WHY I Hate to Move OR Things I Hate About Moving OR I Feel Like Ranting...AGAIN.

1.  Cleaning stuff up.  I haven't pulled out the fridge since I painted the kitchen and surprise!  It's where all the dust goes to die and some other stuff I cannot identify.  There's some cereal under there and shell shaped pasta that got spilled on the floor from 2009 or so.  (The shell shaped pasta was very surprised to see me, too.  It had started a little civilization under there.  Next week, they're reviewing Crimes and Misdemeanors because they luuuv Woody Allen.  The shell pasta seemed pretty nice, except for the Woody Allen thing, so I swept around them.)

2.  Fixing stuff.  (Stick with me on this one, it goes on for quite a long time.)  It turns out when you hang painting and pictures up on walls, it tends to make holes.  Holes in walls of houses you are leaving isn't good.  I have to go around spackling the holes with this stuff that resembles very light and fluffy cake frosting.  (Don't taste it, it does not taste like cake frosting.  As a matter of fact, it tastes like...I didn't taste it.)  Then you gotta wait for it to dry.  Then you sand it, which requires you to find sanding paper or the blocks in the garage which has been taken over by boxes from the attic, which means I CAN'T FIND ANYTHING EVER AGAIN AND IT'S REALLY PISSING ME OFF.

So I go to Home Depot and buy some sanding blocks.  Then I come home and sand the little dried spackle, which does not taste like cake frosting.  Then I realize that I have to spot paint the little white area because the paint is not white.  So I go to the garage and discover that the can of paint that IS that color has dried to the consistency of tar and is not usable.  Thus I return to Home Depot where the guy attempts to sign me up for a program that will ensure that I will never have to bring antique paint can lids in again in order to match up the paint because it will be on a record at Home Depot for the rest of my existence.  (The CIA, FBI, NSA, PTO, and the Girl Scouts will all know about my paint/home improvement preferences.  "So, Mrs. Bevill, I see that in 2006 you painted your kitchen/dining room 'Raging Purple Wurple.'  Hmm.")

Yes, this is the purple in my daughter's room.  I admit it.
It's not just purple.  It's **PURPLE**!!

Then I tell the Home Depot guy that my patience is running out quickly and tohurryupandgivememygoddamncanofmatchingpaintbeforeIyankoffhisears or something that means exactly that, except without swearwords, because my daughter was listening.  (Actually my daughter was picking paint chips for her new room in the new house.  She had thirty-two paint chips in her hand and was discussing the merits of multicolors on each wall of her room.  Apparently, she has sixty-four walls in her new room.  Who knew?)  Finally, I returned home and had a difficult time opening the new can of paint because the man who wanted to sign me up for the special program used a machine to press the lid down and the consequences mean that it was less than agreeable about disengaging.  (The Incredible Frickin' Hulk couldn't have opened that can of paint.)  Back to the garage to get a screwdriver.  (I needed a screwdriver because I broke a butter knife trying to pry the lid up.)

HOWEVER, the tool chest is blocked by the lawnmower, the 1954 Chevy Rust-O-Shit/combination-storage-device Truck, boxes of crap that have been moldering in the attic since the last time we moved, and piles of "outdoor" toys for my daughter.  Let's just say that if my back hadn't been hurting already the lawnmower would have been thrown a block away.  In fact, once I had negotiated the maze-o-doom, I did not go back to the garage to find one of those paint-stirring sticks because I said several four-lettered words instead.  I used one of HIM's Craftsmen screwdrivers as a stirrer, as well as a can-opener.  I wiped it off because I didn't want HIM to know.  (Toilet paper doesn't wipe paint off very well and I don't recommend that you flush toilet paper inundated with wall paint in your potty.  DON'T DO IT!) Anyway, I finally finished that part and painted over the holes in the walls.  (Told ya number 2 was long.)

3.  Finding boxes without buying them.  I think stores have gotten suspicious of people who ask for boxes.  They ask questions of you.  "Why do you want the boxes?"  "What will you do with the boxes?"  "Suppose I give you a box and some poor homeless person comes in and needs a box?"  "Will you recycle the box?"  "Will you sign an affidavit to that effect?"

