Where, oh where, is the Princess?

The Princess has again been placed into bonds and chains until she finishes her current work assignment, which does not involve posting blog messages. The Hero, meanwhile, is off becoming a Canadian in Toronto, learning such native customs as the difference between loonies and toonies. He notes that they both make a great amount of noise in your pocket when you're walking, and heartily supports the continued use of paper dollar bills in this country.


The blog will return shortly, provided the Princess's bonds and chains are eventually cut off.

Stalking the perfect chair

Last time, we left off with the Princess stalking an office chair in an antiques mall. The chair was loaded on a dolly, and both had gone missing...

"Office chair on the move," I texted the Hero. "In pursuit."


I deduced that there had not been enough time for the entire dolly to be unloaded into the van parked outside the antiques mall, so THAT dolly must not have been the one containing the chair. 

The aisles in the store had street names like Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Michigan, Minnesota, Other Midwest states that start with I or M, etc. Somewhere in Ohio I spied the dolly with the chair still on it, and a couple standing nearby. They were unloading  the dolly items to put in their booth, so I waited patiently while they took everything except the chair off and carefully arranged it with the other items they were selling. The chair sat alone on the dolly for several agonizing moments.


I went to find the Hero, which proved to be an almost fatal delay. By taking my eyes off that chair I had gone against the express advice of my sister, who, exasperated after watching numerous times as an antique item I had expressed interest in but had not claimed was carried off by another shopper, said, "When you see something you like, or that you think you might like but aren't sure yet, or that you abhor but do not want to fall into the hands of a lady with an obnoxious laugh and unfortunate fringed purse, you should snatch it up and carry it around."


This advice, though invaluable, did not seem to fit this particular situation. So I urgently texted "Subject spotted/Ohio," and by the time I located the Hero and we returned, there were two other women lurking around MY chair. They were discussing where it could go in the older woman's kitchen, which I thought was totally inferior to where I was planning to put it, but did not say anything.


The Hero's years of experience with antiquing and dealing took over, and soon I was seated in the chair and being asked if it was comfortable, too short, too tall, too wobbly, too stiff, etc. The two ladies looked on, willing it to be too SOMETHING so they would have a chance at it. But we had our quarry, and I pronounced it JUST RIGHT.


Our patience and diligence paid off, which showed the importance of having a Plan A in such situations. It soon became apparent that we should also have had a Plan B: how to reconcile our belief that we could buy a chair, a garden fence, and sundry other large and small items (there WERE several storms while we shopping) with the fact that we had one tiny Saturn Ion to put them all in. A tiny Saturn Ion that was already half-filled with luggage.


With some creative maneuvering ("If you sit with your torso in the front seat and your legs in the back seat, I think we can get this chair in underneath you"), we were successful, and thankful that we were not stopped by the police on the way home, as this would have required emptying half the car just for the Hero to have been able to reach his important documents.  


The chair looks perfect at my similar-era desk -- which is so massive the Hero refers to it as the Beast -- although due to the fact that in our old home nothing is straight or square or flat, the chair is wont to roll of its own accord across the floor, usually while I am sitting in it.


Even as we enjoy our new purchases, we are contemplating Plan C: a new -- and larger -- car...

Pray for rain

On our way back from a road trip to the Midwest recently, we noticed an antique mall along the interstate that, from all appearances, was full of items that we would have no room for in our house. We therefore stopped and went in.


Scarcely had we gotten inside when it started pouring outside, with great peals of thunder and bolts of lightning, although I am merely inferring the lightning part, as we were too busy looking at antiques that we don't have room for in our house.


The storms -- several came through -- gave us a good excuse to keep browsing. Occasionally there would be a lull in the noise outside and we'd think about wrapping up our visit. Then, fortunately, it would start again. "Guess we'll just have to keep shopping," we said. Sometimes life is like that.


The number of items we ended up buying was in direct proportion to the severity of the storms. We suspected that the thunder and rain was all part of a hoax perpetrated by the staff, a recording played to keep people in the store and handing over their money.


Soon after entering the store I spied an office chair from the 1930s or 40s, one that swivels and has slats and a cool cane seat and reminds you how much smaller people used to be, at least people who sat in office chairs. If you lean too far to the side while sitting in it, you may find yourself unceremoniously deposited on the floor.


This particular specimen was in excellent condition, even though the original cane seat had been replaced with an unfortunate green vinyl one. I spied it on a large dolly near the entrance and was instantly alert. I was not sure whether the dolly, and thus the chair, were coming or going, and rather than ask at the desk, which was only a few feet away, I chose to implement Plan A. 


Plan A involved careful observation, surreptitious following, and shrewd thinking to figure out where the chair was going. I needed my wits about me. Sooner than I anticipated, the dolly was gone from its place by the front desk. I glanced out an open door, where an empty dolly was standing beside a van. Was my search to end so soon? And in such disappointment?


