Archive for the ‘Life’ Category
And Done
On the plubmers’ third visit, it appears that our heat may in fact be cured for good. I’ll be more certain if it’s still working when we get home… but at least it was working when I woke up this morning!
Shiver
Mike and I trade off on holidays. In even years, my family “gets” us for Thanksgiving, and his for Christmas. In odd years, such as 2007, we do the reverse. This year’s Thanksgiving was not too unlike that of two years ago. The major changes being a reduction in the number of pies and the absence of Kate. After the traditional (though less exciting without Kate) shopping-of-crazy, Mike’s mom and I were heading south along 93 to our house. I called Mike to let him and his father know that we were on our way, and Mike gave me a heads up.
“The heat’s broken.”
He continued to give me some more details about the problem, and to tell me that he’d called the home warranty people. Thankfully we have that home warranty, which we might not have considered getting on our own. Thank you home sellers!
So we spent Friday night huddling under blankets, watching movies on HBO, and waiting patiently for the on-call plumber to come. That is, after being on hold with the warranty people approximately eight dozen times and finally getting the direct number to the plumbing company. He eventually did come after midnight, apprentice in tow.
They smelled of stale cigarettes and coffee, and looked just slightly more tired than I would prefer for someone who’s coming in to work on my house, but on the Friday after Thanksgiving, ones options are more than a little bit limited. We showed them the boiler, and went upstairs to watch more movies on HBO. Every few minutes, the apprentice would go by, go out the front door, and come back in carrying yet another tool. “New guy carries the tools.”
Suddenly, it started to get warmer. I stuck my hand behind the sofa, and felt the warmth of working heat. I did a little celebratory dance in my head, and looked forward to the guys leaving the house so I could sleep.
The big guy finally came upstairs and asked me to get the work order number from the warranty people. I acquired that, and their phone number, and handed it off to him. He went outside and came back in several minutes later with his cell phone on speaker. “Yeah, I’ve heard that hold music before.” He disappeared for a while back to the basement, presumably to clean up his crap.
When he came back upstairs, he handed me his phone, and I got our official “emergency approval number” or some such crap. Normally, I guess, they wouldn’t approve of paying overtime for the contractors, and would have made us wait until Monday. I took down the emergency number and rolled my eyes as they told me that I’d pay him and they’d reimburse me later. Lame! Even the plumber didn’t think it would work that way, and he went back out to his truck to make a different invoice. I wrote him a check, careful to make sure my carbon copy came out clean, and took our copy of the invoice.
Sleep!
The next morning, we woke up slowly. Well, everyone else did. I was up early because my brain refuses to sleep past 7:00. Lucky for me (and the people sleeping in our house), the new guitar for Rock Band has a silent strum bar :).
Eventually, breakfast was had, and we got in the car to go to Boston. Instead of a play this year, we went to the Museum of Science, and “Experienced” CSI. It was pretty cool, though not at all what I was expecting. And we never did find the miniatures. We topped off the night with a trip to my favorite restaurant, and were soon on our way back home.
Home, sweet… Damn! It’s effing freezing in here!
We repeated the shivering of the night before, while I called the warranty people again. Hold! I talked to a guy who mumbled and made no sense, but who seemed to eventually get that we should be approved for emergency again, as it was even colder than the day before. I asked if I should call the plumber myself, but he assured me that they would do it and follow their procedures.
So, we settled in for another evening of HBO movies. An hour into our second bank-robbery-related movie in as many days, Mike checked online. They still hadn’t updated our account with a new work order! So, back on hold. I swear, they have the most annoying hold music ever. And this time, I was on hold long enough to make it to the second (and even more annoying) song.
I made annoyed mutterings at the guy who finally answered, and he gave me “permission” to call the plumbers directly. The call-center person took our name, address, and phone number and said she’d page Dean, the plumber who came the day before. He called back shortly afterwards, sounding very annoyed that our heat only breaks at night. I apologized, telling him how the warranty company had screwed us both out of our proper sleep, but with his cranky attitude, I was afraid he’d never come.