4.  Having lots of assistance.  This area of moving is always a blast.  Now that HIM has absconded to Alabama, leaving me in charge of THE FREAKING MOVE, I have our eight year old daughter, Cressy, and I have her moron cat, Megaroy as my primary assistants.  Let's just say that their ideas of assistance differ wildly from my idea of assistance.  Cressy likes to make forts out of boxes.  That doesn't sound so bad does it?  Except she cuts holes in the boxes for doors and windows and then, well, you can't pack things into that box again.  EVER.  (It's bad when the stuff falls out of the hole she's made.)  You can try telling her that the box is not a fort, but who wants her to flash those big blue eyes at you?  (It's kind like when you spank a Cocker Spaniel puppy, except I never did that.)

"What box?  I don't see a box.  I'm too stupid to see a box."

As for the moron cat, Megaroy, or as I call him when no one else is home, Dumbass, he's in the box.  I take him out of the box.  He gets back in the box.  I lock him in the bedroom.  He makes enough noise to alert the neighbors.  I let him out of the bedroom.  He gets back in the box.  I stop packing and make myself an alcoholic beverage.

"Hey, this box looks exactly like the litter box."

In conclusion, I got tired of listing stuff that I hate about moving.

Next blog, same Bat time, same Bat channel.

Thursday Morning Nuttiness!

Oh NO!  No OR in the title!  What does it mean?  Is the world coming to an end?  Were the Mayans right or were they really mathematical whackjobs who happened to leave a stone carved tablet lying around that some nerdy archaeologist misinterpreted.  Or was it more sinister?

I can totally see some Mayan guy making a honest error that gets
blown WAAAAY out of proportion.

It has come to my attention that on garbage day there are gremlins about who will take anything that looks good to them.

Before the event.

Actual garbage left out by moi.  Except the bazooka.  That was made-up.

After the event.  See the items have VANISHED!  It's a mystery.  I did not see anyone take them.  I did not hear anyone take them.  Although I did hear the neighbor yelling at her daughter about 11 PM about how everyone could hear everything they did anyway.  (I swear I wasn't listening to them on purpose.  They were yelling loud enough for the next town over to hear.)

In other news, I managed to break a heavy duty, plastic cutting board in half.  I did not take a photo but trust me, it was in half.  It turns out that if you hit it, while in the process of breaking a head of garlic up with a ceramic coffee cup (this is a legitimate method of garlic head dispersal) and you miss the garlic head, the cutting board will, in fact, break in half.  I have a witness.  Here's my daughter with the eyewitness report:"Mommy was attacking the counter with a red cup and the board thing snapped in half.  I heard it and then Mommy gasped really loud and said a very bad potty mouth word."  My daughter's stupid cat saw it too, but he decided I was too violent and fled the scene.  (I'm pretty sure this was all HIM's fault since we're moving and the move is disrupting all my creative juices and some other stuff, too.)

What does this picture have to do with the blog?  Not much but it
definitely shows the cat all up in my grille.

I'll just blame HIM for everything.  Did your crops fail?  HIM.  Get a run in your panty hose?  HIM.  Global warming?  HIM.  Can't get the lid off the peanut butter jar?  Well, the peanut butter company mostly but some of it was probably HIM, too.  He thought bad things about your ability to loosen lids.

Just look at those eyes.

Look closer.  No, don't look up his nose.  IN HIS EYES!

HIM will be the first one to tell you that it takes me a while to get past things.  Surprisingly enough writing about them usually allows me to let them go faster, although if it's funny it may actually linger.

So there I feel better.  Off to paint some stuff so that it looks better.

I'm Talking to HIM OR I'm TALKING to HIM NOW!

Moving sucks.

Writing the end of a novel should not suck.  But some of the suckiness from moving has transmigrated into the novel writing making me unhappy.  The writing itself is not making me unhappy but I cannot write while I'm thinking about calling Mr. Happy Contractor about fixing this part of the house or about whether or not the purple walls in my daughter's room will need two coats of a neutral paint or FIFTEEN because it's the most vivid color of purple imaginable.  Therefore, I shall demonstrate accordingly with an illustration of my unhappiness:

Ideally, this is what HIM should shoot for:

Just so we're clear here.

Allrighty then.  Just so that's clear.

I'm not typically the you-have-aggrieved-me-give-me-some-pretty type of wife.  But lately I've been extra aggrieved.  I'm feeling somewhat wronged.

Therefore, options are available for HIM.  ("Yea!" HIM yells.  "I love OPTIONS!  Anything to make her stop griping!")  (No, HIM didn't really yell that, but I'm pretty sure HIM is thinking it.)

