Go read about St. Pimento Cheesus and throwing beer at Christmas trees HERE. Don’t be lazy and not click over, it’s funny, I promise!
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Go read about St. Pimento Cheesus and throwing beer at Christmas trees HERE. Don’t be lazy and not click over, it’s funny, I promise!
Post #1 about moving. I’m going to count them so that in the event I’m on Post # 548, I’ll know I need to shut up about moving already.
One of the things I’ve had to do to get ready to move, was to get our dismantled alarm system fixed. To save you from having to click the link and get caught up, I’ll quickly recap my (mis)adventures with said alarm system.
Caught up? Good.
So I called ADT, for the very good reason that they were the first alarm company I came to in the phone book. I got the ole run-around at the local office so they sent me to their 1-800 number. Not surprisingly, I got the ole run-around when I called the 1-800 number and was switched from operator to operator.
“No, I don’t have an account. I just need someone to reset a code or something.”
“You’ll have to call your local office.”
“They said I had to call this number.”
“That’s strange. Let’s see what I can do.”
“That would be great.”
“I called the local office and they said that it’s not worth their time.”
“No they dint.”
“Yes, they did. If you’d like to sign a 36-month contract we can help you.”
“Kiss my ass, you anal-wart-heads you.”
(I didn’t actually tell them to kiss my ass or call them anal-wart-heads.) I did tell them that I thought this was a poor business practice and that when I am in need of having an alarm system installed or monitored that I won’t be calling their sorry-ass excuse for an alarm company. (I didn’t actually say the sorry-ass part.) ADT Home Security Systems blows donkey balls.
So next up in the phone book was Brinks. Brinks Home Security Systems was very helpful. They came the very next day to help. Brinks Home Security Systems didn’t give me the ole run-around. Me loves Brinks Home Security Systems lots.
Actually the first guy that came out to fix the alarm told me that since the alarm was set he wouldn’t be able to re-program the alarm. He explained that it was set up this way so that potential thieves couldn’t break into your house and simply re-program your alarm system, then proceed to rob you blind. A new motherboard would need to be ordered and I’d be charged for at least an hour of labor.
“Fine, fine, fine. Whatever,” I said. “We just need this alarm system fixed.”
He told me he’d return the next day. But the next day, a different Brinks Home Security guy showed up. He proceeded to start pushing lots of buttons on the control panel and within about five minutes, he’d re-programmed the system.
“I just saved you a bunch of money. I hacked into your system and reset the code.”
While I do love to save money, I’m a WHOLE LOT disturbed that my alarm system was so easily hacked. Gee, that’s reassuring in the event of my house being robbed. But the good news is, is that the alarm system is now fixed and I’m ready to be hacked by every potential thief in Lower Alabama.
Did I mention my disdain for ADT Home Security systems? No? Well, ADT BLOWS.
Brinks Home Security systems gets my Binky Bitch seal of approval.
I’m pleased to announce that Halloween was a success! It was touch and go there for awhile, but Carson eventually cooperated and actually *gasp* enjoyed himself. When his incessant whining and wacky outta control behavior began during dinnertime (hot dogs and baked beans-the epitome of a healthy meal!), I was sure we were destined to eat the nasty candy I bought to give out to trick-or-treaters. Really I didn’t care if Carson and Ella got to experience the joys of trick-or-treating, I just wanted to be sure we’d get some good candy. I’m a good mom, see.
The highlight of our evening, though, was two
trick-or-treaters, girls, women who came to our house begging for candy. Both Tate and I were dumbfounded after these women left and we kept replaying the exchange with each other and asking if that just really happened. When I opened the door, I was surprised to see a girl who looked to be possibly 15, maybe 17 standing there holding a bucket full of candy. Standing next to her was a women who appeared to be in her late 30′s, maybe early 40′s, but certainly someone far too old for trick-or-treating. Both were wearing sweatshirts and jean shorts, and just stood there obviously expecting me to drop candy in their buckets. Tate asked them what they were supposed to be and the older woman pointed to the younger girl and said, “she’s havin’ a baby.”
How does “she’s havin a baby” answer the question of what they were supposed to be dressed up as?
And why the hell were they out trick-or-treating?
