Getting friendly with the local wildlife

(Update: This actually happened a few weeks ago but MacGyver didn't want me to broadcast that he was gone.  I am so flattered he thinks I have so many readers...  He's back now.  So all you crazy hooligans looking to take advantage of our mailbox will have to answer to him now.)

I had a non-work related run-in with Tillamook's finest last night at my house.  About which I made the following post on Facebook:

One of my coworkers mentioned that this sort of thing only happens to me, and that these things probably occur in my life so I can blog about them.  I will agree with her on both of these counts.  Plus, I'm having a bit of writer's block about the wedding and need a break from writing about it.  Let me explain.

MacGyver left for California a few weeks ago to work on some property a friend of my Dad's is buying.  That means the dogs and I are batchin' it up in Cowtown for awhile.  Translation: we've been eating sticks and twigs for dinner and the TV has only been turned on twice.  And one of those was for the State of the Union Address.  By the way, did anyone else see that snarky look Michelle Obama gave her husband after he made that awful joke about spilled milk?  That's love right there.  When your husband is the President of the United States of America and you're secure enough in yourself and your marriage that you roll your eyes at him while he's giving the State of the Union Address.  That's love.

Anyway, I have a very overactive imagination when I'm home alone.  So does Mojo, by the way.  He likes to come flying out of a dead sleep at 3:00am howling his holy head off like a SWAT team is busting into our bedroom, when there is nothing there.  I just wish the velociraptors that live in our basement would show themselves once when MacGyver was home so he wouldn't think I'm such a sissy.

When MacGyver is gone, I lock all the little extra, superfluous locks in the house that in reality wouldn't stop my dogs from coming or going if they had a mind to, and I set up little boogie man (read: velociraptor) traps all over the place so I'll know if someone is coming to eat me.  I put the garbage can on the back porch, and leave the dishwasher door down so that it blocks the back door from opening.  I also leave all the outside lights on.  MacGyver is going to have a fit when he reads this.  The way I see it, it's like that feeling of security we get from blankets at night.  I saw this the other day and it made me smile:

Last night about 8:00pm, the doorbell rang.  Now, we don't get many visitors.  We're not social people, you see.  The neighbor is usually the only one who ever comes over, and that's only to talk to MacGyver.  He knows MacGyver is gone, so WHO THE HELL IS RINGING MY DOORBELL AT 8:00 AT NIGHT!!!

I actually figured it had to be the neighbor since I'm not sure anyone else knows where we live.  Except the mail man.  And he comes in the morning.

But no, it was the cops!  The cops showing up on your doorstep at 8:00 at night is never good, no matter which way you look at it.  If they're looking for you, you're screwed.  I was so flustered by the doorbell ringing and seeing that a police officer was standing on my porch, that I didn't think to lock my dogs up, so they were going ballistic around my ankles.  Probably getting ready to eat them some velociraptors for dinner.  Yum.

I opened the door only to realize neither of us could hear anything because of my 14 pound vicious attack dogs, so I closed the door in his face and ran to lock them up.  Not one of my brighter moments, I realize now, but he only looked mildly startled.

He had a very thick looking summons in his hands, along with several other documents.  He asked me if my name happened to be a particular name of someone he was looking for.  When I explained that no, that wasn't me, and furthermore I'd never heard of her, he asked if she lived with me.  (I just told you I'd never heard of her, dude, duh.  Pay attention!).  I said no, and he showed me the documents with her name on them, and our address!  I explained that we'd been at this address since 2006.  He kind of chuckled and said, "well, someone is getting away with something pretty big here!"  Then he was on his way.

I was super creeped out by some crazy lady using our address, and when I told MacGyver about it he was all like, "lock all the doors and turn on all the outside lights."  And I was all like, "way ahead of you buddy...".  Who's the sissy now, hmm?

A few of my friends and I had a good chuckle about it on Facebook for a few hours and I wet to bed and forgot about it.  The velociraptors stayed in the basement too, God bless them.

But then when I got to work this morning another coworker who had seen my post asked me about what happened.  When I finished telling her that I thought it was weird that I don't remember seeing any mail for her come through, she aptly pointed out that this woman could be sifting through our mail during the day before we get to it at night and pulling her mail out!  BECAUSE I DIDN'T HAVE ENOUGH TO WORRY ABOUT WITH THE VELOCIRAPTORS.