Pretty flowers.  Large arrangements are acceptable.  Silk flowers might be better.  They won't wilt.  A single flower in a cruddy vase = badness and divorce threat no. 44.  I prefer the color red but all types are acceptable except the type extracted from a local cemetery.

Pretty jewelry.  Again, not normally me, but I'm feeling somewhat resentful lately and don't mind being petty.  Here's a link to Pretty Bracelet to Supplicate My Wife Who is a Goddess for Putting Up With Me.  And hey, this is free with free super saver shipping!

No chocolates, please.  I have had enough lectures from the doctor and the nurse he used to deliver the bad news about my blood sugar levels.  (The nurse is the doctor's enforcer.)  (I think the doctor read some of my previous blogs about doctors and is afraid to say anything directly to me about the 'W' word.  So he throws his nurse under the bus.)

More sparkling jewelry ideas.  Here is Something Else to Make My Wife Stop Bitching About the Move.  And hey again, more free super saver shipping!  I may be pissed the eff off but I care about free super saver shipping!

But hey, I thought of something else that HIM could buy me in utter supplication of his poo-poo headedness.  (That should be a word: poopooheadedness.  It's self-explanatory.)

I like these.  They're funky, pink, AND send a message.  Find them at More Stuff to Placate a Ticked Off Wife.  This isn't the name of the shoe store, mind you, just the name of the link because I get to make it up.  Oh and I want the closed back shoes, size 38 (US 7.5 - 8).

Again, I must emphasize that I'm not really the give-me-stuff kind of spouse.  Never have been.  Ask HIM.  It's true.  However, I must liken finishing this book to pulling an elephant out of my butt.  It hurts, the elephants gets all nasty, and the elephant doesn't like it much.  How's that for a crappy metaphor?

A final illustrative hint to HIM:

This is BAD!

As compared to:

This is GOOD, unless you live in Stepford, Connecticut.

I'm Writing the End of a Book OR Blogs, We Don't Need No Stinkin' Blogs!

Yes.  I'm finishing up Arcanorum: A Lake People Novel, which for some of the Bubba fans, will probably make them go, "When is she going to write more Bubba?"  But for my paranormal fans, it will make them squeal with joy.  (I hope so, anyway.  Also it's fun to think of my fans squealing with joy.)  Also, I'm calling up twenty contractors today to do various crap that needs doing around this house so we can move to the new house.  (Remember that's HIM's fault.  I should put his email address in here but I don't want him to get mad at me.)

What the hell is my point?  I'm thinking that blog material is escaping me.  All I can think of is witches, zombies, and mysterious paranormal stuff.  (Hint.  Hint.  Hint.)  (This reminds me of the episode of Scooby Doo where they're chasing a witch and a zombie around the bayou.  It turns out that the witch and zombie are really regular guys looking for loot from a bank job and they want to scare off everyone else, so they can look without being bugged by non-criminal folks.  I LUV Scooby Doo.  I even like the movies they made.  Come on, how can you go wrong when they made Scrappy Doo the bad guy?  Sorry if that spoiled it for anyone.)

Comic relief.  Here's a photo to amuse you.  One of my mommy friends sent it to me because she knew I would laugh about it.  It's called the Peter Pepper.  Yes, it made me laugh.  (I think this pepper is not circumcised, but that's a non medical opinion.)

And yes, if you want to grow them, you can find them here: Peter Pepper.
I luv friends who send me pictures like this.  (Not that I'm hinting.)  And hey, I still have peppers from last years pepper-o-ganza.  Jalapenos, hot peppers, Jamaican peppers, some banana peppers, peppers I don't know the name of, and Dr. Pepper.  (Well, not Dr. Pepper, maybe Diet Dr. Pepper, which DID NOT grow in the garden and mixes nicely with Whaler's Vanille Rum.)

I'm going to throw in a pirate joke for the hell of it.  Why don't pirates need lawyers?  They settle through ARRRRbitration.  Okay, some of you are moving the mouse toward the big red X now.  So stop.  No more pirate jokes until Johnny Depp comes out in Pirates of the Caribbean: Wheelchairs of the Briny Deep.  (Was that another joke?  Maybe.  I think Johnny is older than I am.)

