Amen, Omar

For those of you following the story of Omar the Car Transport Driver from hell, the saga came to and end today, two weeks later, with the safe delivery of my son's car from Naples, Florida to Frisco, Texas.  Apparently, the car was sitting somewhere in Miami until Thursday, when Omar finally got around to getting his ass act together and driving it to Texas. As of about 1:00 p.m., it was safely berthed in its new garage- "dirty as hell," according to its owner, but otherwise none the worse for wear.

Amen.

Uniformity

If you went to parochial school, as I did, I'm sure you recall your school uniform with great fondness disgust. My high school uniform was the ubiquitous plaid, pleated skirt, with saddle shoes (yes!) and a white blouse.  The only one who kind of liked it was my boyfriend at the time (who is now my husband).  What is it about men and school girls in uniform, anyway? Since then, I've never had to wear a uniform, and that suits me just fine. One of my friends is part of the office staff at a clinic, and they wear medical scrubs to work.  She's just fine with that - says it makes getting dressed for work very easy, not to mention the fact that they're totally comfortable.  Sort of like wearing your pajamas all day.

In contrast, one of my co-workers, who was an ICU nurse before becoming a case manager, said one of the best parts of her career change was being able to toss all those nursing uniform scrubs in the trash and go shopping for some professional clothes.

I actually love wearing medical uniforms - I have a pair that I wear around the house sometimes, and they're great for hanging out on the sofa (like I'm doing now) with a glass of wine and a dish of hummous and pita chips.  They're also pretty good for exercising in - at least the bottoms are.  I still like t-shirts on top because they're softer.

But I'm very happy that my plaid, pleated skirt has been relegated to my mother's basement, where she's kept it all these years as a pleasant reminder of my youth.

Hmmm...maybe I should dig it out and wear it as an anniversary present for my husband?  Whaddya think?

What I'll Be Doing With All My Free Time: List One

Ever since I resigned from my job last week, I've been walking around with a giddy sense of excitement. I feel like one of those perky green shoots popping up in my garden, all bright and shiny with possibility.  It's not even as if I worked all that much - 20 or so hours a week, usually.  But I realize that my job was on my mind a lot more than that, especially in the past few years since we've taken to using e-mail more prolifically.  There was just never any letting go 0f it, especially with that work e-mail shortcut on my desktop.  So even when I was home on a "day off," there were often work issues on my mind. Soon that will be over, and the thought of that freedom is very intoxicating.  I've started making mental lists in my head of the things I'll do with my days.  Here's what I'm thinking about:

1. Spending more quality time with my dogs.  If you're not a dog person, you won't get that.  But the entire time I've had my dogs, I've been working - for a while, at two jobs.  Although I lavish them with attention, it's usually at the end of my day when I'm tired.  They're more than halfway through their lifespan (just like me!), so I want to enjoy them while we're all still in relatively good shape.
2. Find a favorite cafe and frequent it regularly for writing.  I've always loved the idea of having a "regular spot" to hang out, people watch, and do some writing.  I'm going to start looking for a place like that.
3.  Start working in earnest on the plethora of writing ideas I've been filling notebooks with for the past five years.  I'm always getting brilliant ideas for things I'd like to write about.  Now's the time to pick one and go at it.
4. Play more music.  This is a big one.  I firmly believe the loss of a musical life has been a big part of my recent depression.  I'm on a major quest for a good musical group to join, or a least a good teacher  to study with. Angie Mizzell, one of my favorite bloggers, wrote a post the other day about finding your "sweet spot," the place where, according to Max Lucado,  your past successes and deep feelings of satisfaction intersect.  As soon as I read that sentence, I knew where mine was.  Playing music ~ gotta get back to it.
5. Read more.  My husband would laugh at this, because he already thinks I read more than anybody he knows.  But I recall the days when I was a young SAHM, I spent an hour or two in the afternoons while Brian was napping, curled up in a chair with my book (of course those were pre-internet days.)   I'd love to refresh that habit.
6. De-clutter.  Every Wednesday this summer there will be a whole load of stuff coming up from the basement and going directly out to the trash.  Promise.

In the midst of thinking about all these things I want to do now that I won't be working, oddly enough I also find myself thinking about what kind of work I want to do next.   Do I want to go back to office work or maybe look for something in a school or college?  What about something totally different - in the media or marketing fields?   Because I do think I'll want to work again some day.  Not sure when.  Not sure where.

But I'll start another list for that and keep you posted.

Suck It Up

I can always tell when it's spring (or fall) because of what's on my floors. Twigs.  Leaves.  Blossoms.  Tiny mud balls.

Anything lying on the ground that will stick to the eight furry feet that run in and out of the house with such spirited abandon.  If I had a dollar for every time I open the door to let a dog out or in ~ suffice it to say, I'd be lying on a beach in the Caribbean instead of blogging about dirty floors.

What I really need to find is a high powered vacuum cleaner with super suction.  I mean, the old Hoover bag model just does not cut it any more.  So I've been doing a little online vacuum cleaner research and internet housewares window shopping.  I know for sure that I don't want one of those bag-less models...I mean, who thinks it's a good idea for all the dirt and crud to just swirl around loose in the canister, and then fly into your face when you try to empty it into the garbage?  Come on.

