Well, the long awaited, much anticipated, big, bad, nasty, "mothah" of an SBA program review audit is officially...over. Yeah!!! We came through in great shape. Out of about a gazillion exhibits and items we are supposed to document, they found only three areas they considered to be "deficient." All three are easily fixable and I’ve already taken steps to do just that.
My boss, who seldom hands out compliments, told me today how much he appreciated all I had done and actually said they could not have gotten through the audit without me. That made me feel good. Like I said, he’s not one to express gratitude for one doing one’s job…which is what I was doing…what I’m paid to do.
The auditors themselves were actually quite friendly. They did not come through the door with the attitude that they were there to pick us apart, looking specifically for things we were doing incorrectly. There were four of them…and one of me. They would each review a file…they had picked 30 out of our portfolio of 355 to review…then bring it to my office for me to “cure.” Basically, if there was an item missing or “unacceptable,” they noted it on a form, and my job was to either locate the item or make an argument as to why SBA should accept the exhibit item as presented. I won some...I lost some.
My office looked like a file cabinet had exploded…files everywhere. I have a great staff, however, and they helped me as much as they could, but after three interminable days of answering the same "deficiencies" over and over, I was happy to see the auditors walk out the door. This was the first time…in 25 years…that SBA had conducted this type of in-depth review of the agency’s files, so – all things considered – we did good. It was a great learning experience and next time...well...next time, I'll be ready for 'em.
The auditors went on and on…I mean they raved about how well organized our files were. One guy even said it was a pleasure to review them, so I’m thinkin’ this dude needs to get a life. I’m taking credit for the condition of our files and all I have to say about that is...sometimes being anally obsessive compulsive is a good thing.
By way of celebration, Dave invited the entire office out for a drink after work this evening. I’ve just started my 11th year here, and this is the first time that has happened.
So, after two weeks of being SBA’s “audit bitch,” I can return to my regular work life. But after putting in 57 hours last week and 43 hours through today this week, Dave gave me tomorrow off…with pay…and I don’t have to count it against my vacation or personal time. Sometimes Dave can be a good egg.
Now, I’m just sitting around, writing this for my blog, and putting in my time until 10:00p.m. rolls around and I can watch my Bobby-boy go all “Untethered.” This is my reward for a job well-done...a visit with Bobby. (I wish.) Anyway, I’m just hoping I can stay awake…‘cuz that adrenaline-rush I’ve been living on the past two weeks is fading fast.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Stuff Men Can't Do
I forwarded a copy of my “tale of woe” about the whole tire fiasco to several friends, and Cathy, who I’ve been friends with since 8th grade, replied with the following anecdote:
“I remember one day at the drug store, I saw a young man standing in front of the sanitary pad shelf...a note from his wife in hand. He was looking totally confused. I offered to help...looked at the note...and reached right for the ones she had requested. He thanked me and I told him…no problem. Most women don't know what kind of oil to put in their cars, so we're even.”
On a related note, the “check engine” light came on again today. Perhaps I’ll just do us all a favor and blow my brains out now. That sure sounds more appealing than another trip to the garage.
“I remember one day at the drug store, I saw a young man standing in front of the sanitary pad shelf...a note from his wife in hand. He was looking totally confused. I offered to help...looked at the note...and reached right for the ones she had requested. He thanked me and I told him…no problem. Most women don't know what kind of oil to put in their cars, so we're even.”
On a related note, the “check engine” light came on again today. Perhaps I’ll just do us all a favor and blow my brains out now. That sure sounds more appealing than another trip to the garage.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Frustrations Galore
Back on August 24th, I bought a new car…well…a different car. I fell out of love a long time ago with the allure of paying sticker price for a brand, spanking new automobile. I also drive a car until the wheels fall off…not literally…but I do get my money’s worth. The car I traded-in for this one I had owned for ten years…well…one week shy of ten years.
The tale I’m about to relate is a lengthy one, I fear, but I just have to get it off my chest.
Last Saturday, while I was out doing a bit of Christmas shopping, the “service engine” light came on. It was still early, so I stopped by the service department at the dealership where I bought the car to make an appointment to have it checked over and to make sure it was okay to drive until I could get the car serviced.
So, bright and early Monday morning, I dropped the car off at the dealership – the service engine light was still glowing bright yellow. They were going to change the oil, rotate the tires, do a “general maintenance” check and see if they could determine the reason for the glowing yellow light. Anything related to the engine would be covered under the warranty.