Tonight, when I got home from work and got my mail (none of it for her), I resolved to do something about my little mail prowler.  I wrote this note and taped it to the inside of our mailbox:

I'll keep you posted.

My friends know me so well

I once read a sign that said, "A friend will be the one to bail you out of jail.  A best friend will be the one sitting right next to you saying, 'Woo!  That was awesome!'"  My friend, Mrs. B, is the latter of the two.  She went on her honeymoon recently and brought me back what is quite possibly one of the most awesome souvenirs in the history of souvenirs.  Well, maybe the second best.  She bought me a magnet once that is slightly more awesome than this one, but that's for another day.

A little back story first.

We called the mechanic a few weeks ago because Bob, my car, suddenly stopped stopping.

Hoo doggie!  Say that three times fast!

Suddenly stopped stopping
Suddenly stopped sopped
Stoppingly suddened...wait, huh?


Anyway, they gave us a quote and an appointment to bring the car by to fix it.  The part we needed was a dealer-only part (of course) so it took a few weeks to come in.  We dropped the car off Sunday night and left the keys in the drop box as instructed.

I called them right as they opened at 8am the next morning to warn them that the car had no brakes so no one would hop in and slam into anything.  The receptionist assured me that they understood the situation and not to worry, that they would call me as soon as it was done.  I explained that I would be needing to pay them over the phone as I had to work all day and wouldn't be able to go pick it up until after hours.  She said that would be no problem and that I could pay when she called me to tell me it was done.

Fast forward to 3:30, and I still hadn't heard from them.  The quote on the paperwork said it would take an hour in labor.  In human hours that's like 10 minutes.  I began to get a little worried that something more serious was wrong with Bob than originally thought.  I had asked MacGyver and my brother if they are allowed to just rack up charges without calling first and I was assured by both men that this was not possible, and that they were required to obtain authorization.

When I called at 3:30, the receptionist explained that they were working on the car, and that they hadn't anticipated having to bleed the brake system and put new fluid in it.  To which I replied,

WHAT DID YOU THINK I MEANT WHEN I SAID, "THE CAR HAS NO BRAKES?!?!?!"

I said it pretty much just like that too.

She said they didn't think it was going to be as bad as I said it was.  Because she knows me so well and can tell when I'm being dramatic and when I'm being dead serious.  Right.

So I asked her if the original quote would still be the price, and she said that no, in fact it would be significantly higher than the quote because of all the extra labor and gold bullion infused brake fluid they had to put into the system.  We were looking at another couple of hundred dollars.

It's times like this when I'm glad I don't have a built in blood pressure monitor because I was about to go all sorts of Nancy Kerrigan on those people.

A few minutes after I got off the phone with the receptionist, the mechanic called to explain how he had no idea how we'd even driven the car to the shop and he had no idea it was going to take this much time, blah blah blah.  When I asked him why no one called me to tell me it would be a significant amount of money more than the quote, he gave me the lamest explanation in the history of explanations:

He said he didn't look at the car before agreeing to work on it, and only took MacGyver's word that all it needed was to replace the one part.  Plus, now that he's started, he is obligated to finish it because it's not driveble without brakes.

Really?

REALLY?!?!

I was dangerously polite when I responded that it would have been nice for someone to have called me to tell me what was going on and that my small job was turning into a several hundred dollar job!  And don't tell me that I have to pay for anything I didn't ask for!

AND HOW CAN YOU JUST TAKE A CUSTOMER'S WORD ON HOW TO DO YOUR JOB?!?!?!

I want to take my toaster in there and insist that it used to be my daily driver and I just don't know what could have possibly happened to it!  I'll tell him I suspect the flux capacitor and ask him to replace it to see if that does the trick.

Excellent businessman, this guy.

The car ended up having to stay another night and and cost me an extra $250 by the time it was all done.

We were given a quote IN WRITING of how much they would need in order to restore Bob back to working condition.  Then when I called to see where my car was, they explained that they would need more money, but that it was okay because it's really my fault it's taking them so much more time and effort.  And didn't I want the best brake fluid Swiss bank accounts can buy?

She asked me to give her my credit card number last night so she could run the total so far, and she'd just add on the rest of the expenses when they finished the job.