I'd really like one of those nifty Dyson vacuums, the one advertised by that blonde guy with the cool accent (is he British or Australian?)   But, alas, they are SO expensive - my shabby old floor does not deserve to be swept with such a serious machine.

What I really need is a good deep carpet cleaner, and someone willing to use it about three times a week.

As I mentioned the other day, I'm thinking about tearing up all the carpeting and having the vintage oak wood flooring underneath it refinished.   We had hardwood floors in the house where I was born, and I recall loving the sound of my mother's high-heeled shoes as she tip-tapped from room to room.  (It was the 1950's, people, and my mother dressed like Donna Reed - she really did.)

In my house, however, it would be the sound of those eight tiny feet skit skattering across the wood, hundreds and hundreds of times a day.  Hmmm.

Maybe I should suck it up and leave well enough alone.

Oh My, Omar

One of the reasons we went to Florida last week was to facilitate the transport of my son's Pontiac GTO from our garage in Naples to his garage in Frisco, Texas.  After doing his usual due diligence, Brian came up with a seemingly reputable car transport outfit, and made arrangements with them to pick up the car during the time we would be there. Sounds simple, doesn't it?  We gave them a month advance notice, and a weeks worth of days from which to choose to pick the car up.

But oh no, nothing is simple when you're dealing with Omar.

Omar is the owner of the company that Brian's transport broker awarded the job to.  You see, apparently there's an online broker with whom you contract, and they sub-contract out to an actual car-hauling company who bids on the job.  Lucky us, Omar won the bid for Brian's car. (Not.)

The first problem occurred when Omar called us on the phone two days before we were leaving Michigan and said he'd be by to pick up the car the next day.

"No," my husband said.  "We arranged with the broker that you would pick up the car on Tuesday.  We won't even be in Florida until tomorrow night."

"Oh, but I have to get the car tomorrow," Omar said.  "Can't you get someone else to help?"

"No," my husband said again.  "We arranged specifically for Tuesday because there is NO ONE else to help you."

"But I have to pick it up tomorrow!" Omar insisted.

"No," my husband said again, calmly but firmly.  "You will pick it up on Tuesday.  This is your mistake, and you have to fix it."

Well, he didn't fix it.  He just said he wasn't coming on Tuesday.

After some frantic phone calling back and forth, the broker promised he would have someone else pick up the car within the seven day time period we would be in Florida.  But when six of those seven days had gone by and we had heard nothing, we had just about accepted we'd be leaving the GTO behind for the summer.

Then, late on the evening of the sixth day (my goodness, this is beginning to sound rather Biblical, isn't it?) we get a phone call from  Brian.

"The transport people just called and said they're sitting outside your house and can't get hold of you."

Hmm.  We peered out the front door.

"No transport people here," we said.  Just then, Jim's phone began to ring.

"Hello," he answered.  "What? No, you are NOT outside my house.  I'm standing outside my house and you are not there.  What?  In front of the gate?  On the road outside the community? Alright, I'll bring the car up there.  Hang on."

He hung up and grabbed the car keys from the counter top, quickly shoving his shoes on.   "It's that Omar," he muttered.   "The $&*(#%  parked on the road in front of Island Walk - says he can't get the truck through the gate."

We had surmised that would be a problem, but Omar was supposed to call us ahead of time so we could tell him a safe meeting place. So much for that plan.  I stood in the driveway and watched as Jim roared off in Brian's one-of-a-kind Australian import.

I expected him to be gone maybe 20 or 30 minutes - after all, how long does it take to load a car on a transport trailer?  When 90 minutes had gone by, I began to panic. Just when I was about to go in search of him, he threw open the door.

"Where have you been?" I cried.

"You'll never believe where he was," Jim said, heading for the refrigerator where he immediately downed an 8 ounce bottle of water.  "He was parked in the middle of the road at the intersection of Vanderbilt Beach and Logan.  We've been up there all this time while he went over the car with a fine tooth comb, marking all these spots that he called "scratches."

"What!" I exclaimed.  This car has been garaged for nearly all it's life.  There are NO scratches on it.

"Oh yes, and then he has the nerve to complain that the car is "dirty," as he gets inside without even wiping his hands and puts them all over the steering wheel."

"Well, when will Brian get the car?" I ask innocently.

"HA!" Jim guffaws.  "He said that car will be going to Miami where it will be offloaded and sit in a lot until the end of next week when somebody else will pick it up and take it to Dallas."

"WHAT!"  I screamed. ( If you hadn't already guessed, we are very protective of our cars in this family.)

"Yep."  Jim said, shaking his head and reaching into the refrigerator to replace the water bottle with a beer.

Well, friends, that little adventure occurred almost 10 days ago.  As of tonight, my son's car is still out there somewhere...according to Omar, it will be delivered "maybe in a few days."

Lest you think all this is cheap, it's not.  We're talking about paying over $800 for the privilege of being jacked around by Omar and his crew.  Not to mention the wear and tear on one's nervous system.

So let this be a cautionary tale for you.  If you must transport a car from one place to another, do not under any circumstances, contact Omar.

Because, oh my, you'll be in for trouble if you do.