After the movie was over, I called the call-center back again, because he hadn’t come. They took the name, address, and phone number again, saying they’d page him again. I made sure he was the one who was supposed to be on call – I would feel bad if they paged him on his true day off just because he had done the work the day before. But she assured me that Dean was the on-call guy for heat that day.
Eventually, we heard the welcome sounds of their truck from the street. Mike’s parents had both gone to bed, and it was once again after midnight. They went downstairs and the same ritual of running tools commenced. After quite some time, they came up and said they needed to go out for a smoke. Less than promising, because that implied to me that they had not yet determined the problem.
After another hour or so of them clanking on things in the basement, he came up. I looked up hopefully from my blanket cocoon, but he told us he had bad news. The “computer board” was fried. He suspected that it had shorted the part he’d replaced the night before, and had finally given up itself. Unfortunately, they don’t carry around circuit boards for every make and model of boiler, so we’d have to wait until Monday for him to track one down. And even if he found one then, it might need to be shipped. So in reality, we’d be heat-free until Tuesday at the earliest. He advised us to get space heaters first thing in the morning.
So, we blew up the air mattress upstairs, where it was still warm due to the remaining electric heat (suddenly, it doesn’t seem so bad to have mixed heat). We huddled under blankets and slept fitfully until my cell phone alarm went off at 7:00. I ventured downstairs to find that the temperature had dropped almost down to 50. Shivering, I gathered some clothes and went back upstairs. Mike did the same and we waited for a few minutes before putting them on, so they would warm up.
Home Depot!
We bought three space heaters, two large and one small. When we got home, Mike’s mom was up and wondering why the guy never came. We explained that that wasn’t the case, and went on to get the devices running. By noon, the temperature was a much more moderate 68, and by the time Mike’s parents left in the afternoon, we had to turn the space heaters down because it was getting to be too warm.
So, we wait. Wait for word from Dean the plumber. Please call us. Please say you’ll bring by the part today and install it. We like heat. And we like not paying through the nose for our electric bill…
Adventures Relating to Utah and China
If only I could afford the time and money to travel so much as to actually go to Utah and China… Well, maybe not China. I have to admit it’s pretty far down on the list of places I’d like to visit. And I don’t think my riding skills are up to the challenge of snowboarding in Utah – yet. But today, I got a tiny taste of both locations.
Lucky for me, I work right in the middle of everything in Boston. Within 5 blocks of me, I have access to just about every genre of food imaginable, and if you extend that radius to a mile, you can drop the “just about.” I get to have lunch at a wide variety of places, eating food that ranges from mac ‘n’ cheese to shwarma to ramen to pizza.
Today, my lunch experience received an A++++ rating (you know, if this was eBay). I was greeted out front of my building with a hug from a red-fleece-clad Josie. I updated my phone with corrected cell numbers, and we waited, somewhat patiently, for the rest of the party to arrive. Soon, Josie’s head perked up, “Ooh! No. It’s not them.” We continued chatting and filling my phone with numbers.
“There they are!”
Josie made some mild fun of me as I bounced over to greet Vickie, Darren, and Joe, who I have been referring to as Utah Joe, just to distinguish him from my coworker, both in my mind and out loud. I hope he doesn’t mind too much.
Hugs! And we were off.
So many topics were covered in the walk past the Public Garden and Boston Common that I couldn’t begin to list them properly. We were all just trying to get up-to-date info on friends we hadn’t seen in weeks, months, or years (depending). After a brief interlude where someone (I won’t say who) almost got killed by a car, we arrived in Chinatown. Just as Josie was asking where we were going, I could point to the sign. Is it Empire Garden or Emporer’s Garden? I don’t know. They have signs for both. But what I do know is, they have excellent dim sum.
