I *Heart* The Man

"Hi I ordered service that began on March 10, but due to some problems on your end, I didn't have service until yesterday, March 19, so I need my bill to reflect that."

"We don't do that." (terse)

"But my service didn't begin until a week and a half after billing began."

"There's no way I can do that." (curt)

"But three technicians came out and did all sorts of work on the outside line and there are records of service calls all over the place and can I have a credit or something?"

"Maybe I can arrange a credit." (terse and curt)

"Uhhh..."

"Let me call the repair department - please hold." (impatient)

*elevator music*

"I can't get them on the line for another five minutes or so, but I am going to credit you with one month of phone service at $10.69." (chucking to herself ever so silently)

"Er, wait a minute, I've also been unable to use internet service [which is $30 on top of the phone line charge]..."

"We don't credit for internet, only the phone line, and that's one month at $10.69." (as if she's doing me a favor)

"Who do I talk to about internet billing?"

"That would be me." (with the voice of someone who knows she's the boss of me)

"Um..."

"Is there anything else I can help you with?" (sickly sweet)

"No."

*mutter*

Yay, Phone! Now Don't Call Me!

Three repair people later (the guy today said, "I'm not leaving until you have a dial tone,"), each one guaranteeing that the next would not need inside access, and each one knocking on the door for inside access, I have a phone!  I've also joined the Space Age with an active internet connection, which is good, as my "borrowed" neighborhood connection was getting pretty spotty.

I've now had an active line for about an hour and a half.  I received one call from Abigail, and a half hour later, I got a telemarketing call from the police.

Folks, if you haven't done so already, add yourself to the National Do Not Call Registry.  That is, unless you enjoy speaking with telemarketers.

Hooray For Geek Speak!

So the plan was this: my stepdad was going to head over, bearing his telecommunications knowledge from the military, a frogsuit, suction cups for scaling the outside of the building, an armful of telephone wire, a flashlight, newspapers and boiling water, and a volt meter. 

This volt meter is the thing that confirmed that my five jacks were, in fact, dead.

After my three unsuccessful attempts to find the *&$%^ telephone box around and under the house, he located it, requiring us to climb over a rusty washing machine, under an asbestos-laden heater duct, and up onto a dirt-covered platform.   I learned that my previous experience with a phone box involved one that was newer, and that you can't count on a jack being at said box.  I learned that old wires are never taken completely away, meaning that in this 100+ year-old house, there were quite a few wires hanging around doing nothing but being confusing.   I learned that you can tell which little connections are active by using a volt meter, as the active ones are carrying 53 volts.  I also learned that if a phone is ringing, it should be carrying 120 volts.  We both learned that if you set my new, touchpad-pleasing number to ring (from a cellphone), it will ring all day long and not activate any of the connections with even one volt (a far cry from 120), meaning that no signal is being received at the box.

Back on the phone to wrestle with the automated phone system to ATT.  I'm not sure if there is anything else in the world that raises my blood pressure more than automated phone systems.  

Though they don't do service calls on Sundays, they do (eventually) have live people on the line to take repair requests.  I established my identity, and then put Tom on the phone to throw some big words at them, up to and including "point of demarcation".

Never mind my own futile attempts to get them to do something; ten seconds after hearing "inactive point of demarcation" they ran some test that took even less time than that and stopped talking about $425 service calls and instead said, "yep, the problem is on our end".  

This theoretically means that my phone will be working by this afternoon, if they follow through with their 12-4pm service window.

I've decided my very first phone call will be to the billing department, to change the date of service.

Thanks, Tom!

First Aid for the Elementary Set

In my travels as a substitute teacher, I am running into a number of very mild cases of, well, mostly nothing.  I have determined that first aid for elementary school children is pretty universal, and as long as there's no actual bleeding, it goes pretty much like this:

2nd grade and below:  

The child has a (real or imagined) bump, and they think that attention will solve their problem. There's nothing a school nurse can do, and no sign that anything is actually wrong.  No blood, walking and talking is normal, and nobody's doubled over in pain.  In these cases, I will root around on the teacher's desk for some sort of small stuffed animal, or even a colorful pencil, and do some hocus pocus: "This here is a make-your-finger-feel-better-teddy-bear.  It will touch your finger three times, and after about a half an hour, your finger will feel all better." This usually does the trick.

