Not that I needed one, but I found a new excuse to not waste time cleaning my house.
In a word: Noah.
This past week I actually did get to the laborious task of cleaning.
Namely, bathrooms.
Big mistake, apparently.
Maybe my problem was the fact that I did it in the company of Noah. Even though I'm thinking at the time it is a good thing for him to watch his mother keep the house tidy, that proved costly.
You see, a few days ago my little 2-1/2 year-old Wonder diligently watched me scrub the toilet clean. Spray the soap, wipe it down, scrub the inside, etc. etc.
Last night I put the children to bed and went downstairs to clean up the kitchen a bit. I heard some noise upstairs and double-checked the situation.
No worries - Caleb was just using the restroom.
So I didn't jump when a few minutes later I heard a bit of noise coming from the bathroom. Sounded like Caleb was probably just getting a drink before heading off to bed.
But then the noise continued, and I heard some odd clanging noise.
So I go take a peek.
Noah.
Not in bed.
In the bathroom.
"Cleaning" the toilet.
Earlier that day I had filled the soap dispenser in that bathroom with liquid soap. To the top, mind you.
The pump now lays next to a thick streak of soap on the counter. Meanwhile, Noah stands at the toilet bowl, soap bottle in one hand, soggy bits of toilet paper in the other. By this time, there is maybe a half inch of soap still left in the bottle, and the toilet is covered in an oozy mess.
I'm appalled at the clean-up I have ahead of me, so I pull the "cleaning supplies" from his hands, and after a scolding, send him back to bed.
As I'm wiping up the sloppy mess, I stop and realize what he was doing.
It's what he always does in this stage of his development.
He mimics.
He probably thought he was doing ol' mom a favor, after all. Givin' her a helping hand, as it were.
He probably crawled back into bed completely confused.
Whoops.
Poison control centers are always saying to keep those cleaners out of a child's reach. But I don't know...if I left him the correct supplies, maybe I wouldn't have to clean another toilet for awhile.
Just a thought.
Now if I can just get him to pay better attention when I do laundry...
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
RIP, Customer Service. Because apparently you're dead.
Last I checked, "Fool" wasn't stamped on my forehead. So why someone would think I'm dumb enough to fall for this trick is beyond me.
I'm talking about my local furniture store. They obviously have lost their ability to provide customer service.
Let me back up and bring you up to speed.
Several months ago, I ordered a headboard for my daughter's bed. Apparently the trees needed to be cut down for the lumber and the paint needed a month to cure, because it wasn't scheduled to arrive for 6-8 weeks.
So when it finally arrives, I make my way to the store to pick it up (saving myself $50 on shipping).
I'm told to "go to door #2 at the warehouse." So I motor on over and wander through a door with a big "2" on it, into a dusty old building packed from floor to ceiling with boxes and furniture.
Nobody's there. Hmmm.
I call out, "Hello?"
Nothing.
I wander in a little further, feeling like I'm completely violating the space.
"Hello?" I call a little louder this time.
I'm a little annoyed at this point, but I wait.
Finally, a frizzy-haired gentleman with a dirt-smudged forehead and greasy fingernails appears from seemingly nowhere.
He seems to know exactly what I'm there for though, and pulls out a large box.
I ask him to take it out of the box so I can inspect it (I've had way too many instances of broken or beat up furniture delivered to me to take a chance with not checking it out before I load it into my vehicle).
Much to my dismay, it has several bumps and bruises. The guy gets out his little paint wand and proceeds to attempt some patch-work. I'm not impressed, and I'm feeling a little uncomfortable with accepting this headboard with all the nicks in it. Then I walk around to the side and notice one of the posts is completely a mess. It looks like the wood is beginning to split.
I show him and he admits it is shotty craftsmanship. So I refuse the order and he tells me to head back to the store and have them ship out a new one to me.
My personal sales rep isn't working that day, so I get the first perky furniture salesman to come to the counter. I explain the situation, he assures me, "We'll do whatever it takes to make it right, Mrs. Herr."
Very nice words. I think that is appropriate having waited so long for the headboard to arrive in the first place. But I discover...
They are JUST words.
A few weeks later, I get a call from the warehouse guy.
I found it odd that I wasn't receiving this call from my sales guy, or any sales guy for that matter.
"Your headboard is in and you can come pick it up at Door #2 again."
Wow, that was pretty quick delivery. They told me it would be another 6-8 weeks. But for some crazy reason I thought maybe they rushed it for me in an attempt "to make it right."
I did push the envelope a bit and called my sales rep and asked him if, in their attempt to 'do whatever it takes to make it right,' they would consider delivering the headboard to my home, free of charge.
Answer? Nope.
I was disappointed, but not terribly surprised. Customer service seems to be on its way out in our society.
So yesterday morning I drove down to Door #2 to see my new headboard. Again, not a soul to be found. All I could think was, This place is a piece of cake for a thief! A guy could lift enough stuff to furnish an entire house by the time anyone showed up! I find it ridiculous.
After my attempts again to shout "Hello?" and get no response, I walked into the little office that should be staffed with an employee of some kind and I looked at the phone.
Hmmm. A page button. Let's try it.
So I paged someone to come to Door #2.
I wait.
Still nothing.
Oh, good grief, I could have driven off with a dinette set and six barstools by now.
I decide to use the guy's phone to call the store to see if they can reach someone, but just as I reach for the phone book, a young man appears looking like a deer in headlights.
Feeling a little foolish for being caught with his phone in my hand, I said, "Hi. I was just about to call the store to see if they could get someone here to help me."
I explain why I'm there and he asks me for a sales slip. I have none because, again, it was the warehouse guy that called me to come to Door #2 - not the salesperson, so I didn't go to the store first. I did see my old headboard leaning against some boxes and I told him that was what I refused before and there should be a new one in a box somewhere.
I was a little baffled as to why it was still sitting there after all this time. I would have thought they'd have taken it to their clearance center by now and tried to sell it 'as is.'
He looks confused but grabs the paper off the old headboard and walks off.
When he returns he says, "Yeah, that's it right here (pointing to the old one). I can help you get it in your vehicle."
Uh, I don't think so, Pal.
I stop him and say, "If it is new, where is the box?"
"Oh, my boss probably took it out to check it."
Yeah, right. Looking around at that place I know full well that no one is "checking" anything.
So I inspect it. And guess what?
It has all the bumps and nicks in it - in the exact same spots - as the "first" one. I look at him and say, "This is the same headboard I refused before. It isn't new."
He fidgets and shrugs.
I say, "It looks like someone is trying to pull a fast one on me."
And you know what he says??
"You didn't hear it from me, but yeah, they probably are."
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrggghh!!
Then the kicker, "You could refuse it and tell the store you want them to order a new one," he adds.
I ALREADY DID THAT!! THIS was supposed to be the NEW one!
I thank him for his time and walk out of there with steam shooting from my ears.
I mean, come on. Really? You're going to pass off the old one as new and think I won't notice? Why would it have been so hard to order a new one???
To put an end to the frustration, my husband went down there to talk to our sales rep and cancel the whole order - and get our money back. And you can bet I won't be going back there for any more purchases.
It was all very disconcerting since we had bought all our living room furniture there just a few months ago. So you'd think we'd be a "valued customer."
I just wish someone would have told me customer service was dead. I would have tried to get to the funeral.
Because I really do miss it.
I'm talking about my local furniture store. They obviously have lost their ability to provide customer service.