The Garden (whatever it’s first name may be) is an unusual place. Outside, the signs read like any other Chinese restaurant: bright yellow backgrounds with strong red lettering, in both English and some form of Chinese. But when you walk in (and make sure you go in the correct doors – no need to go into the bizarre shop next door), you begin to transition. Up a couple flights of stairs and into a strange lobby, and this is when you may realize where you are. The Garden is in an old converted theatre.
The hostess quickly whisks you to a table, giving you little time to take in your surroundings. As you sit, tea and water appear, and before you really get a chance to look around, a cart approaches. And then another. And then another. It’s all you can do to keep up with the offerings. Shumai? Yes. Peculiar looking squid? No. That weird soft dumpling with tons of shrimp? Yes. Chinese broccoli? No. Sticky rice in lotus leaf? Absolutely. In fact, give us two!
For us, once we had filled the center of our table with goodies, we could finally look around. Vickie and I had been there before, a few times each, but it is still worth the look. The walls have elaborate faux painting of beautiful flowers and structures, but that isn’t the real attention grabber. It’s the proscenium arch at the far side of the very large room. It seems they took the level of the mezzanine and simply extended the floor straight out from there. The proscenium stands squat, half of it being concealed beneath the floor. But even with that, the ceilings are high and ornate, and there is a feeling of grandness, which complements well the tiny parcels of food.
Between bites, Joe told us about his adventures to India. We followed paths of digressions to the Caribbean, Poland, and France. We flowed through conversation of music and old friends. And all the while, we enjoyed bites of delicious food. I even discovered a new item that I don’t usually pick, which I must have again in the future. (No, Vickie, I’m sorry, but it isn’t turnip cake.)
It was all over too soon, as Josie had to run back to training, and shortly after I had to head back to work. Hugs were exchanged outside of the Chinatown T station, where we said our goodbyes. Joe is on his way back to what he calls exile shortly. But I know Utah will welcome him back with open arms. How could it not?
Fear
A few months ago, in the middle of the night, I woke up. Not for the normal reasons, like a weird dream, or having to pee, or having slept on my arm such that it fell asleep and is now screaming, “Pins and needles! Pins and needles! Pins! Needles! AUGH!” But for a completely new reason. I couldn’t breathe. The heavy wheezing woke Mike up, and he frantically asked if I was okay, while I could not respond. Eventually, it died down, and I went on pretending it never really happened, save talking to a friend about it briefly, but downplaying it the whole time.
Fear is a special thing. It makes you pretend something never happened, even though you know it did, and you know it probably wasn’t normal. So I suppressed it and went on with normalcy.
Then about a month or so ago, before we moved, I had some girls over my apartment to help distract Kelly from the fact that Paul was at his bachelor’s party. Much video games and girly vodka drinks were had, and it was a pretty good time. Then, as I was pouring new drinks for two of us (or maybe more, who knows), it happened again. This time I was surrounded by people hovering. One married to an asthmatic, one an asthmatic herself. The wheezing did die down, and I was able to take a few deep breaths and tell them that it happened once before. Eventually they convinced me to use my sister’s inhaler. Turns out Albuterol makes your heart race, so that was… fun…
I spent much time muttering, “I don’t want it,” and “Can I give it back now?” But no, I could no longer ignore this. I made an appointment to see my doctor. That appointment happened last week.
My doctor is really nice, but that doesn’t mean I’m not afraid of her. She keeps chiding me for being scared of her, but really, there’s nothing I can do. I fear doctors. A lot. So much that it took me several tries, and some strong reminders from my friends, to actually call to make the appointment.
So, after the chiding for my raised blood pressure and fidgeting hands, we moved on with me telling her why I was there in the first place. Initially, she had the tell-tale eye roll of a doctor who just hates WebMD for planting ideas in peoples’ heads. “Why do you think you have asthma?” So I told her about the wheezing, and that my sister who has asthma said it seemed quite familiar. The look on her face instantly changed. Now she was mad at me for not going straight to the ER. She explained that apparently an attack like that can send your lungs into a weird state for months.