I feel compelled to explain that this is the week before the audit…the big fat freakin’ audit…that SBA will be conducting next week, so I have been waist deep in files all week long and putting in twelve hour days trying to get ready for the auditors. Suffice to say, I did not need the added exasperation of dealing with a malfunctioning car and…more to the point…car mechanics.
Now, there are few times over the course of my life when I have lamented the fact that I am on my own with no man to rely on. Call me old fashioned, sexist, stereotypical, or what have you, but in a “perfect world” there are some things for which the man should always be responsible; i.e., take out the trash, squash the bugs, rid the house of rodents, and deal with car problems. But in my world…reality world…I get to do it all. Sigh.
There’s not a woman in the land who is unfamiliar with what I’m about to describe. The feeling washes over you the instant you step tremulously inside the door of the car repair shop…that nauseatingly sick feeling that begins to churn in the pit of your stomach and bubbles upward to constrict your throat. You see the mechanic’s eyes light up with huge neon flashing $$$$$ signs as he rubs his hands together gleefully...metaphorically if not actually...and he crooks his finger at you and says, "Don't be afraid. Step into my parlor..." And that is when you “just know” that...before it’s all over...you’re going to be screwed six ways to Sunday, and it is not going to be a pleasant experience. You may as well open up your wallet and say, “Here, take it all. Just leave me a bit for food and gas money.” This is when the sadistic mechanic -- aka -- Simon Legree, gives that black mustache an evil twist, laughs maniacally, and snarls, "No, it's mine...all mine."
Anyway, about three o’clock, the mechanic called. Now, I had been buried in files all day…no lunch break…reviewing legal documents, tax returns, financial statements, etc., so I am more than a bit bleary-eyed and a trifle brain dead when I picked up the phone. The guy was pleasant enough as he patiently explained that he was unable to rotate the tires because, according to him, the previous owner had never had the car properly aligned and the tires…though they looked good on the outside…on the inside…they were completely bald. Cutting to the chase…they will align the car for free…if I purchase the tires from them. To top it off, they could not get the tires until the next morning, so I had to leave the car there overnight. They did, however, generously provide me with a loaner car…a loaner car, mind you, that had about two drops of gas in the tank. Yep, I was on the hook for gas for the crappy loaner car.
Here’s my grievance. I bought the car on August 24th. Since it was a “pre-owned” car and I purchased an extended warranty, the dealership had to “certify” that the car passed GM’s inspection before I could take ownership. Plus, I’m thinking, would they not have done some sort of basic maintenance like…oh, I don’t know…an alignment or at least "kick" the tires before selling it to some unsuspecting dupe. (That would be...well...me.) I mean, I haven’t put 3,000 miles on the car since I bought it. To my way of thinking, either they did not do their due diligence before the sale, or they were trying to sell me four tires I did not truly need. Either way…I'm screwed.
Tuesday morning, I went into the office at 6:00a.m. I thought about the situation overnight and decided…if I truly needed new tires...and since this was not a warranty-related issue…I’d go fetch my car and take it to the auto shop that has taken care of me ever since I moved to Cincinnati. So, a little after 7:00a.m., I called the dealership, and that is when I first had the "pleasure" of speaking with Jack. Jack was a slow talker, and that is the nicest thing I have to say about him.
When I explained what I intended to do, Jack informed me that, since they had already ordered the tires, I had to buy them. Okay, this is when I went into a full-fledged rant. I never used to do this sort of thing, but ever since I came full into my 50’s, I finally realized that no one else was going to speak up for me, so it was up to me to stand up for myself. So, I calmly -- but firmly -- told Jack that if that was the case, then FINE, I guess I was stuck. I then told him that I wouldn’t be bringing my car back to their crummy dealership and, furthermore, I would be telling anyone and everyone I know to never, ever buy a car from Mark Sweeney Pontiac GMC Buick and I hung up the phone. Jack called me back a few minutes later and told me that the service manager said, since they hadn’t installed the tires, I didn’t have to buy them. Okay, one teensy-weensy victory for me. I told Jack I would call him back and let him know my decision.
Whew! Still with me?
