Wait a minute Mr. Postman

There seems to be an alarming rate of illiteracy among the mail delivery people that service our neighbourhood. Like most moms, I have a note posted on my door. It reads, "please do not ring the bell or knock... Baby sleeping.

Perhaps it should read, "make any noise and I'll castrate you", for all the respect my little plea is getting these days. And yes, it should be noted the all the offenders are male. Because no self-respecting female would incur the wrath of a mother whose baby was awoken by their inability to follow instructions.

USPS, FedEx, UPS... All the biggies are hiring idiots that must have flunked out of kindergarten, because two days is a row, Mattias has been woken early by their stupidity. My adorable son usually takes a 3 hour nap in the afternoon. Which he needs, or else he turns into something decidedly... Less adorable.

It's actually not the bell itself that wakes him up, but our dog's reaction to the bell. She sounds the alarm like nobody's business, and while I appreciate that in most cases, this is not one of them.

I came very close to chasing the mailman down today to kick him in the... Errr, give him a piece of what is left of my mind, but he was already in his truck and starting to drive away. The thought of running after his truck crossed my mind, but this neighbourhood is just not ready for that kind of crazy.

The only non-offending company is a little rinky-dink delivery service that sometimes brings me my Amazon shipments. He never rings the bell. The first time he ever delivered a package, I was sitting in my front room and saw through the window that he actually took the time to read my note and follow the instructions. I figure if he can do it, why can't the rest of them?

When I was recounting the story to my next-door neighbour, and I told her the part about chasing after the mailman, she told me, "I would have liked to see that."

She might just get her wish, if the illiteraci keep it up.

Thankful to be married to a REAL man

For some reason I've started listening to sports talk radio. I like sports, the announcers tend to be funny, and most other talk radio tends to make me grind my teeth lately.

But the other day I was listening one guy (let's call him jack-wagon #1) complain to his co-hosts that he had the day off that coming Friday, but his days off are never really a day off. Because his wife expects him to help her out with the kids. Then jack-wagon #2 says something to the effect of "your wife doesn't come up here and do your job on her days off, does she?" Jack-wagon #3 didn't say much on the matter, leading me to believe he's either smart, or not married.

Really, JW #1? Really? First off, you're griping about your wife wanting a little help from you when you're home? Let's put aside the fact that YOUR job consists of talking about sports with a bunch of guys. I've worked in radio, and it's FUN. Yes, yes... there is a scant amount of work invovled, but you mostly sit around and talk about poop, farts, and sports. In that order.

Do you realize that your wife doesn't get a day off? A weekend? A chance to sleep in? A coffee break or a lunch hour? Did you know that being a mom is a 24/7 job and you don't get vacations? Or sick days? A paycheque???

Having worked in radio, I know the perks... free tickets to concerts and sporting events. Radio SWAG (stuff we all get), meeting famous (or semi-famous people). Free food that restaurants lavish upon you for a good word or two. Yes, the perks are many, but jack-wagons of the world, I've got you beat.

My perks come in the form of sloppy wet kisses. My son's first toothless grin. My daughter telling me, "I just love you so much". Listening with pride as my three year old spells her name out loud for the first time. Storytimes and snuggles. A baby snoozing in my arms. That, Mr. Jack-wagon beats your day-old doughnuts and crappy hat that will be out-of-date by next week because your radio station changes format for the 5th time in 24 months, hands down.

And Mr. Radio jack-wagon? The next time you want to gripe about having to help your wife out with YOUR kids (that I'm assuming you had a hand in making); grow a pair, and be a real man.

That is all.

Bob Geldof had it right.

To paraphrase those Blackeyed Peas; when I woke up this morning, I had a feeling, that today was going to be a good day. Today was going to be a good, good day. A feeling. Woo hoo. That today's going to be a good... wait.

Sorry, got a bit caught up in the music in my head. As I said, I thought today was going to be fun. Mostly because Elise started up her gymnastics class, and that girl loves her some tumblin'. She had been talking about it all weekend, and was very excited to go. And there's just something about being a parent and watching your child enjoy the crap out of something. Not because she's extremely gifted at it, because let's face it; she has my genes swimming around in her. But because of the pure joy that they get out the experience.

Plus, I really like the bouncy floor we get to run around on.

So fast forward to about 9:15 am. Class starts at 9:30, and I can see the street I need to turn into to get to the rec centre when my car starts to sputter. I frantically try to turn left into the closest parking lot. I don't make it and my car dies straddling the middle of the road.

How crappily sucktastic.

So I sit there with my hazards on, calling Fred, all the while stuck in the middle of a two-lane each way, pretty busy road, with my precious cargo in the back. When I get ahold of Fred and explain my situation to him, he asks me what road I was on.

Let me take a time out here to explain to you guys how we women work: We are not a GPS. We don't know the name of the road we are on, unless it's the street we LIVE on. We know we need to turn left at the 7-11 and that's about all we know. Now that I live in Texas and have no landmarks to guide me, I don't know my north from my south. And when you ask me what road I am on while I am in the middle of a pretty stressful situation, my answer will be so high-pitched and shrieky; only animals and small children will be able to hear it.

