Even though I am child-free, several years ago I purchased Judith Viorst's children's book "Alexander's Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day" which I occasionally find solace in, or at least a chuckle, when my husband is deployed and the BS gets knee deep. This week was craptacular. By the end of it I was waiting for a house to drop-out of the sky and for some bitch to make-off my favorite shoes.
It all started with our annual termite insurance inspection. No biggie, I thought. We do this every year. The inspector complains to me about all the boxes the movers left in our garage and how they are a termite magnet. I have been explaining to the same guy for three years running how I am physically incapable of moving the boxes, and the Bulldog (my husband) is never home to move them. I know the termite inspector doesn't understand military life and how so much is out of my control because he asked me if I was going to go to Afghanistan with my husband. I exercised uncommon restraint by not bursting out laughing and saying: "Are you fucking kidding me? Uh, HELL NO! Afghanistan a war zone. I can't move these damn boxes because I have heart problems. You think I am going to Afghanistan??? Don't you watch the news???" But I am used to civilians not understanding our life style, and I was anxious to get this damn inspection over with for another year. Just cut him a check and move on. Of course, this is MY life, so it couldn't be that easy. Yup. We had termites in the garage. After bribing termite guy to move the boxes away from the walls (having money is one of the perks of being old) he found a roll of butcher paper that should have been in my studio with my craft supplies, but was hiding behind the pile of boxes the movers had dumped in the garage. Termites had DEVOURED this huge roll of paper. They had also started on a box of books which was pretty much a total loss. Let me say this: Termites are some seriously NASTY creatures. They are winged, wormy creatures that travel underground. I was very impressed by the amount of damage they inflicted in a very short time. Fortunately, we were covered by termite insurance and the termites had not damaged the structure of the garage or house. Termite guy told me we were lucky, and from the looks of that roll of paper and box of books, we were very lucky. Our garage was treated, and crisis number one was averted.
Proof that trouble finds me, no need to leave the house, several days later I was watching T.V. and the phone rang. It was a call for the Bulldog, who of course, isn't here. I asked if I could take a message and the fellow on the phone responded:
"I am trying to confirm that he is have three whosamadoolies sent to Florida."
"Huh?" I responded.
"Whosamadoolies. Three of them to an address in Florida." He responded.
"What's a whosamadoolie?" I asked trying to figure out why the Bulldog would be having three of them sent to Florida.
"It piece of automotive diagnostic equipment."
Now I couldn't figure-out for the life of me why my husband would be having three whosamadoolies sent to Florida. Since we have lived all over the country, including Florida, I thought maybe the guy on the phone had an old address. I named the towns we'd lived in. It wasn't those. Uh-oh, I thought. This doesn't sound right.
"Let me get in touch with my husband an have him call you back."
I do not know what army spouses did before cell phones. Seriously, I have had to track the Bulldog down in darkest Africa to fix some BS problem because being married to somebody for nearly 17 years isn't sufficient authority to get access to certain information over the telephone. Now, I would be responsible for all of the Bulldog's debt if (God forbid) something should happen to him, but until then, the credit card people don't want to talk to me. (Yes, I have power of attorney and we have filed upteengillion bits of paperwork to give me permission to have access to all of the Bulldog's info, but this is NEVER, EVER sufficient for these people. It TOTALLY chaps my behind.)
Long story short: The Bulldog doesn't know what a whosamadoolie is either, but someone was having three of them sent to Miami on our charge card to the tune of several thousands of dollars. Credit card cancelled. Crisis averted. Next.
All this stress on an empty stomach was making me irritable. I am on a perpetual diet and eat like a gerbil, but am some how still fat. "To hell with the diet," I thought. "I am ordering some dinner." Mmmm... BBQ chicken wings with onion rings -- tasty.
I was on the phone with my mother, when all of a sudden the room started to spin. You know that scene in the "Sex and the City" movie where Charlotte gets diarrhea? Well, my stomach started to make those noises. Soon, I was hunkered over the toilet, barfing my brains out. It was the perfect end, to a perfectly awful week.
