We moved. Again. To a house that (hopefully) does not have a mold issue.
:::le sigh:::
So, Sky King and I did the whole, "establish new service" for all the shit we can't live without. Like heat, air, gas. Cable and organic produce deliveries. You know, the essentials.
We did the "Internet account log-in request new service" stuff. I took care of electricity. Then gas. Then produce.
I got a confirmation email (I guess, I wasn't really giving two shits, nor paying attention) about the gas being stopped at the old place. I remembered to tell Sky King to go hang at the new place from 8-12 on Wednesday.
Wednesday waiting day came and went. No gas man came and went, beyond Sky King and his affinity for all things spicy and burrito-y.
At no point, did anyone think to call the gas company and reschedule, so that we would have water not set to "arctic" come Friday (moving day).
But we were also finding out that the dipshit that used to live here not only left a cat, but left Comcast on. So maybe we figured she left the gas on.
Either way, this did not matter on Wednesday.
It mattered on Saturday.
Me: Princess, go take a shower.
::::shower happens, child comes out in clean clothes with wet hair:::
Me: Monkey Boy, go take a shower.
:::more showers happen, boy comes out, complaining that Princess used all the hot water:::
At this point, I delay my shower, because I have surmised that the water heater is shitty, and can't handle more than one shower in a short period of time. Noted. I did not, however, think further beyond. If I had, I might have realized the great Truth of no hot water sooner. possibly.
Later, I get in the shower to wash off the filth, sweat and dust.
No hot water.
I scrub the essentials, jump out.
Me: Honey, did you turn the hot water heater up two days ago, when I asked?
Him: No. I couldn't find it.
Me::::trying not to choke him::: Would you mind doing that?
Him: Sure.
Umm, there's no gas.
Me: Fuck.
The next day, he comes to me with his phone in hand, with the comment, "Wow, you better tell my wife that. Good luck."
This is the part where they tell me they have no record of me turning on service, and it will be 48 hours before they can get anyone out to help us.
After what seemed like 25 hours of discussion about how unreasonable I am, and how I should have known it wasn't happening because I didn't get a confirmation blah blah blah, I might have said, you're telling me that we can remotely bomb an entire NATION, but I can't have hot water for two more days, because it is impossible for you to tweak the schedule to get someone out here sooner? Seriously?
Then it went downhill.
I was transferred to a supervisor, where I dazzled him with my witty banter about 4-day-old puberty sweat, and stanky asses, and moving, and heat. He was impressed, I could tell.
Then it got ugly. All I asked was could he pretty please with organic, fair harvested, free trade sugar on top, get someone out sooner. Or, walk me through breaking into the box myself, so I could press the damn "gas on" button.
Then he began reading from his script. You know, the one they pull out whenever they don't want to give people their way? The one that reiterates all their bad news, but makes it sound like you deserve the fate they are handing out? The one where they are NOT HELPFUL?
That's when I got all business-owner-y, talking about customer service, and job security coming from that same service. And things got worse.
Me: So you're telling me there is no way, AT ALL, that someone can come to my house for all of 5 minutes to flick a switch, or hit a button, or whatever, because somewhere along the way my request was lost in the Internet ether?
Him: Yes,ma'am. (This is where he continues to read from his script, where most of the sentences begin with "you should have" and "in the future".)
Have I told you, I am stepping down off my awful anti-depressant, and one of the many side effects of doing so is a searing murderous rage?
Me: What, are you Union, or something?
Him: (First sign of having a personality) Yes! We are! It's amazing for the workers! Blah blah blah....
Me: But not so much with customers, I see. Have your supervisor call me.
It's not looking good for the future of our body odor, people.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Friday, September 21, 2012
Murderous Rage, For Two, Please.
Sky King likes to be helpful and supportive.
To this end, he is joining me in my food detox, complete with ClearVite protein powder. It's a 21-day thing. TWENTY ONE LONG ASS DAYS.
I thought I would be the worst, what with the not eating the yummies, and all.
Day One
Sky King: How 'bout next Monday?
Me: No.
:::thinking thoughts:::
Today.
Him: Fine. What can I eat?
Me: Stuff from this list:
Me: Yes.
:::later:::
Him: I'm HUNGRY. For real food. Let's go to that Vegan place.
:::later:::
To this end, he is joining me in my food detox, complete with ClearVite protein powder. It's a 21-day thing. TWENTY ONE LONG ASS DAYS.
I thought I would be the worst, what with the not eating the yummies, and all.
Day One
Sky King: How 'bout next Monday?
Me: No.
:::thinking thoughts:::
Today.
Him: Fine. What can I eat?
Me: Stuff from this list:
- Fresh water (8-10 glasses a day), herbal teas, green tea, fruit
juices (no sugar added), vegetable juices - Grain foods made from rice, millet, quinoa, buckwheat, or tapioca
- Fresh fruits, vegetables, beans (navy, white, red, kidney, etc.),
peas (fresh, split, snap) - Fish** (not shellfish) and moderate amounts of
chicken, turkey,
and lamb - Olive oil (flaxseed oil in moderation)
Me: Yes.
:::later:::
Him: I'm HUNGRY. For real food. Let's go to that Vegan place.
