What A Nickle's Worth

On Monday, the parts for my space age washing machine did not arrive, as scheduled, from NEW ZELAND, in time for the TEAM to make it out to fix the d&%n thing. The new control panel and pump arrived late Monday afternoon, and the TEAM showed up bright and early yesterday to restore order in the Boyer laundry room. Mission accomplished!

The brave repairman came upstairs with the ticket, which had already been paid, because parts must be paid for upfront as UPS only runs in one direction--FROM--on the New Zealand route. Along with the ticket, which I had to sign for reasons unclear, the brave repairman held a nickle, and the old washing machine pump motor.

I bet you can see where this is going. He spun the rotor on the motor. It made a hellacious noise. He grinned. "The nickle got in the motor and made it go out. That's what shorted out the control panel.

"How did the nickle get into the insides of the washing machine?" I asked. I mean, even if it was in the tub, how could it get to the motor?

He shrugged. "I've seen all kinds of stuff get in there. Underwear, rocks, sticks..."

A month, without a washing machine, because one of us missed a nickle when emptying the change from our pockets into the jar which holds lottery money. (Not money we've won, but spare change with which we allow ourselves to purchase tickets, in hopes that we will one day win Giraffe Money. If you don't know what Giraffe Money is, here's a clue: Michael Jackson owns a Giraffe, or used to, on his Neverland... err, Ranch.

Talk to y'all later. I've got to go search a load for stowaway coins. That nickle cost me $396.65.

Peace, out...

Susan

Yet Another Reason to Buy Stuff Made in the USA

On April 29th, my washing machine died peacefully in mid-cycle. One minute it was spinning my delicates, and the next, it had departed this world. As it was only four years old, and had died long before its time, I pulled out my manuals, located the customer service number, and called New Zealand.

You see, when we purchased this state-of-the-art-high-efficiency-eco-friendly appliance and its brother, the dryer, we were totally sold on how efficient and eco-friendly it was. It was a high-end set, one that we normally would have avoided due to the price tag. But it was ON SALE!

The folks at Jeff Lynch saw me coming. They'd likely had this blue-blooded marvel of modern machinery for months with no takers, because the suckers were made in NEW ZEALAND, and most folks in Greenville have better sense. Regrettably, I do not. I was quite impressed with the salesman's assurance that THIS washer and dryer only had two moving parts each which would naturally cut down on repairs...

The nice lady in New Zealand informed me that, of course their washers will last longer than four years. It simply needed to be repaired. She gave me the phone number of the lone authorized repair shop in the area. I called. They come to Greenville on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, they said, but they were all booked up that week. They could come out the NEXT Monday.

Because my husband loves me, and knows that if I had to go inside a laundry mat my therapy sessions would increase to three times a week (which would be very expensive), he went.

On Monday, the repair team (yes, it takes two repairmen to look at appliances made in New Zealand) were here exactly four minutes before the brave one informed me that all they could do that day was collect the $65 for the service call because the control panel had gone out, and a new one would have to be ordered. They don't stock repair parts on this brand.

I said something my mamma probably wouldn't approve of, then wrote him a check. He told me that I'd have to call the office and order the part because the computer was down. He wasn't sure what it would cost, but I'd have to pay for it in advance because parts ordered from NEW ZEALAND are non-returnable.

I called. I said some more things my mother wouldn't approve of to the poor lady who answered the phone. She ordered my control board ($245) and scheduled the team to come back out the following Monday. Poor Jim went back to the laundry mat.

But, the part didn't arrive on time from NEW ZEALAND, and she called me the next Monday morning to let me know that they'd have to reschedule for Wednesday. On Wednesday, I was going to be out of town, so we rescheduled for the next Monday.

Poor Jim went back to the laundry mat. But this time, sure that the washer would finally be fixed on Monday, he only did what we absolutely had to have to get through the weekend.