Next, I called Donovan’s…where I used to take my old car for mechanical stuff and basic maintenance. The price they quoted me was about $50 less than Sweeney’s…unless…the tires were 17” instead of 16”…then the price would be…give or take…$150 more. With that info in hand, I called the dealership back. This time I got Paul. Paul was much more amenable than Jack…which is to say, Paul actually had a personality. I explained the situation, and he checked the tire size, and – of course – they are the larger size. (Did you truly expect otherwise? Have you met me?) As it turned out, they could do the work more cheaply after all. So, I told Paul to go ahead and do the alignment, install the tires and call me when the car was ready.
The plot thickens.
About 1:30, I was thinking it’s odd I hadn't heard about my car. I mean…come on…how long does it take to install four tires? (I was about to find out.) So, I called the service department again, and they connected me to Jack…again. (I've never been one who "suffers fools gladly," but this guy took the proverbial cake.) I asked if my car was ready, and he said – hand to God – they had not done anything yet because I had not called back to tell him my decision. To which, I promptly and brusquely informed him that, “Oh, yes I mostly certainly had called.” Granted, I did not speak to him specifically, but I called back – within 30 minutes of talking to him – and gave them the “go ahead.”
Then I asked him when my car would be ready, and he told me – are you ready – it would be the next afternoon…meaning Wednesday. Three days…THREE BLEEPIN’ DAYS…to install four lousy tires on a car. (God created the entire universe in six.) Now, I’m a big ol’ fat girl with a bad back and cranky knees, but I think that even I could somehow contrive to wrestle four tires onto a car in less than three days. As you might imagine, by this time, I was at my wit’s end…I was beyond frustrated. I asked Jack, who I have now dubbed, Jack the MoeRon…not moron…he’s a bona fide MoeRon…if my original tires were still on the car. (Not that it would have truly mattered. At this point, I was willing to chance driving it on the rims.) He told me they were, and I told him (translation…SCREAMED at him) to not do anything to my car; I was coming to get it.
It took me all of ten minutes to drive from my office to the dealership. I started out calm, but when Jack walked up to me, I looked him squarely in the eye and informed him that I wasn’t talking to him. While he scurried off to…I thought…fetch my car, I told the young man who had set up the appointment on Saturday that, “All evidence to the contrary, I’m not usually a bitch, but this has been the most frustrating experience over…TIRES!”
About this time, Jack skulked back inside to tell me they were – at that very moment – installing the tires on my car. And it was then that I realized what was happening; i.e., my car was being held hostage...in some sort of bizarre Pontiac GM Twi-Light Zone. Folks, this is precisely the reason I don’t own a gun. ‘Cuz I sooooo wanted to go all Rambo on this little wuss of a man. “When will my car be ready?” I asked between tightly clenched teeth. "Four-thirty," replied the Moeron. It was 2:00 then. Two and a half hours for four tires. I don’t get it. I’ll never get it. The only conceivable explanation had to be that there was a whole passel of MoeRons working – in the loosest possible sense of the word – on my poor little car. At this point, I was speechless…mainly because I was so outraged that no coherent words would form in my brain. I walked numbly back to my loaner car and went back to work to await further instructions as to when and where I should bring the ransom for my car.
Almost done.
Well, I finally managed to liberate my car around 4:30. As I was paying the $630 ransom, I noticed a statement on the invoice regarding a survey. I perked up then and asked the cashier if there was a survey attached, and she replied that GM would send me one. Trust me, that is one survey I am awaiting with great anticipation. In fact, I'm fixin' to write letters to everybody...the district GM office, the national office...anyone related to GM. (You've already got yours.)
Oh, and the reason for this whole ordeal…the check engine light…they were never able to determine the cause behind that; the light never came on when they cranked the engine. Welcome to my world, folks…my big fat freakin’ world.
One last thing before I end this long-winded tirade. When I arrived home from work this evening, there was a message on my answering machine…from Toni. Toni cheerfully informed me that she was with Mark Sweeney Pontiac GMC Buick, and she noticed I had just had my Grand Prix serviced at their dealership. She was calling to thank me and to follow-up to make sure I was “completely satisfied” with my experience. Oh, Toni...Toni, do I have a story for you?
This is my "almost" new baby. Well, I got the photo from the Internet...it isn't exactly like mine; mine has a moon roof and, as of yesterday, some really snazzy tires. It's a 2005, Pontiac Grand Prix...fully loaded, including remote start and a supercharged engine. The car is going to get me in some serious trouble and is way smarter than I...obviously.