:::later:::
Him: I'm hungry. I want more food. Where's the food I
can eat? I want something that's good. I don't want this almond
butter. This smells like shit. Where’s the good stuff? Why didn’t you go to the store? Will you go
to the store? And will you buy stuff I like, that I can eat? I’m starving.
Me: :::laughing so
hard, no noise is coming out of me:::
I don't see him lasting 21 days, since 4 hours was torture. For me, listening to him.
Misery loves company.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Doctor Feelgood
We went to see Dr. Lyme, Sky King and I. We had our usual gear---water bottle, purse, gigantic checkbook, notebook and file filled with lab tests, diagnoses, etc.
As we sat, I overheard the stuff I usually do----phones ringing, people answering, magazine pages flipping.
And as usual, I heard people on the phone telling callers that "he has a few callers waiting, and his 9 o'clock is already here". That's me. I'm the 9 o'clock.
At nine oh five, I was still patiently wait my turn, perusing back issues of Dwell and Outdoor Living and Treehuggers United or some such drivel. And, I like the wait. Not just because I find amazing uses for empty watering cans and recipes for the "best pork rib marinade".
Why?
Because Dr. Lyme spends each morning, from 8 to 9, taking calls. From patients, from potential patients, from people that have heard what he does, who he treats.
And sometimes, that caller is me. I call in, and wait. When he picks up, he has my file, and he is thoughtful. He is patient, and answers my questions, encouraging me to call with any other questions or concerns. Who does that? Dr. Lyme does.
But maybe you are wondering why I don't sing his praises out loud---let everyone know there's a guy out there that helps people like me. And, maybe there's more-maybe there's one for you, or your friend, or your loved one.
Because LLMDs (Lyme Literate Medical Doctors) have to be on the down-low. They have to keep their practices safe from insurance companies that wish to discredit Chronic Lyme Disease, and the treatments we receive. The treatments that help to make us well. Or at least better.
There is an organization, ILADS.org, to get information about Lyme Disease. You can email them for a doctor near you, that will treat you. But you can't see a list, or scroll through a ton of options. Many doctors won't treat me. Or, they will, but they will treat me for pain. Or for depression. And if I had Lyme Disease, I am done with treatment, because the longest approved treatment, according to the IDSA, is 28 days of antibiotics. That shit happened, oh, 7 months ago. I guess I was cured then, but it just takes a while to catch up?
So anyway---I have this amazing doctor who spends too much time with me. Then, he gives me the medications he sees fit, based on MY situation. MY symptoms, MY results, MY reactions. Which is why I see him so often, and call between visits. And for this, I fork over enough money to send my entire family on a whirlwind European vacation. Instead, they get to open doors and jars and water bottles for me, and secretly wonder if I will get well, or if this nasty disease will kill me. I tell them it won't, that I am on the mend, that I will never be as bad as some of my friends online, the ones with the seizures, the ones that are bed-bound. I tell them we caught it early enough (because after 27 years is when it gets really bad, I suppose...).
And all along, I hope I didn't pass it to any of them, through birthing them, loving them.
As we sat, I overheard the stuff I usually do----phones ringing, people answering, magazine pages flipping.
And as usual, I heard people on the phone telling callers that "he has a few callers waiting, and his 9 o'clock is already here". That's me. I'm the 9 o'clock.
At nine oh five, I was still patiently wait my turn, perusing back issues of Dwell and Outdoor Living and Treehuggers United or some such drivel. And, I like the wait. Not just because I find amazing uses for empty watering cans and recipes for the "best pork rib marinade".
Why?
Because Dr. Lyme spends each morning, from 8 to 9, taking calls. From patients, from potential patients, from people that have heard what he does, who he treats.
And sometimes, that caller is me. I call in, and wait. When he picks up, he has my file, and he is thoughtful. He is patient, and answers my questions, encouraging me to call with any other questions or concerns. Who does that? Dr. Lyme does.
But maybe you are wondering why I don't sing his praises out loud---let everyone know there's a guy out there that helps people like me. And, maybe there's more-maybe there's one for you, or your friend, or your loved one.
Because LLMDs (Lyme Literate Medical Doctors) have to be on the down-low. They have to keep their practices safe from insurance companies that wish to discredit Chronic Lyme Disease, and the treatments we receive. The treatments that help to make us well. Or at least better.
There is an organization, ILADS.org, to get information about Lyme Disease. You can email them for a doctor near you, that will treat you. But you can't see a list, or scroll through a ton of options. Many doctors won't treat me. Or, they will, but they will treat me for pain. Or for depression. And if I had Lyme Disease, I am done with treatment, because the longest approved treatment, according to the IDSA, is 28 days of antibiotics. That shit happened, oh, 7 months ago. I guess I was cured then, but it just takes a while to catch up?
So anyway---I have this amazing doctor who spends too much time with me. Then, he gives me the medications he sees fit, based on MY situation. MY symptoms, MY results, MY reactions. Which is why I see him so often, and call between visits. And for this, I fork over enough money to send my entire family on a whirlwind European vacation. Instead, they get to open doors and jars and water bottles for me, and secretly wonder if I will get well, or if this nasty disease will kill me. I tell them it won't, that I am on the mend, that I will never be as bad as some of my friends online, the ones with the seizures, the ones that are bed-bound. I tell them we caught it early enough (because after 27 years is when it gets really bad, I suppose...).
And all along, I hope I didn't pass it to any of them, through birthing them, loving them.
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