I fancy myself as somewhat clever, and I was not to be taken by this mechanic's wiles.  I refused to pay for the car until it was completed, and though I wanted to throw a gigantic fish flopping fit and refuse to pay for the extra costs that I had not been notified to authorize, I eventually paid the full fee.  Had I been in possession of cash I would have paid for it in cash.  Hell, had I not had to work I would have refused to let him touch my car another minute and pushed the stupid thing back home just out of principal!

We'll not be returning there.

Here is the gift Mrs. B brought back for me.

She knows me so well.

Choosing a venue: That Drive Thru Chapel in Vegas is looking pretty good right now.

No one knows about our engagement yet.  We want to have the ring, and most of the details in place before we tell everyone.  And being as that the wedding is in October, we need to get on that.  Like, yesterday.

MacGyver and I are not super showy, flashy people.  We're more like the people who hide behind the wallflowers at parties.  We also decided not to include all the dignitaries from the United Nations on our guest list, so we don't need anything huge.  Lastly, we have several people flying in from out of town, and wanted something fairly central to an airport, or at least a major freeway to get back to the airport.

We chose the Salem area.  My parents live there, and are helping to organize (and fund) this wedding, and they have a house big enough to use as a staging area.  I grew up there and know that there are lots of lovely places to have events.  There are numerous wineries in the area, all with lovely event facilities, and several historic buildings.  

I would like to take a moment right now to explain how awesome my father is.  As I've said before, we live out in the boonies.  Two hours away from the area we're looking to do this wedding.  So getting out there to look at places is no easy feat.  I sent my dad out to do some reconnaissance for me and get a general feel for some of these places before we made the trip out there.  He's the best information gatherer too.  He came back with folders and fliers and phone numbers for everything.  So. Awesome.

I'm not going to identify the places we looked (except for our choice) because I really don't have time for a defamation lawsuit right now.  Plus, who am I to judge someone who wants to blow money to go work at their own wedding?! 

The first place we went offered us a lovely setting, and use of their facility.  Our responsibilities included paying the $2500 fee, doing all our own setting up and taking down of the tables and chairs, hiring a caterer, purchasing all our own alcohol from them, and washing all our own dishes and doing all our own clean up at the end of the night.  

Right.

So I can pay you a lot of money, do all the work, and wash all the dishes at the end of the night?  We're going for small and simple, remember?  Plus, I don't want to be hauling stuff up and down stairs all night instead of having a good time.  I'm not paying to go somewhere and work.  If I wanted to do that I'd join the Peace Corps.  

(We elected not to use them.)

The next place was a very popular winery in the area.  I've been to a few weddings there for friends of mine, but that was about 10 years ago.  I remembered there being a lot of peach colored flowered wallpaper.  I played phone tag with the coordinator for about a week to try to set up a time.  Actually, no.  I stalked her for about a week before she responded to any of my communications.  The first response to several emails I wrote was to tell me that the original date I asked about was not available, and did I have any other dates in mind?  I immediately wrote her back and gave her three more dates, and asked when we could set up a time to meet to go through the facility.  Four days later, she wrote back and said she was glad I had an interest in their winery, and to please feel free to give her a call if I had any other questions.  

Really?! 

The day she called back I was at work, downstairs in the main office.  I saw her number pop up and panicked.  Remember, no one knows about this.  I went sprinting upstairs and down the hall to my office in heels (with her on the phone) so I could talk privately.  Ridiculous.  I asked her if she could meet with us that Saturday since we would already be in town and we live two hours away (information I had detailed multiple times in my multiple unanswered emails).  She said that was not possible, and had I called earlier, we might have been able to work something out.  How about Sunday?  We made an appointment for Sunday afternoon.

Whatever.  I'm so done with this chick.

We went to my parents' house on Saturday to help my dad with something in their backyard.  They're redoing the whole thing and it looks like something out of Better Homes and Gardens.  I'm totally going to use it for our rehearsal BBQ.

After we were through there, my Dad drove us out to the winery to take a look at the room she told him we'd be renting.  I had seen a photo online of the room, and it looked very long and narrow.  When I peeked in the windows, that's exactly what it looked like.  Long, and narrow.  I had visions of people standing single file from one end of the room to the other and shouting to converse.

(We didn't choose that place either).