Most importantly, what the f*ck?
I quickly proclaimed to Tate soon after they left, “I’m so blogging that.” I certainly appreciate the most excellent blog fodder since I was expecting to write, “Carson was so horrible and threw himself screaming on the doorsteps of all of my neighbors, making them hate us even more!” Instead he surprised us with his excellent behavior and manners, saying, “sank you” to all who bestowed candy upon him.
Here are a few pictures of my “baseball player,” “pumpkin,” “man,” and me as an “incredibly sex-ay farmer.”
Why yes, I am wearing my frumpy overalls and pigtails. So, so hawt.
Click HERE to listen
Welcome to Wine Tawk. I’m your host, Jennifer. On this episode, we’ll talk about wine, doors, and dress codes, you know, no big whoop, just wine tawk.
This is a picture taken of the door of The Wine Loft in Mobile. Listed are very specific exclusions of allowable clothing items and accessories.
In case you are unable to read the guidelines clearly on the picture, here is what it says:
No Athletic Pants, Shirts or Shoes
No Bluetooth Devices
No Excessive Jewelry
No Baggy Clothing
No Muscle Shirt
No Ripped, Torn, or Frayed Clothing
Business Casual or Business Attire is Suggested
I have some thoughts and opinions about their rules. Please discuss your thoughts in the comments section and I’ll tell you my opinion tomorrow.
Tawk amongst yourselves….
Another damn disclaimer: Anything I say in this post is not, I repeat IS NOT, a criticism of Alabama or the South in general. It is different to me because this was not how I was brought up.
As a native Midwesterner, moving to Alabama has been a bit of a culture shock. Having lived in Knoxville, TN for several years, I’d had a taste of Southern culture. However, this is the Deep South and it’s different from anywhere I’ve ever been.
When you first meet most people here in the South, the first question they ask you is, “Where do you go to church?” I’ve come to realize that this isn’t meant to be a rude question, since this is NOT something you’d ask someone back home. People are generally just trying to be friendly and if you say you don’t have a church home, they invite you to attend their church. This has become less and less awkward as time has passed and I’ve learned to tell people that we attend church at St. Notgoingtosaytherealname Church (which isn’t a lie exactly, we do occasionally attend).
As for church, it is a way of life here. People speak openly of being “blessed.” Many stores and even some restaurants aren’t open on Sundays. Not to insinuate that we Midwesterners are heathens by any stretch of the imagination, it’s just that our entire lives do not revolve around church. I definitely think that this has been a factor in our difficulty making friends here in Alabama.
Another thing that I’ve learned is the way to properly address adults. Titles such as Sir, Ma’am, and Miss are expected, most especially when it’s a child addressing the adult. I often forget to say these things myself, so I worry that my kids will be outcasts if I don’t teach them the proper Southern way to address adults. I grew up calling acquaintances of my parents either Mr/Mrs. Lastname or by their first names. It’s custom here for children to call their parent’s friends Miss Firstname. Since it isn’t something I expect, it always seems odd when I’m addressed as Miss Jennifer.
One of my favorite Southern sayings is “bless her/his/your heart.” It’s the Southern way of getting away with talking about someone behind their back. If you want to talk about your neighbor who is cuh-razy and going through a nasty divorce with her beer swigging husband, you are absolved of any wrongdoing if when you’re gossiping about her you end your sentence with, “bless her heart.”
I’ve learned that the cart in the grocery store is called a buggy. Lunch is called dinner and dinner is called supper. Instead of saying “alright then” people say “aight den.” I know there are many, many more but I’m having trouble thinking of anymore.
To end this post, I’d like to leave you with several sayings Tate has heard at work that make me laugh my ass off. These certainly aren’t things most Alabamans say, but I’m including them here since I’ve never heard them outside of Alabama. Hope you enjoy.
Doesn’t that make you so mad that it makes you want to spit chicken shit out your teeth?
Looks like you brushed your hair with a firecracker this morning.
I need your help like a dead man needs a coffin.
How you feeling today? Like I’ve been ironing in high heels all day.
When referring to a tall woman…Looks like she could stand flat-footed and shit in a dump truck.