In an abrupt change of subject, I went to the dentist yesterday and you'd think that would be blogworthy, but it was pretty mundane.  The hygienist kind of told me to watch out for licensed hygienists in Alabama.  I thought she was making a joke because she said she'd run into people from states I won't say the name of because I don't want to get nasty emails in response who have "Summer teeth."  I looked at her confused and she explained with a giggle, "Sum r over here.  Sum r over there," in her best redneck accent.  (She later admitted she has never been to the south, so we'll have to forgive her for making big, fat, redneck assumptions.  Obviously she doesn't read Bubba.)

Now I'm throwing the Bubba fans a bone.  I swear upon my laptop, my Droid, and my Kindle.  The minute I'm finished with Arcanorum: A Lake People Novel, I'm starting Brownie and the Dame.  Bubba will be in the novella, too, although it's mostly about Brownie and Janie.  Yea!  Happiness to all the Bubba fans!  Cheerfulness Abounding!  Here's the cover so you can smile.

Peace, out.  I must go stick my brain in a bowl of ice or something equally numbing.

Trapped in the Toy Section at Target OR My Daughter Made Me Go There!

So yesterday, shopping at Target.  I made the fatal error of asking my daughter, Cressy, if she wanted to look at anything.  She did.  We went.  I was trapped there.  There were other parents trapped there, too.  We looked at each for help but no help was forthcoming.

Why do I continue to torture myself, you ask.  Well, we only have the one kid and she's got us wrapped around her little pinky finger, so basically we're hosed.  I tried telling her, "You've got a million toys already."  She says, "I'm just shopping."  I don't know where she got the shopping gene from.  It's not from my side of the family.  I hate shopping.  I think I know what happened.  I have a friend, Violet, who luvs to shop.  She LUVS to shop.  She could shop for a job.  Her job should be shopping.  If there was a job just for a person who luvs to shop, it would be Violet's.  Eight hours straight and she would be hap-hap-happy!  One time she convinced me to go with her and OMG, the woman shopped for hours and hours.  I thought she would have to call an ambulance for me.  (She promised food at the end of the shopping experience.)  So what's my point.  I'm getting to it.  Here's what happened.  Violet's shopping rubbed off on me.  I don't have it, but I became a carrier, like Typhoid Mary.  I give it to people.  Like my daughter.  Poor little girl.

I tried to tell Cressy that there are little kids in Africa who have to make their own toys from rusting wire and stones, but she looked at me as if I had lost my mind.  (This reminds me of my mother telling me to clean my plate because of starving children in China.  That really worked, too.  Not.)  I found a picture of a child who made a car out of a milk carton to show her.  She was not impressed.

See, he's happy but Cressy was all like, "So?  What does
this have to do with me?"  Subtlety is lost on her.

Anyway, trapped in the toy zone at Target.  You'd think I would have previously gotten all the blogging material out of this specific subject that I could possible squeeze.  It turns out that the toy companies are INTENT on providing more material for me.  (They sit around saying, "Shall we give Fat Woman more material for her caustic yet inventively amusing blog?"  "Yes, we shall!" yells another CEO.)  I shall demonstrate in the form of photographs.

First up, this isn't really a Barbie.  It's Tinker Bell revisited in pink emo-gothic, something-or-other, because Tinker Bell wouldn't be Tinker Bell if she didn't get to change her outfit and your daughter didn't want to buy Tinker Bell in her new outfit.  (Fortunately for me, Tinker Bell seems to be on the way out.  Sorry Disney, don't send your goons to the house.)

Then there was, what the hell is it?  Creepy little Baby Alive, as compared to what?  Baby Dead?  (The brand name is Baby Alive.  I did not make this up.)  The expression on this doll freaked me out.  I thought she was going crawl out of the package and start chewing on some part of my anatomy, and not in a good way.  Furthermore, they want passerbys to reach in and touch that mouth.  (See it says so on the box, "TRY ME!" just in case you missed the creepy little open mouth and the creepy little buck teeth that are ready to chomp down on you, dumbass.)  Like ewwy:

You know, I have to amuse myself somehow while Cressy is shopping.  Otherwise my brain will explode.  So, I saw this next.  Cressy called it a "Feather-butted Barbie," which I thought was apt and pretty clever coming from an eight-year-old.  It's hard to tell from my bad photograph but those ARE feathers around the doll's posterior area:

Next up, there's Barbie as a teacher.  Typically I wouldn't say anything.  (I wouldn't!)  But this one ticked me off because of the glasses.  You know only people with glasses are smart enough to educate our children.  Really?  REALLY, Mattel, you should slap your own hand.