The tale I’m about to relate is a lengthy one, I fear, but I just have to get it off my chest.
Last Saturday, while I was out doing a bit of Christmas shopping, the “service engine” light came on. It was still early, so I stopped by the service department at the dealership where I bought the car to make an appointment to have it checked over and to make sure it was okay to drive until I could get the car serviced.
So, bright and early Monday morning, I dropped the car off at the dealership – the service engine light was still glowing bright yellow. They were going to change the oil, rotate the tires, do a “general maintenance” check and see if they could determine the reason for the glowing yellow light. Anything related to the engine would be covered under the warranty.
I feel compelled to explain that this is the week before the audit…the big fat freakin’ audit…that SBA will be conducting next week, so I have been waist deep in files all week long and putting in twelve hour days trying to get ready for the auditors. Suffice to say, I did not need the added exasperation of dealing with a malfunctioning car and…more to the point…car mechanics.
Now, there are few times over the course of my life when I have lamented the fact that I am on my own with no man to rely on. Call me old fashioned, sexist, stereotypical, or what have you, but in a “perfect world” there are some things for which the man should always be responsible; i.e., take out the trash, squash the bugs, rid the house of rodents, and deal with car problems. But in my world…reality world…I get to do it all. Sigh.
There’s not a woman in the land who is unfamiliar with what I’m about to describe. The feeling washes over you the instant you step tremulously inside the door of the car repair shop…that nauseatingly sick feeling that begins to churn in the pit of your stomach and bubbles upward to constrict your throat. You see the mechanic’s eyes light up with huge neon flashing $$$$$ signs as he rubs his hands together gleefully...metaphorically if not actually...and he crooks his finger at you and says, "Don't be afraid. Step into my parlor..." And that is when you “just know” that...before it’s all over...you’re going to be screwed six ways to Sunday, and it is not going to be a pleasant experience. You may as well open up your wallet and say, “Here, take it all. Just leave me a bit for food and gas money.” This is when the sadistic mechanic -- aka -- Simon Legree, gives that black mustache an evil twist, laughs maniacally, and snarls, "No, it's mine...all mine."
Anyway, about three o’clock, the mechanic called. Now, I had been buried in files all day…no lunch break…reviewing legal documents, tax returns, financial statements, etc., so I am more than a bit bleary-eyed and a trifle brain dead when I picked up the phone. The guy was pleasant enough as he patiently explained that he was unable to rotate the tires because, according to him, the previous owner had never had the car properly aligned and the tires…though they looked good on the outside…on the inside…they were completely bald. Cutting to the chase…they will align the car for free…if I purchase the tires from them. To top it off, they could not get the tires until the next morning, so I had to leave the car there overnight. They did, however, generously provide me with a loaner car…a loaner car, mind you, that had about two drops of gas in the tank. Yep, I was on the hook for gas for the crappy loaner car.
Here’s my grievance. I bought the car on August 24th. Since it was a “pre-owned” car and I purchased an extended warranty, the dealership had to “certify” that the car passed GM’s inspection before I could take ownership. Plus, I’m thinking, would they not have done some sort of basic maintenance like…oh, I don’t know…an alignment or at least "kick" the tires before selling it to some unsuspecting dupe. (That would be...well...me.) I mean, I haven’t put 3,000 miles on the car since I bought it. To my way of thinking, either they did not do their due diligence before the sale, or they were trying to sell me four tires I did not truly need. Either way…I'm screwed.
Tuesday morning, I went into the office at 6:00a.m. I thought about the situation overnight and decided…if I truly needed new tires...and since this was not a warranty-related issue…I’d go fetch my car and take it to the auto shop that has taken care of me ever since I moved to Cincinnati. So, a little after 7:00a.m., I called the dealership, and that is when I first had the "pleasure" of speaking with Jack. Jack was a slow talker, and that is the nicest thing I have to say about him.