On Monday morning (of this week) the repair team came in with the control panel. "This shouldn't take long," the brave one said. I came upstairs and went about my day. Ten minutes later, the brave one called upstairs, "Ah, Ma'am?"

I was on the phone, but quickly finished my call and scurried downstairs, alarmed by his now not-so-confident tone. The team was huddled over the patient, which had been disassembled like one of those bodies being autopsied on CSI. I will tell you right now that there are way more than two moving parts.

The brave one shook his head. "It was your motor that shorted out the control panel. Soon as we got the new one on, it took it right out. We're going to have to order a new motor," he said. From--you guessed it--NEW ZEALAND. All they could do was collect the money for the motor. The computer was up, so they knew they needed a check for another $86.43. "You won't have to pay for another circuit board," the one that never would look me in the eye assured me.

They're coming back next Monday.

Poor Jim will go back to the laundry mat this weekend...

But because LAST weekend he only did what we thought we'd need until Monday, I am slap out of workout clothes. Which is why I did not make it to Jazzercise yesterday, nor will I make it today or tomorrow. I am not happy about this at all, because I was finally back into my routine, but, let's face it, I can't dance without my motion-control workout bras and lycra capris.

I bet you those New Zealand washing machine manufacturers are all are part of the Vast Fat-Wing Conspiracy.

Peace, out...

Susan

The Singing Alien

Okay, today was an interesting day in the torture chamber, and I'll tell y'all all about it just as soon as I get something off of my chest: there ought to be some agency that regulates people who manufacture scales. I have cut WAY back on what I'm eating--I've not had a Mega Moo Mocha Moolatte since way before they closed the Dairy Queen in Greer. I've even cut back on wine--I only drink it only on weekends. And I've been exercising my derrierre off every day.



And today, that lying piece-of-junk scale said I'd gained a pound. Myra should have that thing calibrated more often. With all those starving people with aching muscles running around the place, somebody could snap. It might be me.



Anyway, today, I danced with Donna, who, previously I had thought of as "The Serene Alien." She just has this peaceful aura about her that calms your nerves while your blood is pounding in your ears and your left arm is tingling. Today her serenity was taxed when there was a music malfunction. Now, with no music, many Jazzercise instructors would have immediately opted to switch to a body sculpt format, which would have meant getting to lie down on the mats sooner, but lots more spot torture.



Not Donna...in Donna's class, the show does in fact go on. She SANG the songs to us, seamlessly inserting cues into the lyrics. It hepled that Donna actually CAN sing--she's quite good. But the truly amazing thing--and the dead give away that's she's a high ranking alien--is that she never lost her breath nor glistened while dancing the highest intensity song in her set and singing the whole time.



Betty was Donna's class manager today. Class managers log the victims into the computer and keep 911 on speed dial and such. They also assist in technical emergencies. Things really got interesting when Betty joined in to help Donna out with the singing. Don't get me wrong--lots of us sing from time to time: with the music playing at rock-concert levels, who can tell that you couldn't carry a tune in a Kate Spade purse? But, there was no music today...



Betty, bless her heart...the best thing I can say about Betty's singing is that it's better than mine. And I'll say this: Betty didn't sing long before Donna somehow fiddled with that sound system and got that sucker kick-started.



I'm going to get my aspirin. Then I'm going to Goggle the manufacturer of that sorry excuse for a scale...



Peace, out...



Susan

Postpartum Depression

No, I haven't been on maternity leave since last June. Y'all wouldn't believe all the many valid (or at least plausible) reasons that I've fallen off the exercise wagon (and abandoned my blog) for nearly a year, so I'll skip those, but none involved bearing children. Likely, it was due to the efforts of the notorious Vast Fat-Wing Conspiracy (VFWC).

Anyway...when last I reported on my attempts to become svelte, the Queen of Pain (also know as Casey, the alien Jazzercise instructor), was undergoing a bizarre alien birthing ritual that required her to perch on her throne for months while others brought her offerings of peanut butter milkshakes.