I was feeling especially overwhelmed at this point, and needing to make a decision so this could be over with.  There are two things I am looking forward to the least with this whole wedding: choosing a venue and finding a dress.  I desperately wanted this checked off that list.

We drove out to another place on the list that my dad went to earlier in the week (read: Awesome!) with every intention of wandering around and pretending we were lost so we could get a look-see of the area.  When we arrived it became immediately clear that no such behavior would be necessary.  They were having a Sheep-to-Shawl festival!  There were easily a few hundred people milling around the grounds so we walked right on in.  No felonies required.

I should note that I was here once before in third or fourth grade on a field trip and I remember it being pretty cool.  I've always been into old buildings and historic settings.  MacGyver likes those things too, and I knew he'd like this place.  We walked around for a few minutes and MacGyver said he approved.

Here is a photo:

I got this off their website.   I'll post better photos when I take them!

Feeling slightly less stressed,

AB

I believe they call this karma

Last night I was making dinner, much like I do every night, when the middle finger on my left hand had an unfortunate encounter with the sour cream container.

I know what you're thinking, 'how does one injure one's self on a flimsy, plastic container?!'  Oh but it is so much better than that!  I didn't slice my finger open on the plastic.  Oh, no!  I sliced it open on the FOIL.  You know, that little foil seal that they put under the plastic lid to keep it fresh, or whatever?

Yeah.  I cut my finger on THAT FOIL.  And bled all over the place.  I went to serve dinner to MacGyver, with a paper towel over my finger to stop the bleeding - I'm sort of a pro at this First Aid stuff by now - and told him I cut my finger open.  His greatest fear of me in the kitchen is that I will somehow sever a main artery with a kitchen knife.  So when I said I cut my finger, he came flying out of the chair all "What?! Are you okay? Do we need to call 911?  The national guard?  I know CPR!"  And then I explained to him how I did it.  You know, with the FOIL.  And he had to excuse himself because he was laughing so hard.

And all of this took me back a few years to when I was about 17 years old.  My parents left my brother and I home alone for the evening while they went somewhere.  Portland, I think.  I don't really remember that part anymore.  Just that they weren't home.  My brother was about 14 or 15 and I was being the ever responsible older sister and making dinner.

I used to do a lot of baking when I was in high school.  And I made a mean chocolate chip cookie.  We had this spatula that was the perfect shape for taking cookies off the cookie sheet.  It was big, and round and metal so it slid under the cookie like buttah.  It was my favorite spatula, and I used it whenever possible.

This particular evening I was using it to flip french fries over on the cookie sheet so they could finish cooking.  I had pulled the cookie sheet out of the oven and had it on the stove top so I could flip the fries without searing my arms off, when my little brother came up behind me and did something that made me jump.  I forget exactly what that was now, but I jumped and whipped around, spatula in hand.

It all happened so fast, that the next few moments were a bit confusing.  I watched his face go from laughing, to a little confused, to really, really pale.  And I looked down at his wrist just in time to see blood start gushing out of a 3 inch gash.

So many things went through my head at that moment.  "Great.  My parents leave for one night and I assassinate my brother."  "What the hell just happened?!"  "I wonder if I should call 911 now?"  "What the hell just happened?!" "I wonder if a spatula is considered a deadly weapon?"  And then the worst one of them all, "I don't know where the Emergency Room is!"

So my brother and I look at each other all like, "what the hell just happened?!" and he says, "I think we should go to the Emergency Room."  And it wasn't that I disagreed with him, it was just that not only did I just attempt Spatular Manslaughter, but I was going to have to admit out loud that I didn't know how to get around the block by myself, let alone to the Emergency Room!!

But God Bless my little brother, that kid can get to you Argentina and back with his eyes closed.  A talent he inherited from our father, that sadly, I did not.  Not even a little bit.  So he grabbed a kitchen towel to place pressure on the wound (see, I told you I've had a lot of experience in First Aid!) and I grabbed the spatula so I could plead my case to the doctors and social workers who were sure to place my brother into foster care, and me into police custody upon arrival at the ER, and we piled into the car. 

And my brother, who was on the verge of passing out the whole trip, got us to the ER with no problem.  I'm still so impressed.  That's the difference between my brother and I.  He is so level headed and calm in these sorts of situations, and I'm all, "OMG WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE AND IT'S ALL MY FAULT!!!".  We were also raised Catholic, so I think that has something to do with the guilt factor there. 