When I explained what I intended to do, Jack informed me that, since they had already ordered the tires, I had to buy them. Okay, this is when I went into a full-fledged rant. I never used to do this sort of thing, but ever since I came full into my 50’s, I finally realized that no one else was going to speak up for me, so it was up to me to stand up for myself. So, I calmly -- but firmly -- told Jack that if that was the case, then FINE, I guess I was stuck. I then told him that I wouldn’t be bringing my car back to their crummy dealership and, furthermore, I would be telling anyone and everyone I know to never, ever buy a car from Mark Sweeney Pontiac GMC Buick and I hung up the phone. Jack called me back a few minutes later and told me that the service manager said, since they hadn’t installed the tires, I didn’t have to buy them. Okay, one teensy-weensy victory for me. I told Jack I would call him back and let him know my decision.
Whew! Still with me?
Next, I called Donovan’s…where I used to take my old car for mechanical stuff and basic maintenance. The price they quoted me was about $50 less than Sweeney’s…unless…the tires were 17” instead of 16”…then the price would be…give or take…$150 more. With that info in hand, I called the dealership back. This time I got Paul. Paul was much more amenable than Jack…which is to say, Paul actually had a personality. I explained the situation, and he checked the tire size, and – of course – they are the larger size. (Did you truly expect otherwise? Have you met me?) As it turned out, they could do the work more cheaply after all. So, I told Paul to go ahead and do the alignment, install the tires and call me when the car was ready.
The plot thickens.
About 1:30, I was thinking it’s odd I hadn't heard about my car. I mean…come on…how long does it take to install four tires? (I was about to find out.) So, I called the service department again, and they connected me to Jack…again. (I've never been one who "suffers fools gladly," but this guy took the proverbial cake.) I asked if my car was ready, and he said – hand to God – they had not done anything yet because I had not called back to tell him my decision. To which, I promptly and brusquely informed him that, “Oh, yes I mostly certainly had called.” Granted, I did not speak to him specifically, but I called back – within 30 minutes of talking to him – and gave them the “go ahead.”
Then I asked him when my car would be ready, and he told me – are you ready – it would be the next afternoon…meaning Wednesday. Three days…THREE BLEEPIN’ DAYS…to install four lousy tires on a car. (God created the entire universe in six.) Now, I’m a big ol’ fat girl with a bad back and cranky knees, but I think that even I could somehow contrive to wrestle four tires onto a car in less than three days. As you might imagine, by this time, I was at my wit’s end…I was beyond frustrated. I asked Jack, who I have now dubbed, Jack the MoeRon…not moron…he’s a bona fide MoeRon…if my original tires were still on the car. (Not that it would have truly mattered. At this point, I was willing to chance driving it on the rims.) He told me they were, and I told him (translation…SCREAMED at him) to not do anything to my car; I was coming to get it.
It took me all of ten minutes to drive from my office to the dealership. I started out calm, but when Jack walked up to me, I looked him squarely in the eye and informed him that I wasn’t talking to him. While he scurried off to…I thought…fetch my car, I told the young man who had set up the appointment on Saturday that, “All evidence to the contrary, I’m not usually a bitch, but this has been the most frustrating experience over…TIRES!”
About this time, Jack skulked back inside to tell me they were – at that very moment – installing the tires on my car. And it was then that I realized what was happening; i.e., my car was being held hostage...in some sort of bizarre Pontiac GM Twi-Light Zone. Folks, this is precisely the reason I don’t own a gun. ‘Cuz I sooooo wanted to go all Rambo on this little wuss of a man. “When will my car be ready?” I asked between tightly clenched teeth. "Four-thirty," replied the Moeron. It was 2:00 then. Two and a half hours for four tires. I don’t get it. I’ll never get it. The only conceivable explanation had to be that there was a whole passel of MoeRons working – in the loosest possible sense of the word – on my poor little car. At this point, I was speechless…mainly because I was so outraged that no coherent words would form in my brain. I walked numbly back to my loaner car and went back to work to await further instructions as to when and where I should bring the ransom for my car.
Almost done.
Well, I finally managed to liberate my car around 4:30. As I was paying the $630 ransom, I noticed a statement on the invoice regarding a survey. I perked up then and asked the cashier if there was a survey attached, and she replied that GM would send me one. Trust me, that is one survey I am awaiting with great anticipation. In fact, I'm fixin' to write letters to everybody...the district GM office, the national office...anyone related to GM. (You've already got yours.)
Oh, and the reason for this whole ordeal…the check engine light…they were never able to determine the cause behind that; the light never came on when they cranked the engine. Welcome to my world, folks…my big fat freakin’ world.