Let me back up and bring you up to speed.
Several months ago, I ordered a headboard for my daughter's bed. Apparently the trees needed to be cut down for the lumber and the paint needed a month to cure, because it wasn't scheduled to arrive for 6-8 weeks.
So when it finally arrives, I make my way to the store to pick it up (saving myself $50 on shipping).
I'm told to "go to door #2 at the warehouse." So I motor on over and wander through a door with a big "2" on it, into a dusty old building packed from floor to ceiling with boxes and furniture.
Nobody's there. Hmmm.
I call out, "Hello?"
Nothing.
I wander in a little further, feeling like I'm completely violating the space.
"Hello?" I call a little louder this time.
I'm a little annoyed at this point, but I wait.
Finally, a frizzy-haired gentleman with a dirt-smudged forehead and greasy fingernails appears from seemingly nowhere.
He seems to know exactly what I'm there for though, and pulls out a large box.
I ask him to take it out of the box so I can inspect it (I've had way too many instances of broken or beat up furniture delivered to me to take a chance with not checking it out before I load it into my vehicle).
Much to my dismay, it has several bumps and bruises. The guy gets out his little paint wand and proceeds to attempt some patch-work. I'm not impressed, and I'm feeling a little uncomfortable with accepting this headboard with all the nicks in it. Then I walk around to the side and notice one of the posts is completely a mess. It looks like the wood is beginning to split.
I show him and he admits it is shotty craftsmanship. So I refuse the order and he tells me to head back to the store and have them ship out a new one to me.
My personal sales rep isn't working that day, so I get the first perky furniture salesman to come to the counter. I explain the situation, he assures me, "We'll do whatever it takes to make it right, Mrs. Herr."
Very nice words. I think that is appropriate having waited so long for the headboard to arrive in the first place. But I discover...
They are JUST words.
A few weeks later, I get a call from the warehouse guy.
I found it odd that I wasn't receiving this call from my sales guy, or any sales guy for that matter.
"Your headboard is in and you can come pick it up at Door #2 again."
Wow, that was pretty quick delivery. They told me it would be another 6-8 weeks. But for some crazy reason I thought maybe they rushed it for me in an attempt "to make it right."
I did push the envelope a bit and called my sales rep and asked him if, in their attempt to 'do whatever it takes to make it right,' they would consider delivering the headboard to my home, free of charge.
Answer? Nope.
I was disappointed, but not terribly surprised. Customer service seems to be on its way out in our society.
So yesterday morning I drove down to Door #2 to see my new headboard. Again, not a soul to be found. All I could think was, This place is a piece of cake for a thief! A guy could lift enough stuff to furnish an entire house by the time anyone showed up! I find it ridiculous.
After my attempts again to shout "Hello?" and get no response, I walked into the little office that should be staffed with an employee of some kind and I looked at the phone.
Hmmm. A page button. Let's try it.
So I paged someone to come to Door #2.
I wait.
Still nothing.
Oh, good grief, I could have driven off with a dinette set and six barstools by now.
I decide to use the guy's phone to call the store to see if they can reach someone, but just as I reach for the phone book, a young man appears looking like a deer in headlights.
Feeling a little foolish for being caught with his phone in my hand, I said, "Hi. I was just about to call the store to see if they could get someone here to help me."
I explain why I'm there and he asks me for a sales slip. I have none because, again, it was the warehouse guy that called me to come to Door #2 - not the salesperson, so I didn't go to the store first. I did see my old headboard leaning against some boxes and I told him that was what I refused before and there should be a new one in a box somewhere.
I was a little baffled as to why it was still sitting there after all this time. I would have thought they'd have taken it to their clearance center by now and tried to sell it 'as is.'
He looks confused but grabs the paper off the old headboard and walks off.
When he returns he says, "Yeah, that's it right here (pointing to the old one). I can help you get it in your vehicle."
Uh, I don't think so, Pal.
I stop him and say, "If it is new, where is the box?"
"Oh, my boss probably took it out to check it."
Yeah, right. Looking around at that place I know full well that no one is "checking" anything.
So I inspect it. And guess what?
It has all the bumps and nicks in it - in the exact same spots - as the "first" one. I look at him and say, "This is the same headboard I refused before. It isn't new."
He fidgets and shrugs.
I say, "It looks like someone is trying to pull a fast one on me."
And you know what he says??
"You didn't hear it from me, but yeah, they probably are."
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrggghh!!
Then the kicker, "You could refuse it and tell the store you want them to order a new one," he adds.
I ALREADY DID THAT!! THIS was supposed to be the NEW one!
I thank him for his time and walk out of there with steam shooting from my ears.
I mean, come on. Really? You're going to pass off the old one as new and think I won't notice? Why would it have been so hard to order a new one???
To put an end to the frustration, my husband went down there to talk to our sales rep and cancel the whole order - and get our money back. And you can bet I won't be going back there for any more purchases.
It was all very disconcerting since we had bought all our living room furniture there just a few months ago. So you'd think we'd be a "valued customer."
I just wish someone would have told me customer service was dead. I would have tried to get to the funeral.
Because I really do miss it.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
An Instant Winner...of more junk mail?
A couple random thoughts rolled through my brain today. Just thought I'd write about them.
Oh, humor me. My summer so far consists of breaking up unending sibling battles and coming up with snack number 42 for these ravenous rugrats. Doesn't really conjur up a lot of creativity.
Okay, so here goes...
Does anyone ever win those drawings you see in the mall, at furniture stores or in the supermarket?
You know, those big plexiglass boxes stuffed with small slips of paper identifying your name, phone number, address and email...basically everything short of your social security number because we're so sure we're due to win...this time.
I passed one in the mall today. It was a chance to win a riding lawnmower.
Really?
Someone's going to give that away?
I never hear of anyone actually winning these things.
The gigantic grill at the grocery store. The free flooring at the furniture warehouse.
I would think we'd catch wind of it if someone was genuinely taking these things home. But I never do, so I'm skeptical.
Personally, I think it is just a gimmick to get you to provide all your contact info so they can send you junk mail. I bet there is never any intention to award anyone with a big prize.
If I'm wrong, someone please tell me about how you're grilling tonight's steak on the grand prize from Central Market.
Wouldn't it bode well for your business to put a big ad in the paper showing a picture of the lucky winner? I never see those.
Even the casinos have figured out that angle. I see pictures of people in the paper all the time who won a thousand bucks at the local casinos. You know there are suckers everywhere rushing off to that casino to press their luck because they saw that ad.
The other thing that made me ponder our society's stupidity is a sign I saw in a large department store. Hung on the rack of some merchandise was a sign that read, "As seen on Oprah."
This is our buying incentive now? If it was on Oprah then we need to rush out and get it? I know the woman has a lot of influence, but seriously? What is wrong with us that we need an endorsement for our purchases by some insanely rich woman in Chicago?
I just don't get it. And I'll tell you right now, I'm not walking to the checkout with it.
So there you go. Just a couple things that made me stop in my tracks today and crinkle my eyebrows a bit.
Maybe I will fill out one of those slips to win something sometime. I'll just put Oprah's name on it. That is bound to make me an instant winner.
Oh, humor me. My summer so far consists of breaking up unending sibling battles and coming up with snack number 42 for these ravenous rugrats. Doesn't really conjur up a lot of creativity.
Okay, so here goes...
Does anyone ever win those drawings you see in the mall, at furniture stores or in the supermarket?