Then there was this one in the special Barbie section.  (It's very, very special!)  At first I thought they were going for lederhosen Barbie or Lost in the Alps Barbie.  All she needs is cheese and sheep.  Also one of those big horns so she can call, "RIIIIICOOOOLAAAA!"  But I looked closer and saw that it was really Irish Barbie.  (Did they go to Ireland?  Did they check with the Irish?  I don't think so.)  I think Mattel missed the mark:

In the same, special section for Barbies, I saw this one and well, I'm thinking maybe Mattel's trying to tap that 70s blackplotation market or something, but wouldn't they have a guy dressed like Superfly or Blackula instead?  Mattel, seriously?  Dolls from the fashion hood?  (Whoops, did I cross the line?  Well, it wouldn't be the first time and I'm pretty sure it won't be the last.):

Okay, finally, before Mattel sues me for something obscure, there was this one.  Computer Engineer Barbie.  While I applaud Mattel's pursuit of the "intelligent" Barbie, I have to say, "Glasses again?"  If Barbie is smart enough to be a computer engineer and trendy enough to have the pink computer and the cool fashiony clothes that only Computer Engineer Barbies can have, then SHE'S GOING TO GET CONTACT LENSES!  I'm pretty sure.  (But maybe Mattel figures that since no one really knows what a Computer Engineer does, then they can get away with it.)

Hours later, we escaped from...the toy zone.  Acquisitions included a Lego set featuring Mario and an Angry Bird plush.  No Barbies this time, thank God.

Random Stuff OR Random Stuff OR Random Stuff

Random stuff is what I do when I can't think of a specific blog to do.

Mark this date in your calendar.  On April 2nd, 2012, Megaroy, my daughter's stupid cat, threw up for the very first time.  He choose a splendid locale.  (Center of mass in the middle of the hallway, equidistant from both lights, so to maximize its shadow potential and ensure that the unwary human's foot would make contact with it.)  He had just eaten so food was not digested.  (The crunchy with wet vomitus mix is ideal for squishing in-between the toes.)  He was so proud of himself.  He pranced.  Or maybe he was relieved.  It's hard to tell.  Anyhoo, guess who had to clean it up?

Moving onto writing.  I'm on the last leg of Arcanorum: A Lake People Novel.  I put the cover up on my website to simultaneously taunt and tantalize fans.  I even got a letter from someone begging me to narrow down the date.  (Sorry, not omniscient.  My books have a very odd habit of magically elongating at the end of the writing process.  For example.  I have four more chapters to write and an outline to follow.  But magically these four chapters will likely become six or seven chapters.  It's like multiplying bunny rabbits, except with writing.  Stephen King called it Literary Elphantitus.  So glad I'm not as bad as he is.)  I've thought about changing the name.  I mean arcanorum is an actual word out of an actual dictionary.  It means: mystery of mysteries or the one ultimate secret supposed to lie behind all astrology, alchemy, and magic.  (That sounds pretty cool and I checked.  There is no other book called Acranorum, much less one called Acranorum: A Lake People Novel.  See, I'm breaking out the big guns for the paranormal suspense fans by adding the colon to the title.)  I want to take a moment and thank Wendy D'ottavio for the following comment on Facebook: "You could name it Goujon's stinky fish poo and I would still anxiously await the release!"  (So you see I could have come up with a MUCH worse title.  HIM commented that I was insulting Wendy, but I absolutely love that comment!)

More about writing.  I recently got a letter from a fan who likes my writing.  I shall copy/paste my favorite part: "Please excuse my language, but holy shit, that was a great read."  This wonderful person was, of course, referring to the Bubba series.  In particular, I think she enjoyed the scene where Brownie shows everyone across America that morning shows are NOT immune to practical applications of electrical physiology.  I discussed this with HIM and we decided that I could not use "Please excuse my language, but holy shit, that was a great book," as an editorial review on Amazon or Barnes and Noble.  Pity.  Holy shit, that was a great comment.

Where was I? Oh, yes, randomly attacking subjects in my life.

Now I will malign HIM.  HIM is the man to whom I've been married for nearly 3 decades.  HIM knows who him is.  HIM is also the rat bastard who decided he wanted a new job.  Consequently, in the middle of writing a book, HIM decided that he will take a new job.  Not in Washington, D.C., mind you, or in Northern Virginia, where we presently reside.  No, of course not.  No, we're moving back south.  (I make it sound like HIM decided everything by himself, but that isn't really true.)