One last thing before I end this long-winded tirade. When I arrived home from work this evening, there was a message on my answering machine…from Toni. Toni cheerfully informed me that she was with Mark Sweeney Pontiac GMC Buick, and she noticed I had just had my Grand Prix serviced at their dealership. She was calling to thank me and to follow-up to make sure I was “completely satisfied” with my experience. Oh, Toni...Toni, do I have a story for you?
This is my "almost" new baby. Well, I got the photo from the Internet...it isn't exactly like mine; mine has a moon roof and, as of yesterday, some really snazzy tires. It's a 2005, Pontiac Grand Prix...fully loaded, including remote start and a supercharged engine. The car is going to get me in some serious trouble and is way smarter than I...obviously.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
All I Want For Christmas...
Take back the holly and mistletoe
Silver bells on string
If I wrote a letter to Santa Claus
I would ask for just one thing…
I don't need sleigh rides in the snow
Don't want a Christmas that's blue
Take back the tinsel, stockings, and bows
'Cuz all I want for Christmas is you…
Silver bells on string
If I wrote a letter to Santa Claus
I would ask for just one thing…
I don't need sleigh rides in the snowDon't want a Christmas that's blue
Take back the tinsel, stockings, and bows
'Cuz all I want for Christmas is you…
I don't need expensive things
They don't matter to me
All that I want, can't be found
Underneath the Christmas tree…
You are the angel atop my tree
You are my dream come true
Santa can't bring me what I need
'Cuz all I want for Christmas is you…
I don't need expensive things
They don't matter to me
All that I want, can't be found
Underneath the Christmas tree…
You are the angel atop my tree
You are my dream come true…dream come true
Santa can't bring me what I NEED
'Cuz all I want for Christmas is you…
'Cuz all I want for Christmas is you…
'Cuz all I want for Christmas...IS...Youuuuuuuuuuuuuuu…
Okay, not sure where I "borrowed" all these photos. Some are from Val, some from USA. Some I've had for so long, I can't recall. A big "shout out" and thank you to all sources for the "loan." And thanks to Vince Vance and the Valiants for the tune.
'Cuz all I want for Christmas...IS...Youuuuuuuuuuuuuuu…
Okay, not sure where I "borrowed" all these photos. Some are from Val, some from USA. Some I've had for so long, I can't recall. A big "shout out" and thank you to all sources for the "loan." And thanks to Vince Vance and the Valiants for the tune.Friday, November 23, 2007
Untethered Sneak Peek
Okay everybody, just found these on eBay from my "usual" seller. I am so psyched for this episode. I just know VDO is going to blow us all away with his performance...as usual.
Bobby in "restraints." Don't go too crazy thinking about that...Diane...Val...Eliza...Tess; et. al.
Bobby in "restraints." Don't go too crazy thinking about that...Diane...Val...Eliza...Tess; et. al.Black Friday
For “My Brits,” who occasionally drop by to visit my blog, here in the U.S. the day after Thanksgiving has been dubbed “Black Friday.” It is thus named because it marks the official kick off of the Christmas shopping season. It’s the day when retailers offer so-called “doorbuster” deals to entice shoppers to line up at their stores at ungodly hours of the morning, and store owners throw open their doors as early as 4:00a.m. The black part refers to the profit that many retailers “turn” during this frenetic shopping time.
There was a time, back in the day, when I had both less sense and…ironically…money than I do now, that I, too, would don my shopping armor and…fortified with a fistful of credit cards…venture out on this day. My friend, Linda, and I would get up early (not 4:00a.m. early, but early) and head up to the Huntington Mall to embark upon our day after Thanksgiving shopping extravaganza.
By noon, we would be so loaded down with shopping bags that we would trudge out to the parking lot where we stowed our bounty in the trunk of my car. We were the recipients of many angry looks and – probably – crude hand gestures from would-be shoppers when…instead of getting into the car and driving away…thereby, relinquishing that most coveted piece of real estate during peak shopping times known as the "parking space," we turned back toward the mall instead.
Ah, those were the days, my friends. And now, when I pause to reflect upon those distant times, I have to pause and ask myself, “WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?” Someone asked me the other day if I was going shopping the day after Thanksgiving and, without missing a beat or giving it a moment’s thought, I blurted, “I fell out of love with that a long time ago.” Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a bargain or a sale as much as the next person, but I figure if I can’t afford to pay full price for something, then I don’t need it.