Thanks for your well wishes yesterday. “Installation” of the Mirena went well. If you would like more details, just email me, mkay?
Disclaimer (again): Please don’t judge the entire state of Alabama on my bad experiences. Things have been very difficult these past two years, but they may or may not have been as difficult if we were living in Idaho or North Carolina or Iran. I promise to tell stories later of good things about Alabama. Oh yes, the idiot I refer to in this post is ME.
Within days of moving to Alabama, we were highly encouraged by Tate’s co-workers and some acquaintances that we needed to get new license plates as soon as possible. In fact, we were told by more than one person that our Illinois license plates were likely to get us run off the road. Why the reason for the hostility?
Prior to moving to Alabama we had license plates that said “Go Vols” because we are huge fans of the Tennessee Volunteers. For those of you unfamiliar with college football, specifically SEC football, please understand that being a Vols fans in Alabama is likened to worshipping the devil or being a whacked out coke fiend.
So much for southern hospitality.
About a week after moving into our house, Tate had to go on a business trip. Our house has an alarm system and based on our less than welcoming experiences thus far in Alabama, we experimented with it, ensuring that it worked. We discovered that monitoring on a few of the windows had somehow been turned off. Unfortunately Tate wasn’t able to figure out how to get the monitoring turned back on for those windows before leaving on his business trip.
In my pregnancy-induced mania and continued shell shock from being robbed by our movers, I decided that it was absolutely necessary to get those windows monitored. I was convinced that some rabid Alabama fan or the thieving movers were going to break into our house. This was a dire emergency! I was in danger! *ahem*
I decided that I could fix this this problem. I began pushing buttons on the alarm box. I pushed lots of buttons. I pushed so many buttons on the box that I somehow set the alarm.
But guess what?
I had no code to deactivate the alarm.
And then guess what happened?
That’s right. The alarm started sounding. Verrrrrrry loudly. I panicked. I was certain that the police would be on their way, I mean all alarms sound directly to the police station, right!?! *ahem*
When the police didn’t show up after a few minutes and I was starting to lose my mind even more (pregnancy mania + ear piercing alarm + being home alone = disaster), I decided to call the police. They’re the police! They’re experienced in dire emergencies such as these right?!? *ahem*
So I went up the street to get away from the blaring alarm and get a cell phone signal and called the police. I tried to calmly explain my situation. It probably was sounded like, “[SOB, SOB] I set off [SOB] my house [SOB] alarm. I don’t [SOB] know [SOB] what [SOB] to [SOB] do [SOB, SOB].”
The woman “helping” me, asked me to explain my situation again. So I told her again, with even more sobbing that I’d set off the house alarm and didn’t know what to do. I could hear her snickering, which of course, made me cry even harder. She put me on hold, and a different person came on the line and asked me to explain, yet again, what my situation was. I told him my story with lots and lots of sobbing. He openly started laughing and said he had no idea what they were supposed to do about this. So I hung up on them. Jerks.
By this time, I’d created quite a scene and several neighbors had come to see what all the commotion was. My next door neighbor knew the previous owners of our home, called them, and they directed me to a phone number located on the alarm box in the master bedroom (they didn’t have the code, either). I was able to speak with someone from an alarm company who advised me to simply unplug the alarm and removed the battery from the main unit. In my craziness, this ridiculously simple solution never occurred to me.
And to recap…
1. Alabama fans really, really don’t like Tennessee fans.
2. The cops will laugh at you when you call them sounding like a raving lunatic.
3. My neighbors’ second impression of me was as a crying fool who’d set off her own house alarm. Remember their first impression was of me as a screaming banshee running up the street.
4. I’m an idiot.
I have no idea what’s in store for my next installment…Hmmm, maybe the vernacular of the Deep South?
Disclaimer: Before I go any further in my story, I feel I need to clarify some things. Please don’t judge the entire state of Alabama on my bad experiences. Things have been very difficult these past two years, but they may or may not have been as difficult if we were living in Idaho or North Carolina or Iran. I promise to tell stories later of good things about Alabama.
Part 1 of the story is here.
Tate’s company arranged a house-hunting trip to Alabama. Upon visiting, we were very excited about the move. Tate was eager to start his new position, I was excited to be so close to the beach. We bought a house that was not our dream home, but it was nice. The only problem we found with moving at this point was the distance from home.