You know, those big plexiglass boxes stuffed with small slips of paper identifying your name, phone number, address and email...basically everything short of your social security number because we're so sure we're due to win...this time.
I passed one in the mall today. It was a chance to win a riding lawnmower.
Really?
Someone's going to give that away?
I never hear of anyone actually winning these things.
The gigantic grill at the grocery store. The free flooring at the furniture warehouse.
I would think we'd catch wind of it if someone was genuinely taking these things home. But I never do, so I'm skeptical.
Personally, I think it is just a gimmick to get you to provide all your contact info so they can send you junk mail. I bet there is never any intention to award anyone with a big prize.
If I'm wrong, someone please tell me about how you're grilling tonight's steak on the grand prize from Central Market.
Wouldn't it bode well for your business to put a big ad in the paper showing a picture of the lucky winner? I never see those.
Even the casinos have figured out that angle. I see pictures of people in the paper all the time who won a thousand bucks at the local casinos. You know there are suckers everywhere rushing off to that casino to press their luck because they saw that ad.
The other thing that made me ponder our society's stupidity is a sign I saw in a large department store. Hung on the rack of some merchandise was a sign that read, "As seen on Oprah."
This is our buying incentive now? If it was on Oprah then we need to rush out and get it? I know the woman has a lot of influence, but seriously? What is wrong with us that we need an endorsement for our purchases by some insanely rich woman in Chicago?
I just don't get it. And I'll tell you right now, I'm not walking to the checkout with it.
So there you go. Just a couple things that made me stop in my tracks today and crinkle my eyebrows a bit.
Maybe I will fill out one of those slips to win something sometime. I'll just put Oprah's name on it. That is bound to make me an instant winner.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The Death of a Salesman
I'm skeptical of most salespeople, but today I gave in and let one in my house. Actually three of them.
Not my finest moment.
Around 11:30am, a young woman comes to my door and tells me she's from Kirby. She would like to come in to vacuum and shampoo one of the rooms in my house as advertising for her product. "We don't do TV commercials. Our only advertising is word-of-mouth, so if you would let me show you what my Kirby vacuum could do for your carpet you would really help me out," she said. "My boss pays me $35 to clean a carpet, so he says I'm cheaper than advertising."
Okay, I cave. What can I say? I'm a housewife with a post-birthday party mess to clean up from the night before and I could use a little help with some of the cleaning! I figured it was harmless. I knew I wasn't buying, so no big deal, right?
Wrong.
She tells me they'll be right over (who is "they" all of a sudden?). So I stop her and say, "Is it going to be noisy? My son needs to take a nap in a few minutes and I can't have loud noise."
"Oh, no. It's not loud," she assures me.
Salesperson #1: not a truth-teller.
So a few minutes pass, and two young gentlemen plow through my door with large boxes of vacuum parts. They're cordial enough, but I am irked that they don't remove their shoes as they enter. Um, wouldn't vacuum cleaner guys realize removing shoes is important if you're going to keep carpets in good condition?
I'm slightly annoyed, but they're all dressed up, so I cut them some slack.
Of course my mind is on those shoes now, so I look at the kid's shoes who is unpacking the chrome-glistening vacuum. His shoes are a fright. Completely peeling on top, and he informs me later his dog chewed the backs off of them.
I'm not buying it. I see it as a ploy for me to feel sorry for the guy and hand him a check.
Not happening.
He starts in on the small talk, acting interested in what my husband and I do for a living. In hindsight, my husband tells me I should have made something up. "You should have told him I sell vacuums," he jokes.
At any rate, I am feeling stuck in the room with this guy - with my son who should be down for a nap right now. He begins to start showing off his prize vacuum, bringing out gadget after gadget and having me test drive them.
And there is noise. Kirby is not a quiet product.
All I can think of is all the work I need to get done, all I had planned to do while my son napped.
But I try to remain cordial. I keep thinking, surely he'll get to the shampooing part soon and be gone.
It isn't long and the sales pitch comes. That monster of a vacuum can be mine for just $2700+.
If I had $2700 to spend, believe me, it would not be spent on a cleaning device.
But then he tells me he can knock $300 off that price because of his "contest promotion."
Ah, love these things.
The great line of, "I'm trying to win a trip to XYZ and you can help send me there, blah blah blah."
Oh pul-eeeze. I'm supposed to want to buy from you so that you can take a trip? Give me the trip, and we'll talk.
The kicker was the trip destination. And where these fine young gents were from.
They came here from Nebraska.
The trip was to Oklahoma City.
Uh, that's just a day road trip, isn't it?!? That's like offering me a trip to Pierre, SD. Woo wee. Sign me up.
Really? Oklahoma City? That's the big prize trip? Apparently people aren't buying the ol' Kirby if that's all they can spring for.
So I have very little interest in hearing about how he can win a trip if I "become part of the Kirby family."
They need to work on their main sales pitch, though. The "repulsion" factor. You know, vacuuming an area and showing you the filter, littered with dirt, dust and fuzz. Like I don't feel bad enough about how far behind I am on housecleaning, now I have some young whipper-snapper showing me I am not cleaning nearly well enough.
Thanks, dude. You now sent me into such a depression I'll need the $2700 for counseling and medications. Oh, I'm sorry. $2400, since I'm helping you win that extravagant trip.
But wait! He's grabbing his phone. This got really comical for me after awhile. He kept calling his "boss" to tell him about the nasty stuff he was getting on the filters.
"Hi, Mr. Snitzenbueler! Yeah, I'm here with Maxine and holy smokes! - you should see what we've pulled out of her carpet! It's awesome what Kirby can do!" Short pause. "Okay, great."
He hangs up and tells me Mr. Sneezyboo is taking another $200 off the price.
I feel like I'm a contestant on Deal or No Deal. Why does he need to keep calling "his boss?" And does that guy really answer every call on the first ring? Does he never have other appointments? Or for that matter, ever need to use the restroom? He is always available to take the call.
How convenient.
I call Vacuum Boy on it.
"Is there really even someone on the other end of that line?" I ask.
He looks at me in disbelief. "Of course! It's my boss. Here, look at this."
He shows me the last call on his phone. It means nothing to me. Just "Brian" somebody. Proves nothing. I figure, if it was legit, he would have rung dear Mr. Sloshfosh so I could speak to him.
But he goes through this charade at least 8 more times. Each time, Mr. Shooshibeans offers another price cut.
Now they're willing to give me a $700 trade-in on my vacuum. The one they claim is worth nothing because it doesn't pick up any dirt whatsoever.
I realize they have no need for it. The "trade-in" comment is just a ploy to make me think I could get a "good deal."
An hour and a half later, I insist that I need to get some work done, that I was not under the impression he would take this much time to vacuum and shampoo my carpet.
"Oh, go ahead and do your work," he says.
Okay, so I bolt. I've got dishes to do, an article to finish writing, and phone calls to make. I don't trust a complete stranger in my house, however, so I keep coming down to check on him.
Each time, he's got a nasty filter to show me. "Holy smokes, huh?"
Yeah, holy smokes, kid. Are you almost done???
I continue this darting in and out until his sidekick shows up again, this time saying verbatim what the other guy had just told me. The language was identical. Right down to the "awesome."
What's with using words like "awesome" and "perfect" 400 times in a sales pitch? Does that really resonate with people?
He claims he's sold 11 vacuums toward his 15 vacuums goal for the trip.
Good. What's four more, then, for a fine saleman as he? He doesn't need my help.