Yes, we will be moving back to the deep south where I will be further inspired to write more of the Bubbaness, because I will acquire loads of ammunition with which to prompt me.  But here is the discussion that nearly brought on my 43rd divorce threat.  (I average 1.5 threats per year.):

Me: "I'm in the middle of writing a book."

HIM: "I'll do everything."

Me: "Hah.  You'll be in Alabama next month while we're finishing the school year here."  (Actually, Cressy will be finishing the school year.  I will be supervising.)

HIM: "But baby, you'll love it down there."

Me: "It's not the place, it's the $#@@#@% move. @##$%$%@!!!! $%%&##@$%~!!! @#$%^&*@!!!!" (Cressy said, "Ooooooo, Moooooommmmmmy. Potty mouth.")

HIM: "It'll be okay."

Me: "Let me explain my working dilemma. When I'm finished writing this book, I have to self-proof it immediately. Then I fix my mistakes. I ritually sacrifice some Mayan virgins.  (No, I don't really do that.)  Then it goes to my editor/proofreader. When she's done with it, she returns it to me. I fix it again. Then I send it to the formator, who formats it, whereupon when he returns it in 7-10 working days, I get to publish it and hope Kindle and Smashwords don't have any issues with it."

HIM: "But it'll be-"

Me: "I'm not done yet. As soon as this book goes to the proofreader, I get to start on Brownie and the Dame, a novella. As soon as I'm finished with Brownie and the Dame, the whole process repeats and I don't get to take a break in-between because I...won't...have...time...because...we'll...be...moving. Then when my mind recovers from all the psychological damage inflicted by moving, I'll start the whole process over with Bubba 4, because I'm on a schedule and I want it out by Christmas 2012." More profanity followed. There was a brief respite while I looked up some profanity on the Internet so as not to be boring or repetitive.

Upon the completion of the "conversation," (conversation being a loose euphemism for war of words in-between the moving dissension issue) I maximized my glaring abilities by staring at the back of HIM's head.  I'm quite certain some part of HIM's anatomy was burning because of the thoughts in my head.  (Probably not the part you think.)

To sum, the cat threw up in the hallway, I like funky comments from fans, and we're moving and somehow I'm going to finish all the stuff I promised if it's the last thing I do.

Happy Easter OR Random Stuff OR How Many Eggs Did I Hide for the Kid?

Apparently you CANNOT put bunny ears on the cat without undue trauma.  My daughter's cat, Megaroy, is now hiding under the bed.  (Apparently he's not completely stupid, but I'm pretty sure there's a little empty space where the brain is supposed to be.)  Apparently the kid, my daughter, has decided that she will MAKE Megaroy love her by force-cuddling the cat.  (In a court of law, this would be considered harassment or stalking, but the cat doesn't have any legal recourse.)  The cat, who wants to escape but doesn't use claws or teeth on Cressy for some reason, puts up with it in a manner I find positively bizarre.  The cat has claws top and bottom and he knows how to use them.  However, he does not use them on her. 

Inspired by the EB's impending visit, Cressy wanted to share the love with Megaroy.  She got out her chocolate color plush named Chocolate Rose, for some strange reason.  (Remember my kid has a Bonsai tree named Bathtub.)  She forced the cat to cuddle with the plush.  Megaroy was less than enthused.  I was forced to get out the camera.  Also I was forced to put speech balloons in the photographs I took.  Obama was forced to- wait, what was I saying?

Well, I couldn't stop taking pictures.

It didn't matter how much the kid shoved the plush at the cat.  The cat just took it like a trouper.  This, of course, led me to consider what goes on in this cat's minuscule brain.  I shall illustrate.

There it is.  It looks a lot bigger here than it is in reality.  (HIM says the cat might have been lying back, thinking of England.  HIM is still ticked off about the blog about the contractor.  Hahaha.)

There ya go.  Happy Easter, ya'll.

I Will Never Shop at Pearle Vision Again OR I Will Rant About Pearle Vision OR I Think You Get the Point

Customer service from retailers has always been a personal peccadillo for me.  (A peccadillo is like a big pickle except I have to check the spelling on it in my big dictionary.)  I expect common courtesy, a willingness to help, and simple details like that.  Apparently I expect too much.

Recently my daughter, Cressy, got a new eye glasses prescription.  Off we went to the mall to go to...

Pearle Vision.