A while back she delivered a gorgeous child that appears to be a human baby girl. We'll see. The QOP has been back on stage significantly longer than I have been back on the dance floor. I drug my self back in about a month ago. This was a huge mistake.

Pregnancy, I have learned, turns your average alien aerobics instructor into a woman consumed with the need to burn calories...mine, yours, hers...all calories must be dealt with harshly. We are ALL suffering to make sure that the QOP (who is, naturally, skinnier than she was pre-pregnancy) looks good in her bikini this summer. She shoved a whole extra song into her set today, and every last one of them was so fast I swear it sounded like she was auctioning cattle while she cued.

I crawled out of there, drug myself home and started speed eating aspirin.

It's going to be a long, painful road back...

Peace, out...

Susan

Time Flies When You're Losing Your Mind

Okay, yes, I know...that rocket left the launch pad a while back. But, unlikely as it may seem, it continues to thrust ever further into space...the final frontier. I'm getting loonier. I have proof.

Today was dermatologist day--always traumatic. I have a skin malfunction that basically ensures I'll never grow out of the oily-occasional-breakout-teenage phase. On the up side, oily skin gets fewer wrinkles. Anyway, today was a follow up, which I have come to believe translates to, "The day you have to go to the doctor so he can get his cut on the office visit before refilling your prescriptions." I don't hold that against the dermatologist. I think most doctors operate that way, and who can blame them? They have vacation homes to pay for.

Today, I also had a mole check. I bet some of you see where this is headed. I am one of the very pale skinned women who slathered themselves with baby oil and iodine and baked for hours to a bright, lobster red trying to achieve a suntan during my teenage years. Since I grew a brain, I have also had several accidental sunburns. So, once in a while, a dermatologist looks me over for suspicious moles.

This was my first general mole check with this doctor. Some of you might recall the dramatic, very specific mole check that brought me to this good man. So does he. Which possibly explains why this appointment was mysteriously bumped several times due to emergencies.

After a general chat about my teenage skin, why I need to use sunscreen, et cetera, kindly doctor Harper (not his real name) left the room so Nurse could drape me. This is where I take off everything except my underwear and she gives me a sheet for my legs, and a swatch of cotton about the size of a wash cloth. She hands me the cloth. "This is for your top."

I just looked at her.

She took another look and me and went to find a bigger wash cloth. Finally, we were all set, and Dr. Harper came back in. I chattered away about couldn't he just sandblast my whole body and give it that air-brushed look that models in magazines had while he looked me over with a magnifying glass. Literally.

I noticed he was paying a lot of attention to a red place on my shoulder. He measured, frowned, and made some notes. "How long has this been here?" he asked.

I told him I really couldn't say, but why was he asking?

"Is it a scar?"

"I don't think so," I said. I thought back, and couldn't imagine how I would have gotten a scar on my shoulder. I didn't recall ever injuring it.

"It might be a cancerous spot," he said, in a tone like he was saying we might have a shower later this afternoon, "or it could be a scar."

Now, I'm thinking, this guy's a dermatologist, and with a magnifying glass, he can't tell the difference between a scar and cancer? But I say, of course, "Let's get that sucker off of there right now."

He frowned at me. "It's really just something we need to watch."

"Watch?? Why? Just take it off."

"I'll check it again in fours months, and we'll see if it's grown any." He knew I'd have to come back in a month to get the refills on my teenage skin prescriptions, but he wanted to check what MIGHT BE CANCER in four months??

As you probably can guess, I did not take this well. I began to hyperventilate. "Dr. Harper, really, what's the down side to removing something that MIGHT BE Cancer right this very minute?"

"Well, this is the type of thing we see every day. We really just need to watch it," he said, in that father-knows-best-voice.

"Listen, Dr. Harper, I'm a little nutty"--like he didn't know that already--"and I really think we'll both be better off if you just get out the scalpel and get rid of whatever that is on my shoulder, because otherwise, I will lie awake and worry about it. I will obsess about it. I will drive everyone I know crazy."