Besides, I love technology. I mean, if I take a notion that I “have to have” something, I simply go to QVC.com or Amazon.com or “whatever” dot com, place my order and a few days later some kind soul delivers it to my door. I tell ya, if I didn’t have to work or occasionally venture out to forage for food, I’d never leave the apartment. The older I get, the more reclusive and agoraphobic I’m becoming.
So, today, instead of crawling out of bed in the wee small hours of the morning to go stand in line in the shivering cold with a bunch of over-aggressive shoppers who would think nothing of shoving me or anyone else out of their way in order to get to the object of their overweening desires, I slept in. In a moment or two, I’ll probably wander over to QVC, eBay, or Amazon and see what "must have" treasures I might be able to find. But for now, I'm happily snuggled under the covers, tip-tapping away on my laptop and watching the LOCI marathon on USA. Now, if I could just finagle a way to get a certain dashing detective delivered to my door, my life would be AUX QUAIS!!
There was a time, back in the day, when I had both less sense and…ironically…money than I do now, that I, too, would don my shopping armor and…fortified with a fistful of credit cards…venture out on this day. My friend, Linda, and I would get up early (not 4:00a.m. early, but early) and head up to the Huntington Mall to embark upon our day after Thanksgiving shopping extravaganza.
By noon, we would be so loaded down with shopping bags that we would trudge out to the parking lot where we stowed our bounty in the trunk of my car. We were the recipients of many angry looks and – probably – crude hand gestures from would-be shoppers when…instead of getting into the car and driving away…thereby, relinquishing that most coveted piece of real estate during peak shopping times known as the "parking space," we turned back toward the mall instead.
Ah, those were the days, my friends. And now, when I pause to reflect upon those distant times, I have to pause and ask myself, “WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?” Someone asked me the other day if I was going shopping the day after Thanksgiving and, without missing a beat or giving it a moment’s thought, I blurted, “I fell out of love with that a long time ago.” Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a bargain or a sale as much as the next person, but I figure if I can’t afford to pay full price for something, then I don’t need it.
Besides, I love technology. I mean, if I take a notion that I “have to have” something, I simply go to QVC.com or Amazon.com or “whatever” dot com, place my order and a few days later some kind soul delivers it to my door. I tell ya, if I didn’t have to work or occasionally venture out to forage for food, I’d never leave the apartment. The older I get, the more reclusive and agoraphobic I’m becoming.
So, today, instead of crawling out of bed in the wee small hours of the morning to go stand in line in the shivering cold with a bunch of over-aggressive shoppers who would think nothing of shoving me or anyone else out of their way in order to get to the object of their overweening desires, I slept in. In a moment or two, I’ll probably wander over to QVC, eBay, or Amazon and see what "must have" treasures I might be able to find. But for now, I'm happily snuggled under the covers, tip-tapping away on my laptop and watching the LOCI marathon on USA. Now, if I could just finagle a way to get a certain dashing detective delivered to my door, my life would be AUX QUAIS!!
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Meet Mallory
A while back, I introduced you to Esabella Francis. Well, now it’s her baby sister’s turn to make an appearance on her great-auntie’s blog.
Allow me to present little Miss Mallory Paige. She came into the world this past May, and I finally got to officially meet her in August when I made a trip home…a costly trip as it turned out, but that’s for another post.
I don’t have any cute, funny stories to impart about Mallory as of yet because she is at that age where pretty much all she does is eat, sleep, and poop. She does have a great smile, and she can giggle and coo with the best of ‘em. And I have it on good authority that she turns over all by herself on a regular basis now to the delight and entertainment of her parents. I suspect, however, that she will very soon be giving her older sister a run for her money.
The following pictures were taken when Mallory was three months old.
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Allow me to present little Miss Mallory Paige. She came into the world this past May, and I finally got to officially meet her in August when I made a trip home…a costly trip as it turned out, but that’s for another post.
I don’t have any cute, funny stories to impart about Mallory as of yet because she is at that age where pretty much all she does is eat, sleep, and poop. She does have a great smile, and she can giggle and coo with the best of ‘em. And I have it on good authority that she turns over all by herself on a regular basis now to the delight and entertainment of her parents. I suspect, however, that she will very soon be giving her older sister a run for her money.
The following pictures were taken when Mallory was three months old.
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