La de dah.  We went in normal hours.  We were all happy to get the new glasses.  We wanted the transition's lenses so we would never need sunglasses until we lost our new glasses somewhere in between a mosh pit at Death Cab for Cutie and a demonstration on the mall in D.C. for the alienation of small, furry rodents in the Florida keys.  (Nine pound rats.  Nuff said.)  Anyway, we were ready to do business.  I was even mentally prepared to wait for other customers to be served because typically it takes a little while to go through customers in the eyeglasses place.  We went to...

Pearle Vision.

Upon arriving at the mall at 2:15 pm on a Monday that was NOT a national holiday, we went inside and found...

Pearle Vision.

We also found this.

I want to make it clear that the little, handwritten note on the door says: Will return at 3:00.  I can only assume they meant 3:00 PM, but I might have been wrong about assuming, as we would later discover.

So Cressy and I left...

Pearle Vision

because it was 45 minutes until the people would be back and this was a mall.  We went to see the Easter Bunny, who was conveniently hanging out in the mall, too.  He was nice enough to let us take a photo with him and also to pay his helpers for it.

It turns out that the Easter Bunny is a fun guy.  He actually knew what a Screaming Blue Viking is and also he knows a great bar down on...what was I saying?  Oh, yes...

Pearle Vision.

So we checked out the EB, who, incidentally, doesn't appreciate jokes about the size of his ears, and we cruised through the store with all the soaps and smell-good stuff.  We passed by Victoria's Secret because we all know the secret doesn't include Fat Women sizes, and also because Cressy asked, "Mommy, what is that?"  (I wasn't sure how to answer so I obfuscated.  "LOOK, a meteor!  Who wants a large, cholesterol-inducing pretzel?  Isn't that Justin Bieber?")

The As-Seen-On-TV Store is always a hit.  Cressy and I have agreed that we both want a Sobakawa Cloud Pillow, even though we don't really know what it is.  (How can you go wrong with sleeping on clouds?  Besides the obvious gravity issue.)  The Insta-Hang is pretty bitching, too.  ("Think of all the stuff you can hang, Mommy," my erstwhile super-genius child says.)  (I was actually wondering if people who offend me would stand still while I lined this gadget up on their forehead.  I guess they wouldn't.)  Meanwhile I want twenty cans of Flex Seal to see if I can make a boat out of a screen door just like they did in the commercial.  Runners up included Eggies, Slushy Magic, and the infamous Lint Lizard.  (Maybe I can get a job making up funky names for the As-Seen-On-TV Store.  Dish-B-Gone!  Husband-O-Matic!  The Deft Daddy!  Insta-Room-Clean!  See how easy it is.)  But no, we couldn't hang out there because we had to go back to...

Pearle Vision.

This is what we found:

Same note.  Same place.  I checked my Droid for the time.  It was 3:00 pm.

Ten minutes later:

Ten minutes after that, it was:

This happened:

The vein in my forehead exploded and pretty much drenched the place.

I decided it was time to go home.  When I got home it was nearly 4 pm, so I looked up the telephone number of...

Pearle Vision.

The woman answered and the conversation went like this:

"Pearle Vision," the woman said.

"Oh, you're open now," I said.  (This sounds sarcastic but actually I wasn't.  I wanted to know if there was a problem with the store and it would be open the next day.  I hadn't quite lost my mind as of that point.)

"Of course, we're open," the woman replied in a snide manner.  (Not exaggerating here.  She wasn't happy to answer the phone.  I wish, wish, wish I could effectively write the tone of her voice.  Utter disdain dripped from it.  It must have killed her to pick up the line.)

"You weren't open a little while ago," I replied.

"We're open until 9 pm," she said, avoiding the issue.

"So you won't have any more special hours?" I said, and yes, I was sarcastic, too.

"We're open until 9 pm," she repeated.  (I think she might be a budding politician.)

"Can I have your name, please?" I asked.

The woman hung up on me.  Must have been a dropped call from...

Pearle Vision.

The next day we went to Lenscrafters.  Nothing wrong with the service there.

Disclaimer: I'm not saying ALL

Pearle Visions

are bad.  I'm saying this one had sh*tty service and because of their sh*tty service I won't do business with any of

Pearle Vision's

offices ever again.  It's the way I roll.  Guess they should have trained your staff better.  I was okay with having to wait because these stores in the malls put their people one at a time in the store and they've got to go do stuff because they gotta.  But pul-lease, check the 'tude on the phone.  It's not like I was asking her to work at that very moment.