He sighed. Deeply. "You know, I really wish I'd said, 'Hmmm, looks like you have a scar on your shoulder.'"

Again, I asked him what possible downside there was to removing the thing.

"It's like when you go to the doctor, and he tells you that your cholesterol is high, and we need to watch it."

I persisted. "What's the downside?"

"It will leave a scar," he said. He really said that. About this time, he started furiously scribbling my prescriptions.

I was flabbergasted. "But it already looks like a scar, and it MIGHT BE CANCER."

"You wouldn't have a doctor remove your appendix just because it might give you trouble," he argued.

I smiled, triumphantly. "Oh yes I would. I already have."

He cocked his head and squinted his eyes at me. "Well, if they were already in there..." He stood up and handed me my prescriptions. "See you in a month. I'll take a look at it then." He started rushing out the door. Over his should he said, "There's a lot of things we could all be worried about. Forget about this and pick something else." So now he's my psychologist, too??

I stewed on the way to the pharmacy.

I stewed all the way home.

If he wouldn't take the thing off, I'd find a dermatologist who would. Too bad the quack I used to see left town without notice. He'd lop anything off I asked him too, without so much as blinking. Why, he'd once taken off three or four moles in one office visit. One on my stomach, two on my arms, and... it stuck me like a thunderbolt... one on my shoulder.

The thing I wanted Dr. Harper to remove was the scar from where Dr. Left-Town-In-The-Middle-Of-The-Night had removed a mole years ago.

I think.

Y'all know how bad my memory is...

At least I can tell myself that until I go back for my teenage skin follow-up, which is a good thing, because we leave for tomorrow on vacation with my mamma and daddy and my sister and her husband. We're going to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and will be spending time in Yellowstone and Grand Tetons National Park. My family has little patience with my insanity. If I were to exhibit signs of obsessing about this mole/scar that MIGHT BE CANCER, one of them would likely drown me in the Snake River, or throw me out of a hot air balloon.

I'm already on my sister's list because I packed a skirt, and that was not on the approved wardrobe packing list in the professionally bound trip book she prepared for us. Y'all probably won't believe this, but she's much crazier than I am.

Peace, out...

Susan

It's a Sad, Sad, Sad, Sad World

I don't do sad. I don't like to see sad movies or read sad books. And I really don't write about sad things. Disturbing things, sometimes, but never sad. There's far too must sad in reality. I like my escapism pleasant. And truth be told, I write to escape. It's like creating this alternate reality that you can climb into where you control everyone and everything. There's not a doubt in my mind that there's a clinical name for that, and somewhere, folks like me are locked up for their own protection and that of others.

Anyway, when this blog goes quiet, one of two things is happening: either I'm juggling too many balls and have dropped one, or too many sad things are going on around me. Lately, it's a little of both. I am trying to do too much. One of my personalities--y'all know I'm slightly schizophrenic, right? And before somebody gets all offended about me making fun of crazy people, just let me tell you that I'm also a hypochondriac. So I'm not sure if I'm truly schizophrenic, or if I'm just imagining it cause I sometimes exhibit the classic symptoms, but, either way, I in no way mean to ridicule crazy people. I am definitely a part of that club, either way you slice it.

I digress. One of my personalities (see above) agreed to be this year's conference chairperson for the South Carolina Writers Workshop Conference. I thought, This will be fun. And it is. It is also a job that I work at 10 - 12 hours every day. This is a volunteer position. I think it was Suzanne that agreed to this--she loves a party. Loves to entertain. This is just like something she'd stick me with. So, I'm busy.

But there's also too much sadness going on around me right now. But I can't write about that stuff--I just can't. And sometimes, it overwhelms me and I can't escape into my imaginary worlds anymore.

And now the bees. This thing with the bees isn't sad--it's scary as hell. On top of being blue, I'm freaked out by the bees. Have y'all been reading about this? I had not heard a word about it. I almost never watch the news. You rarely get good news from Fox or CNN, and I have doubts about how straight a scoop you get from any of them anyway. So I had not heard about the bees.