Not that it matters, but there is no chance of spending that kind of money without my husband's consent anyway, so he and his sidekick are practically begging me to call my spouse and see if he'll bite. The price is down to just $1700 now, after all.
I wanted to tell them that if I called my husband at work to ask him if spending $1700 on a vacuum today would be a good idea, he would laugh harder than he does at Jay Leno's Headlines on Monday nights.
So I get honest with the fellas.
I tell them the price isn't the issue - I'm not in the market for a vacuum, and furthermore I don't like their sales tactic. The girl tells me she'll be over to vacuum and shampoo one room, and then these guys show up and take up my afternoon.
I expected one clean carpet and a sales pitch. I did not expect him to drag Kirby upstairs and vacuum a mattress, try out every gadget on my stairs, ceiling fan and drapes. I did not expect him to pull out a filter every 3 -1/2 seconds to show me more dirt.
I return to my office and sidekick dude leaves. After I heard the shampooing finally end, I went downstairs to check on the trip contestant. He was packing up his gear. Finally! I thought.
I go back to working, and don't hear much so I check to see if he's still here.
He's at my front door gripping Kirby and company in his hands, peering out the window. He looks like a school kid waiting for the bus. A kid who has to pee.
Why is he fidgeting so much? He's just dying to get out of here, isn't he? Wow, they don't like "no"s, do they?
I am amazed at how he could go from Mr. Perky Holy-Smokes guy to unresponsive ready-to-dash boy.
I go check out my freshly cleaned carpet. He only did half the room, but that's okay. He did the dirtier half.
But all those filters with the guck on them were left in a pile in the middle of my floor.
Really? You can't stash a trash bag within all that cargo you've got?
Worse yet, as he picked up all those filters to put them in a pile, the dirt and fuzz fell off them onto my carpet.
Why would you not have Kirby clean that up?
So I'm pulling out my own vacuum and cleaning up his mess. He's still in my house, but doesn't make a peep when I utter in disbelief, "You sell vacuums, but you leave a mess on my carpet?"
Then I head to the kitchen and come upon the huge mess of water splattered all around my sink. He needed water to fill his shampooer, but obviously couldn't make use of a towel.
Needless to say, I wasn't impressed. And as I watched his ride pull up, it looked nothing short of a bank heist.
Driver smoking a cigarette flies into my driveway. Scared boy runs out of my house, hustles to the back of the van to throw the vacuum in and jumps in the passenger seat. They practically burn rubber out of my driveway.
I shake my head and realize I've learned a hard lesson. It's best to just send those salespeople on their merry way when they come to my door.
Lest I shatter the dream of young people everywhere of luxurious stays at the Motel 6 in Oklahoma City.
Not my finest moment.
Around 11:30am, a young woman comes to my door and tells me she's from Kirby. She would like to come in to vacuum and shampoo one of the rooms in my house as advertising for her product. "We don't do TV commercials. Our only advertising is word-of-mouth, so if you would let me show you what my Kirby vacuum could do for your carpet you would really help me out," she said. "My boss pays me $35 to clean a carpet, so he says I'm cheaper than advertising."
Okay, I cave. What can I say? I'm a housewife with a post-birthday party mess to clean up from the night before and I could use a little help with some of the cleaning! I figured it was harmless. I knew I wasn't buying, so no big deal, right?
Wrong.
She tells me they'll be right over (who is "they" all of a sudden?). So I stop her and say, "Is it going to be noisy? My son needs to take a nap in a few minutes and I can't have loud noise."
"Oh, no. It's not loud," she assures me.
Salesperson #1: not a truth-teller.
So a few minutes pass, and two young gentlemen plow through my door with large boxes of vacuum parts. They're cordial enough, but I am irked that they don't remove their shoes as they enter. Um, wouldn't vacuum cleaner guys realize removing shoes is important if you're going to keep carpets in good condition?
I'm slightly annoyed, but they're all dressed up, so I cut them some slack.
Of course my mind is on those shoes now, so I look at the kid's shoes who is unpacking the chrome-glistening vacuum. His shoes are a fright. Completely peeling on top, and he informs me later his dog chewed the backs off of them.
I'm not buying it. I see it as a ploy for me to feel sorry for the guy and hand him a check.
Not happening.
He starts in on the small talk, acting interested in what my husband and I do for a living. In hindsight, my husband tells me I should have made something up. "You should have told him I sell vacuums," he jokes.
At any rate, I am feeling stuck in the room with this guy - with my son who should be down for a nap right now. He begins to start showing off his prize vacuum, bringing out gadget after gadget and having me test drive them.
And there is noise. Kirby is not a quiet product.
All I can think of is all the work I need to get done, all I had planned to do while my son napped.
But I try to remain cordial. I keep thinking, surely he'll get to the shampooing part soon and be gone.
It isn't long and the sales pitch comes. That monster of a vacuum can be mine for just $2700+.
If I had $2700 to spend, believe me, it would not be spent on a cleaning device.
But then he tells me he can knock $300 off that price because of his "contest promotion."
Ah, love these things.
The great line of, "I'm trying to win a trip to XYZ and you can help send me there, blah blah blah."
Oh pul-eeeze. I'm supposed to want to buy from you so that you can take a trip? Give me the trip, and we'll talk.
The kicker was the trip destination. And where these fine young gents were from.
They came here from Nebraska.
The trip was to Oklahoma City.
Uh, that's just a day road trip, isn't it?!? That's like offering me a trip to Pierre, SD. Woo wee. Sign me up.
Really? Oklahoma City? That's the big prize trip? Apparently people aren't buying the ol' Kirby if that's all they can spring for.
So I have very little interest in hearing about how he can win a trip if I "become part of the Kirby family."
They need to work on their main sales pitch, though. The "repulsion" factor. You know, vacuuming an area and showing you the filter, littered with dirt, dust and fuzz. Like I don't feel bad enough about how far behind I am on housecleaning, now I have some young whipper-snapper showing me I am not cleaning nearly well enough.
Thanks, dude. You now sent me into such a depression I'll need the $2700 for counseling and medications. Oh, I'm sorry. $2400, since I'm helping you win that extravagant trip.
But wait! He's grabbing his phone. This got really comical for me after awhile. He kept calling his "boss" to tell him about the nasty stuff he was getting on the filters.
"Hi, Mr. Snitzenbueler! Yeah, I'm here with Maxine and holy smokes! - you should see what we've pulled out of her carpet! It's awesome what Kirby can do!" Short pause. "Okay, great."
He hangs up and tells me Mr. Sneezyboo is taking another $200 off the price.
I feel like I'm a contestant on Deal or No Deal. Why does he need to keep calling "his boss?" And does that guy really answer every call on the first ring? Does he never have other appointments? Or for that matter, ever need to use the restroom? He is always available to take the call.
How convenient.
I call Vacuum Boy on it.
"Is there really even someone on the other end of that line?" I ask.
He looks at me in disbelief. "Of course! It's my boss. Here, look at this."
He shows me the last call on his phone. It means nothing to me. Just "Brian" somebody. Proves nothing. I figure, if it was legit, he would have rung dear Mr. Sloshfosh so I could speak to him.
But he goes through this charade at least 8 more times. Each time, Mr. Shooshibeans offers another price cut.
Now they're willing to give me a $700 trade-in on my vacuum. The one they claim is worth nothing because it doesn't pick up any dirt whatsoever.