3rd grade and above:

Now we're generally looking at a ploy to get out of the classroom.  I know they're not going to fall for three special touches from a magic pencil, so if complaints persist, I'll give them a pass to go to the office for...ice.  Ice will treat anything from a bump to a headache to the need to get out of class for ten minutes.

If only ice could solve my telephone problems.

Oh, woe is me!

I've been quite excited about once again having a telephone line.  A plain old local line.  A line so I don't need to arrange elaborate visits to someone else's house to conduct phone interviews with a reliable connection.  A line so I can stop going over my monthly allotment of cell minutes.  A line so I can also pay for internet.  A line so I can stop holding a we-don't-really-know-what-the-long-term-effects-of-these things-are cell phone so close to my brain all day long.

Today, my phone line was turned on.  It's a cool number that makes a very pleasing pattern on the keypad.  You can call it and you'll get a nice ring tone.  Only problem:  my jacks in the apartment are dead.  All five of them.  Clearly, this place has been wired, and it's been wired pretty well, as the aforementioned five jacks are in a pretty small space.  

Upon calling the phone company, I learned that they did indeed turn the line on at the box.  I also learned that one's California landlord is required to provide the first jack.  I furthermore learned that you can contract whoever you want to do the work on said jack, and that AT&T charges $425.

This is not a conversation I want to have with my new landlord, who gave me a rent reduction to move in.

Just as I have been learning more than I ever wanted to know about the inner workings of toilets, tomorrow I guess I'll be learning all about how multiple-line phone boxes work.

Nancy Who?

I have been doing a lot of substitute teaching, and my most cush days so far have been spent in the school Media Center.  This is what we used to call "The Library", as it now includes computer time for the lil' dickenses.  

It's been kind of fun rediscovering some of my own favorite books as I've made the reshelving rounds, however I've also noticed some new versions of my old standbys that don't quite cut it.  Most notably, the Nancy Drew series, still presumably authored by "Carolyn Keene" (which always included a number of ghost writers), has gone way downhill.  

A beloved relative gave me my first Nancy Drew book, The Crooked Banister.  After this, I remember trips to the bookstore carefully selecting what looked like the spookiest, most ghostly adventures, solved by the brainy Nancy along with her trusty Scooby Gang.  Remember, this was before Scooby Gangs even existed, so this was some forward-looking literature.  These books had it all:  a strong female lead, slightly unusual female supporting characters, and wonderfully scary scenarios.

You can still find the classic volumes in today's school Media Centers, however they are surrounded by newer works such as The Fashion Disaster (featuring a fashion show for dogs) and Sleepover Sleuths (including, of course, a pajama fashion show).

Need I say more?

Breaking Those Ikea Chains of Love

I am writing this post sitting on my sofa, using the computer that is sitting on my coffee table, all wrapped up in the melt-in-your-mouth flaky crust that is my apartment.  I had an amazing moving crew last week (was it only last week?) who packed, schlepped, and unpacked boxes of, er, stuff, scattered all over the Bay Area (okay, in three distinct places).  I am left with a bunch of boxes, the contents of some which haven't been explored in over two years, and quite frankly I have been living quite fine without.  On the other hand, I am finally using some kitchen stuff that has never seen the light of day, and I am rediscovering clothes that have missed me.

I feel very, very lucky to have found this place, and even luckier to have such an amazing group of friends who made the moving process go better than I could have imagined.  

I am slowly amassing furniture, and managing to mostly avoid Ikea in the process.  A few Ikea pieces here and there work for me, but I have no interest in making my place into that early scene from Fight Club.  

I am a comparison-shopping aficionado, and can tell you exactly what you should be buying at Target, at Trader Joe's, and what you should save for a Costco trip.  I am making more trips to Bed and Bath than I'd like, using two coupons at a time.  They'd like you to enter the store, use one "loss leader" coupon, and then purchase additional items at full price.  I'm hip to their scam, and I will as many visits as it takes.  There's an outlet close to my sub-work, so this isn't requiring any extra car trips.

This type of monetary obsession reminds me, it's time to find that Real Job(tm).