Then, Sunday evening we we sitting on my brother-in-law's deck having perfectly grilled steaks when a wasp flew by. I have an aversion to being stung, and wanted someone to kill it. My brother-in-law has a garden, and, who knew, wasps apparently (at least according to him) pollinate some of the stuff he grows. I want to state for the record that I have no knowledge of any of the specific crops in his field. Anyway, he wouldn't hear of swatting the wasp.

Then, he launched into this (at the time I thought typically nutcase) sermon about how all the honeybees are dying out, which will cause all of our crops to fail which will cause us all to starve. I was rolling my eyes because my brother-in-law, like most of my husband's family, (none of whom read blogs) are all loony.

Then, this morning, in the Greenville News, which I do read every morning, right there on page 6A--right beside the stuff about Iraq--is the headline, "Bee Die-off Endangers Food Chain," and a picture of a worried-looking scientist in a bee suit with a tray of dead bees. Even certifiable fruitcakes say something sane every now and again, so you can't just ignore everything that comes out of their mouths like you might think.

It seems some sort of disease or parasite has caused something called Colony Collapse Disorder. You might know they'd call it a disorder. Apparently, we now have to be politically correct when discussing bees, cause, you know, we don't want to offend. Anyway, this Disorder is responsible for U.S. beekeepers losing a quarter of their bees in the last few months. According to someone at the USDA, this is the biggest threat to our food supply. And don't you know the price of honey is going through the roof.

Here's something else to lie awake and worry about. I'm counting on what usually happens in these scenarios: tomorrow or the next day some other expert will chime in as to how this is a normal, cyclical thing--like global warming--and there's no cause for panic. And, people like me, who tend to obsess about stuff like this, will grab hold of that like a life preserver and tell ourselves that so we can sleep at night. Whether it has any basis in fact or not.

Peace, out...

Susan

It's All About Attitude

This past weekend was incredible. Artisphere came to Greenville, and since we live in the west end of downtown, we steeped in culture all weekend long. Awesome. Painters, photographers, potters, blown glass, jewelry from all over. And the music. Blues, Jazz, Calypso, Gospel, African Drum and Dance. It was a sensory feast so sumptuous it was impossible to taste everything. But I tried.

My personal favorites were folksy-soul singer/songwriter Amos Lee, who had a crowd of all ages dancing under a perfect Carolina crescent moon Friday night, and Chocolate Thunder and Shrimp City Slim, who performed at the Blues Cafe--most days known as patch of concrete beside Postcards From Paris. Shrimp City Slim is a great blues band from Charleston. Chocolate Thunder, aka Linda Rodney, who has a set of pipes that rank right up there with Aretha and Patti, sang with them on Sunday.

This is a formidable woman. Not only is she a great singer, but the girl puts on a heck of a show. She tore up that stage dancing, and had a good time doing it. At one point, as an introduction to a song she wrote, When a Man Says I Do, she told us, "I come from a long line of strong black women. And I know, you got to keep your eye on your money and keep your eye on your man...cause if you lose one, the other is most likely gone."

The punch line to When a Man Says I Do is, "It don't mean he won't." And it's a great song.

But the thing that struck me about Linda was her stage presence. I don't think she'd mind my saying that she is voluptuous. More voluptuous than I. And...she did not dress in clothing designed to hide her curves. Her bright pink, black and white blouse did not hang down to the knees of her jeans. And the girl was accessorized. She looked great.

She danced like she had the combined gene pool of Tina Turner, Michael Jackson, and that girl from Flashdance. The girl got down, is what I'm saying. And she was not embarrassed one bit by her size. At one point, she slowed it down and sang Summertime, joking, "us big girls got to take it easy."

Maybe if this whole getting skinny thing doesn't work out for me, I should consider changing my worldview.

Peace, out...

Susan