Not really. But we're saving the rest of this story for another day. Tune in next time to see how the Princess and Hero race against time and enemy shoppers to buy way too many things!

Bless the inventors of cold things

With our area again experiencing a heat wave -- 100 degrees appears to be the new 80 -- we are diligently following experts' advice for staying safe and healthy: drinking plenty of water, limiting our exposure outside, and having our air conditioning disconnected for several days while our patio is fixed.


We could have predicted this heat. As soon as the contract with Gene, the patio guy, was signed, and a day agreed upon for the work to start, we should have called the local weather people: 


"Um, hey, we just wanted to say that, uh, we think it's gonna be really hot here around July 16. For a couple of days probably."


"What?"


"Really hot. Uh, we just thought you should know so you can tell people."


[sounds of computer keys being struck] "But our models are showing a cold front coming through about then. Temps won't get above 75."


"Well, sorry, your model's gonna be a little off."


"Why? What's going on?"


"Let's just say Heat Wave Gene is about to strike."


And strike it did. One hundred degrees or close to it is forecast for the three or so days our AC is off and Gene's crew works on the patio. It is Day 2, and we have never been so happy to go to work each morning, to finally escape the stuffiness in the house. We bless the people who discovered how to put AC in our cars. We revel in the coolness at the office. Our bosses tell us to go home already. 


"Oh, I was just gonna hang around a while longer," we say. "Like maybe through the night."


At home, we drag ourselves around the house only when absolutely necessary. We have turned into cats -- barely moving, wondering why someone is not filling the food dishes and placing them right under our noses.


Instead of fighting over the covers at night, we fight over who has more of our three fans blowing on them. "I can't feel any air," I say.


"Move a little to the left," the Hero says. "I think there might be a slight breeze that way."


When finally my hunger overcame my malaise one night and I went to lazily open the refrigerator, I blessed the person who made the first icebox.


"If you can't find me," I said to the Hero, "I'll be in the fridge."


The Princess would write more, but it is just too hot. All that can be done is to eat ice cream.

This is only a test (we hope)

Today's post is inspired* by a recent email notice sent out at a certain place of employment. 


Dear Valued Employees,


It is time once again for our annual, once-a-year elevator inspection. This is because we care about your comfort and safety, although mostly it is because we are required by law to carry out this inspection.


This inspection will require the activation of the fire reporting system, including the ringing of the bells and activating the strobe lights and pretty much anything else we can think of that will disrupt your work environment.


During this time it is unlikely that you will be able to carry on any conversations with co-workers, with clients on the phone, or even with yourself. We suggest that you use this time to catch up on solitary projects on which you may be behind.**


The smoke detectors are designed to recall the elevators to the first floor when activated. Please do not be alarmed if the elevator returns to the first floor before you reach your desired floor. The test will take about four hours, during which time, if you are in the elevator, you may be conveyed to several floors, none of which will be your desired floor.


Also if you are in the elevator, you may hear the ringing of the bells followed by the muffled cries of your co-workers. This is all very normal and should not arouse anxiety, unless the cries involve something like "I hope no one's in the elevator! They're all broken!" in which case you may panic. 


Some of you may wonder why we cannot inspect the elevators without activating the fire reporting system. We wonder this too. Please let us know if you find out why.


Some of you may also wonder why in the past, a mere few weeks after the annual elevator inspection, people have tended to get occasionally trapped in the elevators. Inspections should point out problems, which are then fixed, you reasonably infer. We sincerely apologize if we have given the impression that this is what actually occurs. 


Let me repeat that this is merely a test. There is no actual fire or elevator emergency--at least, none planned. We are not responsible for any actual emergencies that may arise during this time. 


We sincerely hope that you will not be inconvenienced during this inspection. However, as the law does not stipulate that we avoid inconvenience, it may occur.


Thank you for your cooperation!


Sincerely,
The building management team (Harry, Burly, and Joe)


__________
*inspired in the sense that there may be one or two words the same, such as "the" and "to."


**This does not refer to napping.

Garden of Peace...or Not

On a recent visit to Michigan, we went to see my father's grave. At the time of the funeral we had picked out some landmarks so we would be able to easily find it again, which in retrospect was somewhat foolish, because you can NEVER find anything easily in a cemetery. The roads meander here and there, intersecting occasionally, raising your hopes that NOW you are on the right road, but not leading directly to anything.


You can, without even trying, easily spend a few days driving around in a cemetery. This allows plenty of time for peaceful contemplation ("Sure, sure, Garden of Hope -- Garden of FALSE Hope, it should say...Where's the Garden of Straight Roads?"). By the time you find the exit, you have paid your respects to pretty much each person buried there, except the one you actually came to see. You have also forgotten who that was. ("Who's buried here again?...Grandma? Aunt Dorothy? Butch the Dog?...").