We get inside and check in at the little desk and I'll never forget the lady who does the paperwork asking us what happened, and my brother saying, "my sister cut me with a spatula."  And I immediately added, "On accident!  It was an accident!!  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I'M NOT A SPATULA MURDERER!!!"  She raised one eyebrow and looked at both of us for a long minute before continuing.

That was the first of many long stares that evening.  After the doctor saw him, a nice lady (eh hem, social worker) who just wanted to ask me a few questions, took me into a separate room and asked me about what happened.  She wanted to know why we were alone, and did that happen very often, and did our parents know where we were, and has there been a lot of fighting in our family lately, and has my brother been feeling depressed, and would he ever try to hurt himself on purpose, and has anything like this ever happened before, and I was all, "listen lady, I accidentally cut him with the stupid spatula, I swear that's what happened.  See?  I brought the spatula with me so I could show you."  Not that it was helping my case any because, well, it's a SPATULA.

Finally, after my nice lady decided I really wasn't trying to kill my brother, and the nice lady who talked to my brother decided he wasn't trying to take himself out with a spatula, they let us go.  My brother ended up with eleven stitches in his wrist that night.  Eleven.  From a spatula.  The doctor gave us stickers and told us not to kill each other before our parents came home.  I'm sure we were the talk of the break room in the ER that night.

My brother had to have a bandage on his wrist for awhile to cover the stitches, but it unfortunately it looked much more sinister than that.  For weeks my brother had to endure endless awkward questions from friends and teachers asking him if everything was okay at home?  Was he feeling okay?  If he ever needed to talk to anyone he could talk to this teacher or that teacher.  No really, he could come talk if he needed to.  I really do feel bad about that.

What ever became of that spatula?  I'm happy to say, I still have it.  I'm thinking of keeping it for when I have children.  I can tell them the story of the time I was babysitting Uncle Bryan and almost killed him with the spatula.  That ought to keep them from misbehaving!

Fed up.

I swore when we had our most recent bad experience with a particular home improvement store that I would not speak the name of that particular store.  I have since changed my mind.
Are you ready?  LOWE'S!  See that?  I even included a link for you to go to their site just in case there was any confusion about which home improvement store LOWE'S! is.  Yes, all references to the home improvement store formerly known as Lowe's at our house have been changed to, LOWE'S! And no, LOWE'S!, I would NOT like to build something together.  Unless it is a very tall bridge from which I can fling you and all the horses you rode in on.  Actually, no, the horses can stay.

Let's back up a bit and I'll explain this little rant.

When we purchased this house we knew the heating sources were bad at best.  There are three big baseboard heaters downstairs in the main living and dining area, only two of which work; however, those were our "for company only" heating sources.  It costs us about $30-$40 a pop when we turn those suckers on!  Much too expensive for us to use daily.  We'd been looking around and toying with various heating ideas, but those are expensive too.  Like a thousand dollars or more.  And I'm a cheap-ass.

We also sort of figured that we ain't no stinkin' sissies and we'd just sort of tough it out through the especially cold weeks with space heaters and lots of blankets.  Uh huh.

Fast forward to December.  It had been a particularly cold week here in Tillamook, with temperatures averaging in the teens.  We didn't have any flooding this year, and I think Mother nature was feeling rather upstaged by El Nino.  This was her way of letting us all know she needed some attention.  Personally, I think Mother Nature could sue a little therapy to learn how to express her feelings in a more appropriate manner.

MacGyver and I had gone in to town and poked around at the various heating contraptions during those cold weeks, dreaming of a house in which we didn't have to peer around the fog made by our breath when we spoke to each other.  We compared heat output, cost of fuel, wood versus pellets versus ripping our house apart and installing ducting for a heat pump.  But the conversation always comes back to the one topic that is a perpetual thorn is MacGyver' side: I'm a cheap-ass.  And we left empty-handed.

I came home from work a few days later (and this is where I really wish I had taken a picture) to find MacGyver sitting in his chair, buried underneath every blanket we own.  Sticking up out of that mound of blankets were two small schnauzer noses, and he had a space heater sitting in his lap.  On high.  People, I swear to you that moment immediately ranked into the top ten most ridiculous things of all time.  Right up there with the Snuggie for dogs.