Anyway, we manage to figure it out, and Fred tells me he's on his way. Meanwhile, all the fine citizens of the city of Hurst are driving past, either glaring at me, or honking while waving at me with only one finger. You sure have a strange way of greeting people in Texas.

Apparently, my 5 ft. 7, 120-pound frame is too intimidating for anyone to stop and render aid, so Elise and I languish there for 20 minutes. Until two rather nice gentlemen decide I'm not a threat to them, and they help to push my car into a parking lot. I'm thankful they did help... but still, 20 minutes in supposedly one of the nicest states in the union. Not good, Texas. Not good.

I did manage to break down in the not-so-nice section of Hurst, so there were auto shops a-plenty. When Fred arrived, her ran across the street to fetch some help. The guy he brought immediately went to work; banging his rather large wrench against something on the underside of the car. Hey! I didn't know I was qualified to be a mechanic! Apparently, his knowledge did not go beyond thumping on my car and was unable to help.

Fortunately, we have a rather amazing mechanic (no, you cannot have his name), who managed to diagnose the problem OVER THE PHONE. How cool is that? Turns out it was the fuel pump.

This post has gotten rather long, so I'm going to cut it off here and not mention the gut-wrenching stress over being so far away from home, with my child who has diabetes and needed to eat her lunch coming up pretty soon (I was prepared with some food, but not enough to cover her lunch). Nor will I mention the Battle-Royal Elise and I got into over her nap; which led to her falling asleep, face down on her floor, 90 minutes after I put her down.

I will mention that I received a very nice award from the uber-funny Wym. She said (and I quote):

Joanne is the most passionate mother I read about. Her daughter has Type 1 diabetes. Check her out and help her cause.

That, is just about the best thing you could ever say about me and helped to make me feel better about this terrible-horrible-no-good-very-bad-Monday. I'm also supposed to write 7 things about me and pass the award along to others, but I think I'll save that for another day. Thanks Wym, for the smile!

Dear Idiots

This is a letter to all the unpleasant, feel-like-they-own-the-whole-trail morons who were biking or rollerblading at Campion Trails Saturday, September 26th, 2009.

Yesterday I witnessed just how terrible people can be to one another and added yet another reason to start saving for that deserted island I'm going to need to buy to get away from people like you.

I don't understand it, but I do realize that you twits feel entitled to pathways where cars do not tread. But you do not own them. They are not yours. They are open to EVERYBODY, especially when we are walking in a CHARITY EVENT.

I'm guessing that all the tents that were set-up, or the giant balloon-arch, or the vast hordes of people wearing all sorts of matching shirts, or even the BIG SIGN THAT SAID JDRF WALK FOR A CURE, were not enough of a clue for you dimwits, but yesterday at Campion Trails in Irving was the annual Diabetes walk.

You know, I am so sorry that all those people got up early on a Saturday, took the time to raise money and awareness for this horrible disease, and spilled out onto your pathways in support of the people they love who have to live with, or take care of someone who lives with diabetes every day. How very inconvenient for you.

But for you to huff at us, and mutter things under your breath as you pushed your way through us, was a new low... even for people that are known for being so openly hostile towards those that dare to get in your way, or violate your "sacred rules of the pathway".

And to that cantankerous, old biddy on the bike who practically ran a mother who was pushing her kids in a stroller off of the pathway, then had the balls to yell at her; I have something very special to say to you. Except I'm not going to, because my Mom reads this blog and I am too much of a lady to say those things out loud.

I will say to all the pinheads on two and eight wheels; get a freaking life and chill out a little. You now have your precious trail back for the next 364 days. But we will be back, and next year I won't be above sticking my arm out to clothesline the first discourteous jerkoff-on-wheels who rolls by.

Sincerely,
Joanne

Two wrongs don't make a right, but three lefts do

Dear lady in the SUV turning right off of Kimball onto the 114 service road,

I just wanted to extend my most heartfelt thanks to you for showing me the error of my driving ways. All this time I thought it was proper driving technique that when you are turning right, to turn into the most right-hand lane of the road you are turning onto.

But the other day when you made a right-hand turn onto the three lane service road and ended up in the far left lane (or as I saw it; my lane, since I was turning left into it), all the while honking, shaking your rather hairy knuckles, and yelling what looked like "bass-pole" at me, I realized I had been wrong all this time.

You can't really blame me for not being aware of the "turn into any bloody lane that you feel like" rule. You see, up in Canada (where I hail from), we follow the rule as I stated it above. When I moved to California and had to take my road test again, I found that they too have strict rules when it comes to turning.

But now that I've lived here in Texas awhile, I've discovered that most people don't care what lane they turn into, just as long as nobody impedes them.

Now that I've learned my lesson of the lanes, I'm going to take it up a notch. I figure I'll start turning left from the centre lane from now on. Or, when I get really good at it, make a right hand turn from the far left lane. I also see that a lot of people here like to drive the wrong way on the highway. Maybe I'll add that to my repertoire.

So thank you again scary, crazy lady; the finger you flipped me at the end was the icing on my cake. I hadn't received the one-finger salute in awhile and had forgotten how much it makes me laugh.