I realize they have no need for it. The "trade-in" comment is just a ploy to make me think I could get a "good deal."
An hour and a half later, I insist that I need to get some work done, that I was not under the impression he would take this much time to vacuum and shampoo my carpet.
"Oh, go ahead and do your work," he says.
Okay, so I bolt. I've got dishes to do, an article to finish writing, and phone calls to make. I don't trust a complete stranger in my house, however, so I keep coming down to check on him.
Each time, he's got a nasty filter to show me. "Holy smokes, huh?"
Yeah, holy smokes, kid. Are you almost done???
I continue this darting in and out until his sidekick shows up again, this time saying verbatim what the other guy had just told me. The language was identical. Right down to the "awesome."
What's with using words like "awesome" and "perfect" 400 times in a sales pitch? Does that really resonate with people?
He claims he's sold 11 vacuums toward his 15 vacuums goal for the trip.
Good. What's four more, then, for a fine saleman as he? He doesn't need my help.
Not that it matters, but there is no chance of spending that kind of money without my husband's consent anyway, so he and his sidekick are practically begging me to call my spouse and see if he'll bite. The price is down to just $1700 now, after all.
I wanted to tell them that if I called my husband at work to ask him if spending $1700 on a vacuum today would be a good idea, he would laugh harder than he does at Jay Leno's Headlines on Monday nights.
So I get honest with the fellas.
I tell them the price isn't the issue - I'm not in the market for a vacuum, and furthermore I don't like their sales tactic. The girl tells me she'll be over to vacuum and shampoo one room, and then these guys show up and take up my afternoon.
I expected one clean carpet and a sales pitch. I did not expect him to drag Kirby upstairs and vacuum a mattress, try out every gadget on my stairs, ceiling fan and drapes. I did not expect him to pull out a filter every 3 -1/2 seconds to show me more dirt.
I return to my office and sidekick dude leaves. After I heard the shampooing finally end, I went downstairs to check on the trip contestant. He was packing up his gear. Finally! I thought.
I go back to working, and don't hear much so I check to see if he's still here.
He's at my front door gripping Kirby and company in his hands, peering out the window. He looks like a school kid waiting for the bus. A kid who has to pee.
Why is he fidgeting so much? He's just dying to get out of here, isn't he? Wow, they don't like "no"s, do they?
I am amazed at how he could go from Mr. Perky Holy-Smokes guy to unresponsive ready-to-dash boy.
I go check out my freshly cleaned carpet. He only did half the room, but that's okay. He did the dirtier half.
But all those filters with the guck on them were left in a pile in the middle of my floor.
Really? You can't stash a trash bag within all that cargo you've got?
Worse yet, as he picked up all those filters to put them in a pile, the dirt and fuzz fell off them onto my carpet.
Why would you not have Kirby clean that up?
So I'm pulling out my own vacuum and cleaning up his mess. He's still in my house, but doesn't make a peep when I utter in disbelief, "You sell vacuums, but you leave a mess on my carpet?"
Then I head to the kitchen and come upon the huge mess of water splattered all around my sink. He needed water to fill his shampooer, but obviously couldn't make use of a towel.
Needless to say, I wasn't impressed. And as I watched his ride pull up, it looked nothing short of a bank heist.
Driver smoking a cigarette flies into my driveway. Scared boy runs out of my house, hustles to the back of the van to throw the vacuum in and jumps in the passenger seat. They practically burn rubber out of my driveway.
I shake my head and realize I've learned a hard lesson. It's best to just send those salespeople on their merry way when they come to my door.
Lest I shatter the dream of young people everywhere of luxurious stays at the Motel 6 in Oklahoma City.
Friday, May 7, 2010
7-Up. A health food.
If you spend any amount of time in the grocery store these days...
(...which I don't, really. My dear husband does the grocery shopping. Mainly because grocery stores are cold. I don't like to be cold. Enough said. But actually, the guy loves it. It's the thrill of getting the best deal possible for him. He considers it success when the clerk has to hand him money at the checkout.
And I'm not kidding.
It happens.
To be honest, I think the guy really believes he should only have to pay 1950s prices for 2010 merchandise. He's delusional that way, but I love him. But enough about my frugal husband...that could be a whole other blog.)
So back to that grocery store. Namely, the increasing number of grocery items with words like "Natural," "Fortified," and "Antioxidant" slapped on the label.
Apparently we're falling for this deception, America. Because there's a bottle of Cherry 7-Up "with antioxidants" in my house right now.
A friend brought it over as part of a dinner we hosted last night. And she left it here, maybe because she's concerned for my health.
Or...because I was so mystified by it she casted it off for me to study.
Antioxidants. In soda pop.
Really?
It claims to have 10% Vitamin E. Vitamin E acetate, to be exact.
And yes, I Googled "Vitamin E acetate." I mean, come on. It sounds fake. This needs to be investigated.
According to www.vitamins-supplements.org, "Vitamin E acetate is a powerful antioxidant, possessing the ability to increase the moisturization of the skin's horny layer and thereby improve surface relief."
Uh, my skin has a "horny layer?" I'm not even goin' there.
It also says, "Vitamin E acetate is a dry, powder form of vitamin E that has no antioxidant power until the acetate is removed in the intestine as it is absorbed."
I had to re-read that sentence about 14 times. Huh? "no antioxidant power until...it is absorbed."
Okay, so it's good for my skin, if my skin ever gets the stuff. Because wouldn't you think all the other goo in that bottle of 7-Up is not likely to allow anything good to get past it? The second listed ingredient was still high fructose corn syrup, after all.
Get real, soda people. 10% vitamin E isn't likely to deter the probably 100% forms of sugar sloshing through my arteries. But nice try, 7-Up.
Then I check the ultimate source for information. Wikipedia. Look what they have to say about our magical vitamin E acetate. "It is often used in dermatological products such as skin creams. Some studies have linked this acetate to cancer."
WHAT?!?!
The antioxidants have power alright....the power to KILL you, evidently. Add them to your high fructose corn syrup beverage and wa-lah! Snap 10 years off your life.
The sad thing is, if you really stop to think about it, there really isn't anything we consume that wouldn't kill us eventually anyway. Fresh produce - someone will claim it was treated with pesticides. Water - someone will claim the plastic bottle contains carcinogens. Even soy is getting a bad rap lately. One guy is claiming soy is feminizing, therefore causing kids to become gay.
There's a soapbox for anybody that wants one, I suppose.
I'm going to get on mine now with a sparkling bottle of Cherry 7-Up in my hand. I figure if all the ingredients are opposing each other, they must cancel each other out, so it is really like drinking a glass of water.
Or at least that's what I'm going to tell myself. Until my premature death.
(...which I don't, really. My dear husband does the grocery shopping. Mainly because grocery stores are cold. I don't like to be cold. Enough said. But actually, the guy loves it. It's the thrill of getting the best deal possible for him. He considers it success when the clerk has to hand him money at the checkout.
And I'm not kidding.
It happens.
To be honest, I think the guy really believes he should only have to pay 1950s prices for 2010 merchandise. He's delusional that way, but I love him. But enough about my frugal husband...that could be a whole other blog.)
So back to that grocery store. Namely, the increasing number of grocery items with words like "Natural," "Fortified," and "Antioxidant" slapped on the label.
Apparently we're falling for this deception, America. Because there's a bottle of Cherry 7-Up "with antioxidants" in my house right now.
A friend brought it over as part of a dinner we hosted last night. And she left it here, maybe because she's concerned for my health.