And that's when I said, "That's it!  Get your coat we're going to Lowe's!".  We purchased a beautiful pellet stove, complete with the little kit thing that you put through the wall so you don't blow smoke throughout your house or light the house on fire.  It took four guys and a forklift to get it into the car.  A FORKLIFT.  And just to clarify, we do not own a forklift.  So while I am watching this little charade of forklifting our new pellet stove into the car, I give MacGyver the one eyebrow raised look that asks, "How in the world is this thing going to get out of the car, through two doorways, through the kitchen and into the living room, sans forklift?!".  He just nodded and said "it's okay, I got this".  Uh huh.  It weighs 17 metric tons, but he's "got this".

It was late by the time we got back to Tillamook, and I was scheduled to leave at some ungodly hour of the morning for a conference in Salem the next day, so the pellet stove stayed in the car overnight.  I left the next morning for one of the most excruciatingly boring conferences I have ever been to, and while checking my phone every 12 seconds to see if it was 5:00 yet, I got this picture:

Because MacGyver is actually MacGyver come to life.  This, folks, is our back porch.  And what you see here is a 2x4 spanning the distance between the back porch and the Exploder.  He shimmied the pellet stove across the 2x4 and into the house.  If you have ever wondered how much weight a 2x4 can hold, now you know.  Roughly 17 metric tons.

Now, for many, this would be the part where the story winds down into a happy ending full of warmth and lots of happy fire.   I cannot tell you how much I wish that were the case.  Or how excited I was to come home to a WARM house for the first time EVER.  Except that didn't happen.

When I got home the next evening I found one very cranky MacGyver and the pellet stove in various pieces all over the living room.  I was informed that the thing didn't work.  Well, it worked, but only for a few minutes at a time, and then it would jam.  Needless to say I was unimpressed with the whole situation.

So I called Lowe's (which was well on it's way at this point to becoming, LOWE'S!), and I screamed and yelled and threatened that it would be OFF WITH THEIR HEADS! if they didn't come paint my roses red and bring the Jabberwocky over to heat my house.  And in that moment, Lowe's became, LOWE'S!

Okay actually I didn't, but I did get them to agree to exchange the pellet stove.  We just needed to bring it back.  Which, of course, is 65 miles away.  Because that sounded like fun.  So I got to witness the above pictured process in reverse, and back to LOWE'S! we went.

They exchanged our stove and gave us a 10% discount, which was agreeably better than me having to order all the playing cards to chop off their heads.  We brought stove number 2 home and MacGyver had installed in what I'm sure was record timing.

Cue the lights, orchestra and choir:

This seems to be the new favorite spot in the house!

My mother had a brilliant idea should we ever be forced to shop at LOWE'S! again: make our purchase, drive around the block, return said purchase and exchange it for a new one.  This way we can get all of that business out of the way without having to drive all the way to Tillamook and back.  Genius!

Of Mice and Customer Service

Because sometimes even the most well-intended plans fall apart.


A most miraculous thing happened at our house. We saved a little money. Holy crap!! I know!! I told you it was a miracle. So we started to take stock of some things that were dead, or headed that way, because Heaven forbid we should have money sitting around for too long.

On the top of the list were the windows in our bedroom. You can read more about that adventure here. We had been reminiscing about winters past, and decided this year we would not suffer through another winter feeling the rain and wind blast through our bedroom. We have replaced all of the windows in our upstairs except our bedroom. Windows are fairly inexpensive in the grand scheme of remodeling so we thought that would be a good next project.

The night we had agreed on the windows I was making dinner and noticed that it was taking FOREVER for our oven to heat up, and it just didn't seem to be heating up as hot as it should have been. I stuck a thermometer in there, and sure enough, "375" apparently means "310-ish" in our Oven-Land. Which was fabulous. Because ovens are not as cheap as windows. Especially when one is replacing one's appliances with stainless steel. And we're trying to save money.

We realized last night that we have been matching our kitchen appliances to our dishwasher that we bought a few years ago. It makes me think of that Kohler commercial where that woman meets with her architect in a fancy office and in a very dramatic fashion pulls a faucet out of her purse and says, "Design a house around this." Apparently that's precisely what we're doing. We're designing a house around our dishwasher. That's not weird, right?