It all started with our annual termite insurance inspection. No biggie, I thought. We do this every year. The inspector complains to me about all the boxes the movers left in our garage and how they are a termite magnet. I have been explaining to the same guy for three years running how I am physically incapable of moving the boxes, and the Bulldog (my husband) is never home to move them. I know the termite inspector doesn't understand military life and how so much is out of my control because he asked me if I was going to go to Afghanistan with my husband. I exercised uncommon restraint by not bursting out laughing and saying: "Are you fucking kidding me? Uh, HELL NO! Afghanistan a war zone. I can't move these damn boxes because I have heart problems. You think I am going to Afghanistan??? Don't you watch the news???" But I am used to civilians not understanding our life style, and I was anxious to get this damn inspection over with for another year. Just cut him a check and move on. Of course, this is MY life, so it couldn't be that easy. Yup. We had termites in the garage. After bribing termite guy to move the boxes away from the walls (having money is one of the perks of being old) he found a roll of butcher paper that should have been in my studio with my craft supplies, but was hiding behind the pile of boxes the movers had dumped in the garage. Termites had DEVOURED this huge roll of paper. They had also started on a box of books which was pretty much a total loss. Let me say this: Termites are some seriously NASTY creatures. They are winged, wormy creatures that travel underground. I was very impressed by the amount of damage they inflicted in a very short time. Fortunately, we were covered by termite insurance and the termites had not damaged the structure of the garage or house. Termite guy told me we were lucky, and from the looks of that roll of paper and box of books, we were very lucky. Our garage was treated, and crisis number one was averted.
Proof that trouble finds me, no need to leave the house, several days later I was watching T.V. and the phone rang. It was a call for the Bulldog, who of course, isn't here. I asked if I could take a message and the fellow on the phone responded:
"I am trying to confirm that he is have three whosamadoolies sent to Florida."
"Huh?" I responded.
"Whosamadoolies. Three of them to an address in Florida." He responded.
"What's a whosamadoolie?" I asked trying to figure out why the Bulldog would be having three of them sent to Florida.
"It piece of automotive diagnostic equipment."
Now I couldn't figure-out for the life of me why my husband would be having three whosamadoolies sent to Florida. Since we have lived all over the country, including Florida, I thought maybe the guy on the phone had an old address. I named the towns we'd lived in. It wasn't those. Uh-oh, I thought. This doesn't sound right.
"Let me get in touch with my husband an have him call you back."
I do not know what army spouses did before cell phones. Seriously, I have had to track the Bulldog down in darkest Africa to fix some BS problem because being married to somebody for nearly 17 years isn't sufficient authority to get access to certain information over the telephone. Now, I would be responsible for all of the Bulldog's debt if (God forbid) something should happen to him, but until then, the credit card people don't want to talk to me. (Yes, I have power of attorney and we have filed upteengillion bits of paperwork to give me permission to have access to all of the Bulldog's info, but this is NEVER, EVER sufficient for these people. It TOTALLY chaps my behind.)
Long story short: The Bulldog doesn't know what a whosamadoolie is either, but someone was having three of them sent to Miami on our charge card to the tune of several thousands of dollars. Credit card cancelled. Crisis averted. Next.
All this stress on an empty stomach was making me irritable. I am on a perpetual diet and eat like a gerbil, but am some how still fat. "To hell with the diet," I thought. "I am ordering some dinner." Mmmm... BBQ chicken wings with onion rings -- tasty.
I was on the phone with my mother, when all of a sudden the room started to spin. You know that scene in the "Sex and the City" movie where Charlotte gets diarrhea? Well, my stomach started to make those noises. Soon, I was hunkered over the toilet, barfing my brains out. It was the perfect end, to a perfectly awful week.
So glad it all turned out ok in the end!!
ReplyDeleteSorry for your pain, but this was really fun to read...
ReplyDeletesorry..