Or...because I was so mystified by it she casted it off for me to study.
Antioxidants. In soda pop.
Really?
It claims to have 10% Vitamin E. Vitamin E acetate, to be exact.
And yes, I Googled "Vitamin E acetate." I mean, come on. It sounds fake. This needs to be investigated.
According to www.vitamins-supplements.org, "Vitamin E acetate is a powerful antioxidant, possessing the ability to increase the moisturization of the skin's horny layer and thereby improve surface relief."
Uh, my skin has a "horny layer?" I'm not even goin' there.
It also says, "Vitamin E acetate is a dry, powder form of vitamin E that has no antioxidant power until the acetate is removed in the intestine as it is absorbed."
I had to re-read that sentence about 14 times. Huh? "no antioxidant power until...it is absorbed."
Okay, so it's good for my skin, if my skin ever gets the stuff. Because wouldn't you think all the other goo in that bottle of 7-Up is not likely to allow anything good to get past it? The second listed ingredient was still high fructose corn syrup, after all.
Get real, soda people. 10% vitamin E isn't likely to deter the probably 100% forms of sugar sloshing through my arteries. But nice try, 7-Up.
Then I check the ultimate source for information. Wikipedia. Look what they have to say about our magical vitamin E acetate. "It is often used in dermatological products such as skin creams. Some studies have linked this acetate to cancer."
WHAT?!?!
The antioxidants have power alright....the power to KILL you, evidently. Add them to your high fructose corn syrup beverage and wa-lah! Snap 10 years off your life.
The sad thing is, if you really stop to think about it, there really isn't anything we consume that wouldn't kill us eventually anyway. Fresh produce - someone will claim it was treated with pesticides. Water - someone will claim the plastic bottle contains carcinogens. Even soy is getting a bad rap lately. One guy is claiming soy is feminizing, therefore causing kids to become gay.
There's a soapbox for anybody that wants one, I suppose.
I'm going to get on mine now with a sparkling bottle of Cherry 7-Up in my hand. I figure if all the ingredients are opposing each other, they must cancel each other out, so it is really like drinking a glass of water.
Or at least that's what I'm going to tell myself. Until my premature death.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Is "Gumby" listed in the phone book?
I have a newfound respect for plumbers.
I'll be honest, when I think of plumbers, I think about a guy tinkering around under a kitchen sink. I'm thinking the most difficult part of the task is finding the leak and fixing it.
However, this is no longer my thinking.
Instead, I am pretty sure these guys are part Gumby. You know, that green clay humanoid character.
It's the only way I can fathom those guys actually getting the job done. I know this because I needed to do a "plumber-type" task in my home and I was nearly reaching for the phone to dial 9-1-1. That is, if I would have been able to get to the phone.
Which I couldn't.
And herein is where the newfound respect comes into play.
I had a wall-texturing guy coming to our house to texture the walls of our entry bathroom. Mind you, this is just a small half bath great for our kids to wash their hands before dinner and guests who need to "use the facilities." In my father's words, "That bathroom is so small you have to decide what you're going to do before you go in so you make sure you enter facing the right direction." To be fair, it's not that small, but my Dad likes to exaggerate a bit.
Anyway...I needed to remove the tank from the toilet so the guy could texture behind it.
I figured it can't be that hard.
My husband told me to call a plumber.
Nonsense!
In his defense, we have a friend who is a plumber, so my husband really just wanted me to call him to find out how to do it - utilize our resource pool type of idea. My husband likes to consult the experts.
I thought that was ridiculous. I simply just Google anything I don't know.
So that's what I did.
And I came across a wonderful blog post detailing the process by a mother who also was left to do an unpleasant task such as this. Plus she had good commentary to go with each step. I like that.
Okay, it seemed simple enough. I wasn't worried.
Until I stepped into my bathroom.
And realized the toilet allows maybe six inches on either side of the bowl to maneuver. I thought maybe I could just reach my hand back there to remove the nuts from bolts.
Um, no.
NOT feasible.
Okay, I had no other choice. I had to get down on that floor and squeeze into that miniscule space.
So I get down there, and attempt to lift my arm to put that pliers to use, and I am stuck.
Instant panic.
Then I remind myself plumbers are not typically small people. And they do this. Certainly I can do this.
I wiggle my way out and try again. This time, making sure my arm is above my head before I get into position.
One is off. YES!
I proceed to the next one. This one is placed at a precise angle that is nearly impossible for me to move my arm enough to get a good grip. I struggle to get the pliers in place.
It slips from my hand.
I cannot physically reach to pick it up as I am not Gumby.
I am going to have to shimmy my way out of that tight spot again to retrieve the crazy pliers.
And I'm stuck.
Now I really panic.
And I'm sweating.
I think of what it will be like when my husband gets home from work in 6 hours and I'm stuck between a toilet and the wall. The school will have called repeatedly telling me I need to pick up my children, but I will be unable to get to the phone. My two-year-old will have eaten everything in the pantry that is at a 2 to 4 foot level, smearing crumbs throughout the house, giggling profusely as he refuses to hand me the phone.
I cannot allow these things to happen. I close my eyes and try to relax. Then I wiggle free and figure I need a new plan. The nut isn't budging anyway, so I head to the garage to survey the toolbox.
Wrenches. Well, that makes sense. But I never can figure out which one will fit. So I bring in a couple and give it a try.
Of course, neither are a fit.
Back to the tool box. I am confident I've grabbed the right size now.
Sure enough. It fits. But by this point, I'm tired. And I'm weak. And turning that ridiculous wrench seems impossible.
I'm starting to wonder if I could find the phone number for our plumber friend.
But I refuse to throw up the white flag. I pray instead. Then I gear up for one last-ditch effort to break that nut loose. And it budged!!
HALLELUJAH, IT BUDGED!!!!!!!!
I had to return to the floor to get to the third and final nut on the other side of the tank. Ironically, my sense of accomplishment must have shrunk my head and shoulders instead of puffing them up!
Toilet tank removed. Goal attained.
Ahhh.
And then, ewww.
Did you know your toilet is really dirty under that tank? Yeah, you probably didn't want to know that.
Cleaning that up seemed like a piece of cake compared to the tank removal.
Seriously, plumbers. How do you do that? I saw our plumber friend on Sunday and noticed his broad shoulders. He'd never have made it out of my bathroom. I would have had to turn him into a throw rug - something - because he'd be part of my permanent decor.
At least then the plumber would be the one to make "cracks" about the unsolicited viewing of another person's posterior cleft!
I'll be honest, when I think of plumbers, I think about a guy tinkering around under a kitchen sink. I'm thinking the most difficult part of the task is finding the leak and fixing it.
However, this is no longer my thinking.
Instead, I am pretty sure these guys are part Gumby. You know, that green clay humanoid character.
It's the only way I can fathom those guys actually getting the job done. I know this because I needed to do a "plumber-type" task in my home and I was nearly reaching for the phone to dial 9-1-1. That is, if I would have been able to get to the phone.
Which I couldn't.
And herein is where the newfound respect comes into play.
I had a wall-texturing guy coming to our house to texture the walls of our entry bathroom. Mind you, this is just a small half bath great for our kids to wash their hands before dinner and guests who need to "use the facilities." In my father's words, "That bathroom is so small you have to decide what you're going to do before you go in so you make sure you enter facing the right direction." To be fair, it's not that small, but my Dad likes to exaggerate a bit.