One Friday while I'm at work MacGyver tells me he is headed to Portland for some errands and he was going to pick up windows for our bedroom. He said he was going to look at ovens and if he found a good one for a decent price he might pick it up. Even though I REALLY wanted a shiny new stove, I figured that I had fly's chance in a frog pond of actually getting one. Because we're SAVING OUR MONEY, remember?

So I come home from work and there is a brand spanking new stove sitting in the middle of my kitchen floor!!! He had hoped to have it all set up and installed by the time I got home. So there is the stove, and there is MacGyver. Super pissed. I can tell the difference between irritated and I'm-going-to-tear-the-face-off-anyone-who-looks-at-me-sideways, and he was pissed. Okay maybe not quite that mad. But he was pretty mad.

So I ask him what could possibly be wrong with him, since he just bought the most beautiful appliance I have ever seen since our new refrigerator!! He says nothing, and points to the stove. Now no one has ever accused me of being the most observant person in the world, but I really couldn't see the problem. It looked fine. Did I mention BEAUTIFUL? I told him I didn't get it, and he jabbed his finger at the sides of the stove where the knobs are. The back part that sits on top that has the oven display and everything? It has been horribly bent. It looks like the Incredible Hulk, or maybe Hulk Hogan, take your pick, has taken it and bent it forward so that the metal holding it onto the stove are buckled. More likely, it was dropped en route to the store. Now that it was pointed out to me, I understood his fury. We live in Tillamook. The store (which will remain unnamed for fear of future defamation lawsuits) is in Hillsboro. An hour away.

We agreed that I would call and speak to them about remedying this situation. So I called and spoke to Bob (name changed - refer to above feared defamation lawsuit). Bob assured me that he would exchange the oven no problem. We just had to bring it back to the store. Oh wait, no he doesn't have any more left in stock. Of course not. He would happily give us the floor model - that EVERYONE HAS TOUCHED. Would there be a discount? Oh, no of course not, it's not damaged. Nevermind this store sold a broken product that you drove it 62 miles home, and have to bring it 62 miles back. Fine. Whatever.

We drove back to the store and found Bob. He found us a manager to arrange the switch. The manager turns to these two stoners standing around probably contemplating how many bags of Cheetos their paychecks could collectively purchase, and tells them to go get a dolly to pick up the broken range and bring the new one out. We go to customer service and make the trade on paper. And then we wait. And wait. And wait. For 25 minutes. At which time Stoner 1 and Stoner 2 come out with a freezer. FOR ANOTHER CUSTOMER.

I should take this opportunity to point out that this freezer has a HUGE gash in the bottom of it. When the customer points this out, Stoner 2 says, "oh it's fine it's just a scratch." No discount for him either. I'm thinking this particular store should change their motto to "we sell busted stuff for regular prices!!"

When the store manager sees that we are STILL waiting, he asks Stoner 1 what they have been doing. Stoner 1 replies, "getting the freezer...ohhhh I didn't know what you wanted me to do with the stove", as he looks at us. Yeah, great buddy. Go smoke another bowl.

We've now been at the store for almost an hour. Stoner 1 tells us he's going to come help us as soon as he's done with the freezer. Whatever. We go out to the car and wait. Next thing we know, Stoner 2 strolls out of the store without his little apron thing. ON BREAK. He glances up and says, "Uhhh oh he'll be out in just a sec." Are you kidding me?

A few minutes later Stoner 1 comes out with Bob and switches out the stove. 248 miles, 5 hours and an extreme amount of tantrum throwing later, we have a new oven range!



It is wonderful. Our food cooks evenly! When it says it's heating up to 375, it's as truthful as a Boy Scout!! And the best part?

It matches the dishwasher.

An open letter to the traffic on our street:

Specifically those who choose to remove the mufflers from your vehicles. I'm talking to you.

You're very proud of the noise you generate. I can tell, because you step on the gas every time you pass our house. This causes our walls to shake, and our windows to rattle, giving the overall impression that our house is about to implode upon itself. It is not an enjoyable experience.

Actually, as I'm writing this, I realize that I should like to extend this letter to emergency response vehicles as well. I won't argue that your use of sirens is necessary. Though I find it very interesting that you have an uncanny knack for blasting your sirens past our house, and then TURNING THEM OFF two houses down. Because apparently it is very important for us to hear that you are on your way to an emergency. Really, it's just weird.

