable! He was efficient! He was funny! I was able to get dinner as he worked and occasionally go push some button or other when needed. Everything is fixed and I am exceedingly happy. Happy with Dell’s North American Technical Support Center. Very happy.

In summary: Dell XPS service good, Debbie Listman’s Teleflora.com bad. Dell XPS computers don’t suck. Debbie Listman’s Teleflora.com experience does suck.

If you make customers unhappy in the physical world, they might each tell 6 friends. If you make customers unhappy on the Internet, they can each tell 6,000 friends. ~ Jeff Bezos
(Jeff must have done business with Teleflora.com too—they suck, you know)

Beware The Flower Peddlers At Teleflora, They Suck

I love flowers. Always have. It’s probably a by-product of being raised by someone with a refined sense of the aesthetic which translated into a beautiful yard and beautiful, if financially strapped home, growing up. My mom could throw together the most incredible pieces found or made and make it look like we spent the big bucks on interior decorators (or maybe that was just my mind’s eye—especially during the Holly Hobbie as kitchen décor era). Flowers were present for three seasons of the year and abundant in type and beauty.

So, when I’m wooing, I like to integrate a little flower action into the mix. I’m very specific in my needs and wants and if a florist can’t deliver, then I move on. Just about every florist I’ve worked with “gets it” immediately.

Recently, I wanted to order something for a special Magical Samantha (a plant, since it was for her classroom) and made my first order with www.Teleflora.com. She hadn’t mentioned it, so, late that night I called Teleflora. It took them until late the next day to find out what happened to the delivery. It was delivered a day late. Okay, shit happens.

Teleflora got one more chance since I wanted to send an elegant and small floral gift to Magical Samantha while she was home for a visit out East (Philly) and I wasn’t familiar with the florists there. I ordered this:

This is an orchid. It’s small, it’s elegant, and it’s definitely NOT what she got. I was appalled, nearly a week later, when I finally heard from the people at Teleflora, which sucks, by the way, that the bouquet (yikes) consisted of roses and carnations and lilies. Sorry, no flowers I send ever include roses or carnations.

For the past six weeks, I’ve been wrangling for a full refund. I’ve been told, “Gee, sorry, you only get half–the delivery was accepted. And, we hope you’ll try us again.” Well, WTF? If I had known they were going to send roses and carnations, I wouldn’t have sent anything at all. And, I wasn’t sending flowers to my freakin’ self, was I?

Isn’t it up to me to decide, not their so-called “professional florists,” what I ordered? And, wouldn’t they have saved all of us a lot of hassle if they’d picked up the freakin’ phone or emailed me about this drastic substitution which does not even remotely follow their own printed policy? How, may I ask, is a purple orchid remotely like a carnation? Teleflora sucks. They don’t even follow their own rules. Teleflora not only sucks, they are going to suck some other sucker into spending money with them. Don’t do it!

In summary: Teleflora – poor customer service, poor florist network, poor post-delivery problem resolution, lip service to their own policies, poor escalation methods, and poor me! I want a full refund. I want it now. Don’t buy from this website. Teleflora sucks. Tell your friends. And, maybe let them know I am not pleased.

This rant brought to you outside the PMS window, therefore, is certified fully valid.

Teleflora Substitution Policy
Occasionally, floral substitutions are necessary due to temporary, regional availability issues. If this is the case with the gift you’ve selected, our experienced florists will ensure that the style, theme and color scheme of your arrangement is preserved and will substitute only fresh flowers of equal or higher value.