Anyway...I needed to remove the tank from the toilet so the guy could texture behind it.
I figured it can't be that hard.
My husband told me to call a plumber.
Nonsense!
In his defense, we have a friend who is a plumber, so my husband really just wanted me to call him to find out how to do it - utilize our resource pool type of idea. My husband likes to consult the experts.
I thought that was ridiculous. I simply just Google anything I don't know.
So that's what I did.
And I came across a wonderful blog post detailing the process by a mother who also was left to do an unpleasant task such as this. Plus she had good commentary to go with each step. I like that.
Okay, it seemed simple enough. I wasn't worried.
Until I stepped into my bathroom.
And realized the toilet allows maybe six inches on either side of the bowl to maneuver. I thought maybe I could just reach my hand back there to remove the nuts from bolts.
Um, no.
NOT feasible.
Okay, I had no other choice. I had to get down on that floor and squeeze into that miniscule space.
So I get down there, and attempt to lift my arm to put that pliers to use, and I am stuck.
Instant panic.
Then I remind myself plumbers are not typically small people. And they do this. Certainly I can do this.
I wiggle my way out and try again. This time, making sure my arm is above my head before I get into position.
One is off. YES!
I proceed to the next one. This one is placed at a precise angle that is nearly impossible for me to move my arm enough to get a good grip. I struggle to get the pliers in place.
It slips from my hand.
I cannot physically reach to pick it up as I am not Gumby.
I am going to have to shimmy my way out of that tight spot again to retrieve the crazy pliers.
And I'm stuck.
Now I really panic.
And I'm sweating.
I think of what it will be like when my husband gets home from work in 6 hours and I'm stuck between a toilet and the wall. The school will have called repeatedly telling me I need to pick up my children, but I will be unable to get to the phone. My two-year-old will have eaten everything in the pantry that is at a 2 to 4 foot level, smearing crumbs throughout the house, giggling profusely as he refuses to hand me the phone.
I cannot allow these things to happen. I close my eyes and try to relax. Then I wiggle free and figure I need a new plan. The nut isn't budging anyway, so I head to the garage to survey the toolbox.
Wrenches. Well, that makes sense. But I never can figure out which one will fit. So I bring in a couple and give it a try.
Of course, neither are a fit.
Back to the tool box. I am confident I've grabbed the right size now.
Sure enough. It fits. But by this point, I'm tired. And I'm weak. And turning that ridiculous wrench seems impossible.
I'm starting to wonder if I could find the phone number for our plumber friend.
But I refuse to throw up the white flag. I pray instead. Then I gear up for one last-ditch effort to break that nut loose. And it budged!!
HALLELUJAH, IT BUDGED!!!!!!!!
I had to return to the floor to get to the third and final nut on the other side of the tank. Ironically, my sense of accomplishment must have shrunk my head and shoulders instead of puffing them up!
Toilet tank removed. Goal attained.
Ahhh.
And then, ewww.
Did you know your toilet is really dirty under that tank? Yeah, you probably didn't want to know that.
Cleaning that up seemed like a piece of cake compared to the tank removal.
Seriously, plumbers. How do you do that? I saw our plumber friend on Sunday and noticed his broad shoulders. He'd never have made it out of my bathroom. I would have had to turn him into a throw rug - something - because he'd be part of my permanent decor.
At least then the plumber would be the one to make "cracks" about the unsolicited viewing of another person's posterior cleft!
Monday, March 22, 2010
What They Don't Tell You At the Baby Shower
I firmly believe that at the moment of conception, all women should immediately find a huge "S" appear on their chests.
Because becoming a mother is synonymous with being Superwoman. And no one at the baby shower is going to tell you that.
But they really should.
Mothers will be able to perform feats that no man could possibly fathom doing himself. He wouldn't even attempt it.
But as mothers, we have no choice. We either become Superwoman or our children would probably cease to exist.
Today my "S" was beaming. Even if I wasn't.
For a variety of reasons - namely 3 reasons: Rachel, Caleb & Noah - I have gotten very little sleep in the past couple of weeks. This past Wednesday I only snuck in about 3-4 hours of shut-eye as Noah was hurling the night away.
Why do we always get the stomach flu in the wee hours of the morning? Has anyone ever STARTED the flu around noon or even a more convenient 9am?? So by the time bedtime rolls around the worst is likely over?!?
Noah hasn't been sleeping well for awhile anyway, so he's interrupted my sleep often and I really like my sleep. When it is time for sleep, I want ALL of it. So as you can probably guess, I got wore out. That is, my immune system got wore out.
And guess who woke up Sunday morning with the flu? Yep. Superwoman just got zapped. Picture the big "POW" slamming into my face.
But we all know moms are not allowed to be sick. At least, they are still responsible to do everything they would normally do if they were in perfect condition.
That's when that "S" seems to shine a little brighter...
So it's Monday morning and I am still not anywhere near 100% yet, but I take one look at my two sons and realize it is going to be a LONNNNNNNNNG day. Noah is the epitome of misery and Caleb says he can't even chew his breakfast because it makes his head hurt.
Oh, joy.
I check their temps - fevers for both. So I send Caleb back to bed and call the school to let them know he won't be joining them this fine Monday.
Then I take a better look at Noah and I'm greatly concerned. He's a rashy fright and I either seek help or I'm in for a day of constant whimpering and whining.
Of course our pediatrician has no appointment opening, so I have to settle for some 5th string doctor who I'm pretty sure just got hired last week.
Once I meet her and we begin to dialogue about Noah, I'm convinced I was right. She has no clue what to do and soon she's running for my pediatrician.
Next thing I know, we're in a new exam room with our pediatrician, two medical students and the doctor I made the appointment with...I don't think she knew as much as the med students.
Yikes.
Anyway, turns out Noah is a wreck but no one really knows why. It's time for x-rays and lab work.
This is when it gets interesting.
First stop, the lab for a blood draw.
If you read my blog about Noah's surgery you'll know the nurses struggled to find a vein to put the IV...I would discover this to be an ongoing problem. Ugh.
As I clutched my little boy in my lap, the lab technician poked and prodded until she finally hit a vein. Meanwhile, Noah is screaming uncontrollably and I'm feeling so horrible about putting him through this while in a conscious state that I am now crying too!
I take several minutes to calm him (maybe, us) down as we make our way to x-ray. I have to manually turn him into a contortionist to get the pictures she wants...so yeah. You know what happens. He's bawling again.
I'm fighting back the tears only because I may be more irritated than sad at this point.
Once it is finally over we're ushered back to the exam room where we will sit for another half an hour waiting for some results. It is well into Noah's normal naptime by now, so he is crying incessantly.
The pediatrician pops her head in briefly (probably heard all the wailing and figured she better check in) to let me know they're still waiting on a few test results.
I'm so physically and emotionally exhausted all I want is to take my children and go home. But we wait and Noah refuses to settle down even slightly unless I am standing and rocking him.
So here I am: ON MY FEET as I still fight the flu myself, rocking a 28-pound fitful child. Considering in the past 24 hours I've had nothing but dry toast and Sprite as an energy source I am amazing even myself.
We're finally able to leave - of course at this point we're all ravenous so fortunately McDonald's is only a block away.
I suppose if I was truly Superwoman I'd have a healthy gourmet lunch simmering in the crockpot at home.
Get real.
On a side note, I was so proud of Caleb for sitting patiently all that time as his little brother went through continuous torture - he was such a trooper and he earned that Star Wars Happy Meal toy! Shoot, he earned the entire line of toys!