Storms make the situation worse. I realize that the noise coming from your vehicles doesn't necessarily get louder during a storm, but couple that with rain gushing in through old, poorly fitted aluminum windows, and wind threatening to huff and puff and blow our house down, it really does seem worse.

Yes, un-muffled exhaust-laden vehicles, you have proven to be worthy adversaries these last few years. But we have finally won a round with you. Oh yes.

Please allow me to introduce new addition installed into the front of our house, and the inside of our bedroom: NEW WINDOWS!



That's right boys and girls. Brand new, double paned, vinyl shiny goodness from Jeld-Wen. TWO OF THEM!! Do you know what this means? In case you've skimmed the rest of the letter to get to the pictures, I'll tell you. It means that when I am laying in bed at 11:00 at night trying to sleep, and one of you Speedracers goes blasting down our street in all your un-muffled glory, I CAN'T HEAR YOU. Nope. Not anymore. And when those sirens are screaming past our house on their way to an emergency, I DON'T HAVE TO KNOW ABOUT IT!!!

It also means that I will not have to layer my windowsill with paper towels during the winter to soak up all the water that leaks through. And I won't have to watch our windows bend and bow in the wind when it is stormy.

Score one point for our team. Actually, there are two new windows so I think that allows us two points. TWO POINTS for our team!

Plus, we can have the air conditioner in our room now!! It used to be in the spare room across the hall with a strategic series of fans and open doors to cool off our bedroom. Because we're sensitive flowers and do not enjoy the heat. Yes, I'm well aware of how ghetto it may make the front of our house look. And no, I don't care. But thank you for that opinion.

In conclusion, to all the loud, un-muffled, siren-equipped vehicles in Tillamook, if you should so desire to stage a parade past our house at 1:00 in the morning, I say BRING IT!!! Because I won't hear you.

XOXO


P.S.

A special thanks to my father for coming out to our house when he had hoped to be out fishing to help MacGyver install those windows, and even taking one for the team when one of the old windows decided to explode on him. By the way Dad, Snoopy Band-aids are definitely your style! :) Because let's face it, I talk a good talk, but I'm pretty useless when it comes to helping with a lot of this stuff! :) Thanks again!!!

An Open Letter to Termites

Dear Termites,

Please go away.

Wikipedia informs me that you are a social creatures that work closely together to sustain your colonies. You are considered eusocial (according to the ever-knowing Wikipedia), indicating that you have a system of dividing up labor responsibilities amongst yourselves, you have overlapping generations, and cooperative care of your young. I see we have some things in common, humans and termites. Yes, Termites, I have done my homework.

I could embrace our similarities and forge an unprecedented relationship with your insect family. Offer squatting rights, if you will. But I am not going to do that. Why, you ask? Namely, because I don't want to. I find your slimy, albino, leggy bodies vile and disgusting, and your behavior absolutely inexcusable. You're eating our house. And I need you to stop. Today.

Your occupancy has created a bit of an issue with the integrity of the posterior of our house. The door doesn't close properly anymore, and body-slamming the doors in my house is not a recommended contact sport. It is not even recognized by the IOC.

Eventually, the entire floor had to be ripped out and replaced. You remember that day, I'm sure. That was the day we poked at you with sticks and dug up everything you had worked so hard to build. I am generally a nonviolent person, and am willing to forgive mistakes. I understand a first time offense. Perhaps the initial Insect/Varmint/Pest removal completed before we moved in (compliments of Dan the Bug Man - thank you kind Sir), and two and a half years of residency have not been sufficient enough to indicate we live here now. When we discovered your existence, we asked you to leave, and made what we thought was a fair settlement with your Termite lawyers. Apparently you did not take that seriously.

Now we are declaring war. We are prepared to unleash the worst from every level of Mr. Alighieri's Inferno to eradicate your presence from our property. There are no squatter's rights in Tillamook. I've checked. And we pay taxes. Therefore, consider this to be your eviction notice, effective immediately. We will launch the nukes at dawn.



DISCLAIMER TO THE INTERNET: I understand I may have put a few words in this letter that have most likely flagged me on every government Anti-Terrorist Task Force list. I would like to plainly state my disclaimer that I have no intention of causing harm to anything living or dead on this Earth, apart from the odius insects holding court under my back porch. I do not possess WMDs or have access to unrefined uranium. Please do not tell the termites about this.