Sincerely,
Joanne

In case my description of the incident above is a tad confusing: I was turning left onto the service road, angrylady was turning right onto the same road. We turned at the same time; I into the left lane, and she, also into the left lane. At which point the fun began.

Please hang up and don't try your call again

Dear phone survey lady who thinks it's okay to call my house before 10 am on a Saturday,

I don't mind doing surveys. Sometimes, I actually enjoy them. But I did not enjoy your attempt to goad me into a survey this past weekend.

Your first mistake came when I answered the phone with a rather english-sounding hello (the language, not the accent). Why did you feel it necessary to proceed speaking to me in Spanish? Just because my last name happens to be ethnic looking, doesn't mean I speak that language. I feel so... so... profiled.

And don't sound so baffled when I continue to speak to you in english. By the way, my last name is of Portuguese origin. Spanish and Portuguese are two different languages. Get your nationalities straight.

And when I tell you that now is not a good time to answer your survey because I'm just about to walk out the door; do not argue with me. Because I would never just say that to get off the phone with you. Not ever, never ever.

Well, today I actually was trying to leave, and could not believe your chutzpah when you started arguing with me. By the way, chutzpah is a Hebrew word, but that doesn't mean I know that language either.

You see, the conversation should have gone a little something like this:

You: Hi ma'am (notice you are speaking english here), I represent x-company and we're conducting a short survey about _______. Do you have time to answer some questions?

Me (also speaking english): I'm sorry, I was just about to leave. Now is not a good time.

You (still speaking english): I'll call back another time.

Click.

See how polite and civilized that was?

But for some reason, you insisted on arguing with me. As if that would change my mind. And by the way, when you kept telling me it would only take a minute of my time; you used up that minute by trying to convince me how little time it would take. Can you now see how it all went so horribly wrong?

And when you asked when would be a better time and I responded, "anytime but now"? That really meant never. Actually, scratch that. I'd like you to call back so I can yell at you some more when I'm not so pressed for time.

Sincerely Yours,

Joanne

P.S. My maiden name is of Czech origin, but I don't speak that either.

Hey Time Warner Cable? You suck!

Everyone says that there are two givens in life; death and taxes. I know of a third. Cable/satellite companies and their employees/contractors being mindless idiots.

When Fred and I committed to getting out of debt in 2001, the first thing to go was cable. It was a bit hard at first, but after I realized that real-life can be far more interesting than watching pretty people act it out on TV, I was okay. Plus I don't need to pay some idiot company money to rot my brain; I can do that all by myself for free.

But the only time I do miss it is during the Stanley Cup playoffs. Especially when my 'nucks are playing. Fred did some research and found that it wasn't too expensive to get cable for a month, so we went ahead and took the plunge. I felt dirty just thinking about it.

So yesterday was to be installation day. Time Warner gave us a relatively small window of 2 - 5 pm for the appointment time, so we sat home and waited. And waited. And well... you get the picture.

So at 5:00, with our afternoon wasted, Fred called Time Warner and they told us somebody had been by, but we didn't answer the door. This is quite impossible. If you've ever met Seven, our dog, you know that she starts barking the minute someone walks by our house and even looks at it. There was no way the guy got within 20 feet of our front door. To prove their point, the person gave a description of our house; "Yeah, it had a door, and like, some windows, a roof, and there might have been a chimney too." Okay, they didn't say that, but what does a description of our house prove, that you have Google Street View?

Methinks that Mr. Cable Guy drove by our house, saw that there were no cars in the driveway (because we keep them in the garage), didn't like the inclement weather, and kept driving.

So Fred gets on the phone with the idiot-contracted company, who gives him mega-attitude and argues that their guy WAS there, and WE were the ones who weren't home. Because apparently, we've been watching too much TV, and are too stupid to know whether or not we are in our house.

They finally arrange a guy to come back and do the job he was supposed to do in the first place. Of course he said that it wasn't him that was the one who "knocked on our door", it must have been someone else. Yeah. Right.

When the guy goes to set-up the box, Fred asks him where the HD cable is. They guys answers that Time Warner doesn't supply him with those, and we'd have to make do with an SD cable. Apparently, Time Warner is the "Home of free HD", without the HD cables. So we had to pay $25 of our own money to get "free" HD.

When Fred called Time Warner today to figure out the cable issue, the guy snotted at him, "we don't supply the cables or the TV." Niiiice... a wiseguy and an idiot! Fred also mentioned that the box didn't support HDMI, and the guy said that not all their boxes do and if we wanted one that did, they could send another cable guy with a new box, but they would charge us $40 for it, and there was no guarantee the new box would support HDMI either (so we'd be paying $40 to sit around and wait for another idiot cable guy to show up, and possibly the right box?). Or we could spend our valuable time driving to the nearest payment center and exchange boxes. We don't have time for that; we have cable now!

(by the way, I really don't understand a single thing I wrote in that last paragraph, but Fred assures me it's important)

So now we have cable. And it's just as crap-tastic as I remember it. 200+ channels, and nothing on.

Except when there's a hockey game, of course.