Instead of the crockpot - awaiting me when I got home were six voice mail messages.
I had a meeting at 10:30 that I missed.
My husband is wondering where in the world I am. Several times.
So I settle the boys in with their Happy Meals and start returning phone calls, desperately trying to reschedule my meeting that HAD to be done today...deadlines don't care if you're a mom.
Fortunately I salvage the meeting situation and I'm set-up for 2pm. Whew!
The meeting goes great, only I discover later in the day that I conducted the entire meeting with a Wonder Pets sticker on my shoulder blade. Thanks, Pediatrician's office. And thanks, Noah for snuggling me so much the sticker transferred itself from your chest to my back.
What can I say? I'm a Mom. It happens.
So I finish my meeting and drive over to the school to pick up Rachel. I'm early, so I enjoy the few minutes of solitude and quiet in the car.
I was actually starting to feel a lot better about the day.
So that's why when I stepped into the school hallway I had to laugh. It probably should have made me cry, but I think when your "S" is so wrinkled and worn you realize it's just another part of motherhood and you better get used to it.
Head lice. The hallways were lined with large black garbage bags full of each child's belongings in an attempt to stop the spread of the vicious bugs.
Some classrooms were checked for head lice and since some was found, parents are turning OCD. Bedding, stuffed animals, coats and carpets will be under attack...by Superwomen.
Personally, by that point in my day I was so done that I didn't even get worked up about it. So far, neither of my kids that attend that school have been checked and I have no reason to believe they have head lice yet.
After all, tomorrow is another day. And there will have to be something for this superhero to tackle.
I just wish it were a good book and a pillow.
Instead I'll probably be boiling that pillow. Oh, well. The steam will be good for my shriveled "S".
Because becoming a mother is synonymous with being Superwoman. And no one at the baby shower is going to tell you that.
But they really should.
Mothers will be able to perform feats that no man could possibly fathom doing himself. He wouldn't even attempt it.
But as mothers, we have no choice. We either become Superwoman or our children would probably cease to exist.
Today my "S" was beaming. Even if I wasn't.
For a variety of reasons - namely 3 reasons: Rachel, Caleb & Noah - I have gotten very little sleep in the past couple of weeks. This past Wednesday I only snuck in about 3-4 hours of shut-eye as Noah was hurling the night away.
Why do we always get the stomach flu in the wee hours of the morning? Has anyone ever STARTED the flu around noon or even a more convenient 9am?? So by the time bedtime rolls around the worst is likely over?!?
Noah hasn't been sleeping well for awhile anyway, so he's interrupted my sleep often and I really like my sleep. When it is time for sleep, I want ALL of it. So as you can probably guess, I got wore out. That is, my immune system got wore out.
And guess who woke up Sunday morning with the flu? Yep. Superwoman just got zapped. Picture the big "POW" slamming into my face.
But we all know moms are not allowed to be sick. At least, they are still responsible to do everything they would normally do if they were in perfect condition.
That's when that "S" seems to shine a little brighter...
So it's Monday morning and I am still not anywhere near 100% yet, but I take one look at my two sons and realize it is going to be a LONNNNNNNNNG day. Noah is the epitome of misery and Caleb says he can't even chew his breakfast because it makes his head hurt.
Oh, joy.
I check their temps - fevers for both. So I send Caleb back to bed and call the school to let them know he won't be joining them this fine Monday.
Then I take a better look at Noah and I'm greatly concerned. He's a rashy fright and I either seek help or I'm in for a day of constant whimpering and whining.
Of course our pediatrician has no appointment opening, so I have to settle for some 5th string doctor who I'm pretty sure just got hired last week.
Once I meet her and we begin to dialogue about Noah, I'm convinced I was right. She has no clue what to do and soon she's running for my pediatrician.
Next thing I know, we're in a new exam room with our pediatrician, two medical students and the doctor I made the appointment with...I don't think she knew as much as the med students.
Yikes.
Anyway, turns out Noah is a wreck but no one really knows why. It's time for x-rays and lab work.
This is when it gets interesting.
First stop, the lab for a blood draw.
If you read my blog about Noah's surgery you'll know the nurses struggled to find a vein to put the IV...I would discover this to be an ongoing problem. Ugh.
As I clutched my little boy in my lap, the lab technician poked and prodded until she finally hit a vein. Meanwhile, Noah is screaming uncontrollably and I'm feeling so horrible about putting him through this while in a conscious state that I am now crying too!
I take several minutes to calm him (maybe, us) down as we make our way to x-ray. I have to manually turn him into a contortionist to get the pictures she wants...so yeah. You know what happens. He's bawling again.
I'm fighting back the tears only because I may be more irritated than sad at this point.
Once it is finally over we're ushered back to the exam room where we will sit for another half an hour waiting for some results. It is well into Noah's normal naptime by now, so he is crying incessantly.
The pediatrician pops her head in briefly (probably heard all the wailing and figured she better check in) to let me know they're still waiting on a few test results.
I'm so physically and emotionally exhausted all I want is to take my children and go home. But we wait and Noah refuses to settle down even slightly unless I am standing and rocking him.
So here I am: ON MY FEET as I still fight the flu myself, rocking a 28-pound fitful child. Considering in the past 24 hours I've had nothing but dry toast and Sprite as an energy source I am amazing even myself.
We're finally able to leave - of course at this point we're all ravenous so fortunately McDonald's is only a block away.
I suppose if I was truly Superwoman I'd have a healthy gourmet lunch simmering in the crockpot at home.
Get real.
On a side note, I was so proud of Caleb for sitting patiently all that time as his little brother went through continuous torture - he was such a trooper and he earned that Star Wars Happy Meal toy! Shoot, he earned the entire line of toys!
Instead of the crockpot - awaiting me when I got home were six voice mail messages.
I had a meeting at 10:30 that I missed.
My husband is wondering where in the world I am. Several times.
So I settle the boys in with their Happy Meals and start returning phone calls, desperately trying to reschedule my meeting that HAD to be done today...deadlines don't care if you're a mom.
Fortunately I salvage the meeting situation and I'm set-up for 2pm. Whew!
The meeting goes great, only I discover later in the day that I conducted the entire meeting with a Wonder Pets sticker on my shoulder blade. Thanks, Pediatrician's office. And thanks, Noah for snuggling me so much the sticker transferred itself from your chest to my back.
What can I say? I'm a Mom. It happens.
So I finish my meeting and drive over to the school to pick up Rachel. I'm early, so I enjoy the few minutes of solitude and quiet in the car.
I was actually starting to feel a lot better about the day.
So that's why when I stepped into the school hallway I had to laugh. It probably should have made me cry, but I think when your "S" is so wrinkled and worn you realize it's just another part of motherhood and you better get used to it.
Head lice. The hallways were lined with large black garbage bags full of each child's belongings in an attempt to stop the spread of the vicious bugs.
Some classrooms were checked for head lice and since some was found, parents are turning OCD. Bedding, stuffed animals, coats and carpets will be under attack...by Superwomen.
Personally, by that point in my day I was so done that I didn't even get worked up about it. So far, neither of my kids that attend that school have been checked and I have no reason to believe they have head lice yet.
After all, tomorrow is another day. And there will have to be something for this superhero to tackle.
I just wish it were a good book and a pillow.
Instead I'll probably be boiling that pillow. Oh, well. The steam will be good for my shriveled "S".
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