If I’m afraid of my regular doctor, I’m petrified of the ER. And I’ve been there a couple times…
So, apparently, I might have asthma. I’m seeing a specialist next week, that ought to be interesting. Apparently, I’ll be breathing into a magical machine that knows if you have it or not. Wheefun.
This morning, as I was coming up out of Arlington station, I came upon a lady taking a puff out of her inhaler. I watched several people pass without acknowledgeable, and realized that only a few months ago, I would have done the same thing. But now, I had read WebMD, and listened to my doctor get nervous for me. I had the fear. And I could see some of it in her, whether I imagined it or it was real, it didn’t matter.
I asked her if she was okay, and after a few deep breaths she said she was. We talked about how insane the four flights of stairs and the long hallway are for the escape from Arlington station. The construction there is taking far too long. She could really use an escalator.
Once we emerged – she stopped a few more times to catch what little breath she could – she swore to me that she’d be alright, and she headed off in a path orthogonal to mine. I wonder how many people suffer an asthma attack never being asked how they are. Are we so desensitized to what is actually quite a real illness? And why, for that matter, do so many people have it?
I’m scared.
I don’t want it.
Can I give it back now?
Opinion Time!
I read an article on Boston.com that got me all twisty. So, get ready for…
Opinion Time with Diane
First, here’s your required reading: “New meaning to school colors” by Russell Contreras
Lucky for me, that article had a comment board associated with it. I’ve gotten mired up in a few of these in the past (most notably the one about all-female colleges – but that’s for another episode of OTwD). After wading through some people afraid that a uniform kills individuality (hey, take a look at what you’re wearing today… I bet half of you are at least wearing something less comfortable or less you than you’d normally choose so that you fit in at your job, be it required or just subtly enforced), I found myself posting, once again, on a tangential topic. Rather than rehash (or make you read the entire board – Boston.com boards can sometimes get scary), I’ll quote myself:
It’s not the uniforms that bug me. I wore uniforms when I was in high school (note, it was a parochial school, but still). The worst part of my uniform was that the skirt was a requirement, not an option. Also, the uniforms cost way more than $8-15.
But something does bug me. The split school in high school. I don’t know much about the way Lawrence schools are run, so please pardon any ignorance, but I fear that the kids will get themselves too targeted too early. What if (to give an example that may or may not be me…) someone was really good at math, science, and technology, but also loved to sing and perform. They would have to choose? And if they chose “wrong” would they get screwed out of college choices when they changed their mind a couple years later? I never even made that choice, to be honest. I double majored when I got to college. But would that option be lost to someone forced to choose a concentration so much earlier? And even more immediate, would they even be allowed or welcome to participate in after school activities that span both of their favorites? Would math team and drama club mutually exclude each other?
High school can be a kind of weird place socially already. What about the effects of “well, all my friends chose health and human services, so I’d better go along with them.” Or if you don’t choose what your friends choose, are you now an outcast of your group of friends when you show up in the “wrong” color shirt? And does it cause a rift between the kids and their parents when the parents think they’re doing what’s best for the kid by enroling them in business management and finance, when the kid really wants to be an art teacher when they grow up?
That kind of stuff bothers me.
But uniforms? Naw. So long as they’re not too expensive for the kids (and if they are that there’s a plan in place to help poorer kids buy them on a deep discount), I don’t have a problem with uniforms. They probably are better, or at least easier on the teachers and staff (who have a hard enough time as it is), than letting the kids wear what they want. From experience, I know it’s easier on the kid to wake up and just throw on another copy of that outfit you wore yesterday.