We were particularly hampered in our efforts to locate my father's grave, as there is no headstone yet. But armed with several clues from our memories -- it was under a crooked tree and lined up with the mausoleum -- we eventually located a bare mound with a lone orange flag sticking out of it.


"That's it," my mother said.


"Are you sure?" I said. I didn't remember there being a tree. And there was no grass covering it at all, even though it was more than a month after the burial.


"Of course I'm sure," she sniffed.


We stared at the dirt patch. "Well, it's low maintenance," we said comfortingly to each other. My dad had been very particular about the way he cut his grass. Maybe it was just as well there wasn't any.


"And he's got nice shade," the Hero said, pointing to the tree.  


I peered at the limp flag. "John Deere," it announced.


"Sorry, Dad," I said. "We could at least have given you a U.S. flag."


We were discussing this experience with friends sometime later. I mentioned that my grandparents were buried in a cemetery in Detroit, now in a very bad neighborhood, and we hadn't gone there for years.


"See, don't do that to me," the wife said to the husband, with some depth of feeling. "I don't want to be somewhere no one's going to visit me." Clearly this conversation had come up before.


She explained that "he hasn't said yet where he's going to put me." All their family was in another state, and she wanted to know where she would end up someday.


"I just think it's helpful to decide these things ahead of time," she said. "When I die the cemetery people are going to take out this big map and show him all the plots they have available. How's he going to decide where to put me? Over in the corner, under some trees? In the middle, by the pond? No one should make those decisions when they're grieving."


She seemed pretty sure that she would be the one to go first, I said. 


"Well, I may not be," she shrugged. "But I might."


I didn't say so, but one thing's for sure: No matter where she ends up in a particular cemetery, whoever goes to visit her is probably going to drive by the group of trees in the back, AND the pond in the middle, AND the mausoleum, AND the group of trees again, AND...

Where have all the good contractors gone?

Our small paver patio has begun gradually sloping downward at one end. We first noticed this when things began sliding off of it into the flower beds below, like the flowerpots, patio chairs, the AC unit, guests we were entertaining, etc. This naturally alarmed us, and prompted us to take steps to rectify the situation. The steps went like this:

1. Call a contractor and have him come out to look at the situation.

2. Have the contractor explain what the fix would entail, and give us an estimate.

3. Inform the contractor that we agree to the terms and would like him to start as soon as possible.

4. After waiting for some time, discover the contractor has gone into hiding.

This has happened several times, which perplexes us because Step 4 has always occurred BEFORE any money was given to the contractor, prompting us to wonder whether somewhere, in the future, scientists will discover a large black hole consisting entirely of poor contractors. 

But after several disappointments, we have finally found a contractor we can trust. It is a great comfort to know that we are placing our patio makeover into the hands of the smartest, most competent person available. We know this because he himself told us.

Gene contracts for a local nursery, which is a job he enjoys doing. Previously he worked for a number of years for the government, which he did NOT enjoy doing, owing to, as Gene describes it, the government being "full of idiots." (Many of us have at least suspected that this might be the case, but now it has been unbiasedly confirmed.) Unfortunately for we, the people, it is even MORE full of idiots now that Gene is no longer there to be a moderating influence. "If they just would have listened to me..." he says, shaking his head. We feel lucky, listening to Gene, that the government is not working on our patio.

Gene also has a great deal to say about contractors who purport to know about the installation of patios but obviously are deceiving themselves as well as their clients. This, he believes, describes Bob, the individual who originally built our patio. I will not go into detail here about his views on the subject, other than to say that no punishment, according to Gene, would be sufficient for such individuals.

Whenever we need to talk to Gene on the phone, we have learned to block out a considerable amount of time on our calendars: Tuesday, call Gene, 5:15-10:30 p.m. This is because when we ask a question, it is impossible for Gene to answer it without imparting a considerable portion of his vast knowledge, no matter how small a bearing it may have on the particular question.  

For example, we ask how likely he thinks it is that there are rocks close to the surface in our yard, which would mean that he would not be able to dig deep enough for a proper foundation for the patio expansion.

This question is clearly a mistake. Gene begins a treatise on the type of soil we have here in the East (clay), moves on to the type of soil typically found on the West coast (sandy), and finally ends with how this relates to the depth of soil tree roots need in the different regions. Certainly, Gene implies, we can see why our yard may or may not be filled with rocks?

We dull creatures cannot see this, although we do not admit this for fear of encouraging further explanation that will still not answer our question. We also do not say anything because we are afraid of being compared to Gene's cat, who is described as "sweet, but not too bright upstairs." We would not be surprised to hear that the cat worked, at one time, for the government.

We are anxious for Gene to actually start the work. In expectation of potential problems arising, we have blocked out the entire month of August to discuss them with Gene. And if he doesn't show up, we may have to start searching for that black hole.