(And seriously, Lawrence. I can reassure you that your uniforms are far less obnoxious and ugly than the ones I had to wear…)
– me
Mm… Oxford button down white shirts with straight knee-length or longer navy blue polyester skirts, nylons every month but the first and last of the school year, a nasty polyester and completely non-warm button up navy (but not quite the same navy) sweater, and shoes with no more than 1 inch of heal in your choice of colors*.
* I hope you like brown, black, or navy closed toed and closed back shoes.
Of Note
Because I’m not in the best of moods, I’m not feeling well-thought blog post. There are some things of note going on around our house though, which seems to be my favorite… only… thing to blog about, so… here:
- The cat isn’t feral, she’s just shy. She lives two doors down.
- I know this because we met our across the street neighbors last night. They’re really nice, and their kids are bright, which is great, because smart kids are fun.
- The smartness seems to come from all angles of our neighborhood, because these neighbors listed at least 5 other houses where at least one of the couple works in software, many as engineers. Yay for being surrounded by geeks!
- Our neighborhood even has block parties. This is a foreign concept for Mike. I think it’s awesome.
- We have carpets installed in the bedroom and on the stairs. They are pretty.
- I only screwed up the paint in 3 places, all of which are on the wall that was painted with a relatively dark color. (I generally say that you shouldn’t need a second coat if the color was mixed in to white. This was mixed into “pastel base” so there are a couple of visible brush strokes. No, even the master paintress is not always perfect, much to her dismay.)
- The bamboo floors are half installed, and mostly wrong. This is why I am in a sour mood. I hope these guys don’t try to screw me over. We’ll see.
- But the color was right, so at least we know that the living room is going to look spectacular, which is exciting.
- The cabinet doors and drawers are all off and on a tarp in the basement. Mike discovered random holes in them, though, so he had to putty them.
- Owning a house is weird. You care about things you used to ignore. Like, how do you want your steps wrapped in carpet. Do you want to see the lip or not. We chose yes.
Okay, bored now, working instead.
Awesome!
My coworker and I were on our way to lunch today, and I hear someone calling my name. I expect it to be another of my coworkers, as we were not yet far from our building, but no. It was Ty (who beat me to the almost obligatory blog post)! Babbling ensued, and he came along to lunch at the Pru, where my coworker and Ty followed me like lemmings to Gourmet India. And there we ate lunch.
Yes, it was “odd to randomly see someone you haven’t seen in years on the streets of Boston,” but simultaneously, it was awesome.
When my coworker and I were waiting for the elevator in our building (after Ty bolted for his just one block earlier), I was explaining that my contact with Ty and Josie has been only through blogs for well over a year now. As the sketchy elevator’s doors opened, I was saying, “By the end of today, you can bet we’ll both have blogged about lunch.”
Welcome to the Neighborhood!
Our neighbors at our new house all seem friendly. Or at least, cautiously friendly. We haven’t really talked to anyone yet, mostly because we only come to the house to work. But everyone I see, I wave to, or they wave to me, and the wave returns along with a happy “hello!”
Actually, we were officially welcomed by #4 in the form of a card, which is super sweet. I am, however, slightly shy, so I haven’t gone over to introduce myself yet. I figure once we actually have moving trucks and cars parked overnight, we’ll all feel a bit more comfortable introducing ourselves.
But the best welcome so far has been from the neighborhood’s official feral cat. We’ve seen her around quite a bit, even while we were looking at the house before we made an offer. We were initially afraid that she might, you know, come with the house. But it seems she doesn’t have a collar, and when Mike tried to approach her, she bolted in that “I hate people!” kind of way.
Anyway, yesterday while I was talking to a slightly over-pushy gutter salesman/estimator, he pointed something out to me. It wasn’t the slope of the roof (though he commented on that later). It wasn’t the fact that there are two layers of shingles on the roof (though he commented on that earlier). It was the mouse. The dead mouse. Sitting square in the middle of the first cement block after the front stoop.
I feel as though we have now officially been welcomed to the neighborhood by the official welcome wagon – the feral kitty.