One nice thing about the move, was that Tate’s company arranged to have a moving company take care of packing and transporting all of our stuff. This was our second move with the company and we’d had a good experience the previous time. Unfortunately, this moving experience could not be classified as “good.”
Since there was a lapse of several weeks between the closing of our home in Illinois and the closing on our new home in Alabama, our stuff had to be put into storage. The morning the movers were to arrive, I had gone out to buy the movers drinks and snacks for the long day ahead. The movers were to arrive at 8 AM according to a representative of Allied Van Lines, but did not arrive until noon. In fact, the person we kept speaking with at the storage facility (Coleman Moving and Storage) tried to explain that the movers may or may not in fact arrive at all on the scheduled day. Also, the truck carrying our items had supposedly broken down on the highway en route, so they didn’t know when they would actually arrive. We were told that we should feel lucky that the movers arrived at all.
To say that our movers were incompetent is the understatement of the year. I spent a good deal of the afternoon in tears, seeing so many of my favorite items broken and not in boxes. Remember I was about 24 weeks pregnant and very weepy. Seeing a treasured birdbath broken in half and watching the movers drop boxes made me cry even more.
Sometime that afternoon, I suddenly felt this overwhelming urge to check my wallet. It was sitting in my purse, which was sitting on a barstool in the kitchen. Not sure why I felt this strong urge, but my intuition told me that something was amiss. When I looked in my purse, my wallet was missing. I immediately panicked, thinking back to when I’d shopped for snacks that morning, wondering if I’d accidentally left it at the grocery store. I knew it wasn’t possible, as I had stopped and gotten gas on the way home and remembered having my wallet then.
This is where the pregnant girl (me, duh) went cuh-razy. I knew one of these jackass, sumbitch movers had stolen my wallet. I immediately ran outside, screaming that they’d robbed me. Tears were streaming down my face as I called the movers every name in the book. Tate, attempting to keep the peace and sort out what was wrong, tried to calm me down. We double-checked my car, but I knew they had robbed us. My cursing continued as I told them I was calling the police. The movers, of course, denied knowing anything about my wallet and acted offended that I’d accuse them of such a thing.
Since our phone wasn’t turned on yet and our cell phones didn’t work this far in the sticks, I ran up the street like a crazy woman knocking on doors, still hysterically crying, trying to find a phone to use. I finally found someone home and they allowed me call the Shitty Town Police Department. I also used this time to call the bank, the credit card company, credit reporting agencies, and social security office to report the theft.
Two officers from the Shitty Town Police Department arrived and took my report. The officers never even spoke to the movers. In fact, they insinuated that I was just a crazy pregnant lady who’d lost her wallet. Nothing (besides being robbed) makes me angrier than being dismissed as an idiot.
Meanwhile, the movers had finished unloading the truck and were waiting on their boss to arrive. Just prior to the boss’s arrival, Tate used the bathroom and flushed the toilet. When the toilet bowl filled with brown liquid, Tate realized he’d found the wallet. He lifted the lid off the tank of the toilet and there was my wallet. I felt somehow validated, as this proved I didn’t misplace my wallet. I may have been an emotionally unstable pregnant person, but I certainly didn’t accidentally leave my wallet in the tank of the toilet. The $4 in cash (heh), credit card and debit card were missing. We called the police who told us to let their boss handle it.
When the boss arrived, he practically strip searched his men, looking for my missing cards. He searched around the house, under our deck, shone a flashlight down the storm sewer. It wasn’t until several days later when I was unpacking boxes in the baby’s nursery that I found my cards behind the boxes.
Allied Moving Company apologized profusely, buying me a brand new wallet, paying to have it shipped overnight, and pledging to revoke their affiliation with Coleman’s Moving and Storage. The latter never happened.
So to review:
1. Coleman Moving & Storage robbed me.
2. The Shitty Town, AL Police Department didn’t take my robbery report seriously.
3. My neighbors’ first impression of me was as a screaming banshee running up the street.
4. Moving to Alabama so far sucked donkey balls.
Coming up next: The Shitty Town, AL Police Department is makes yet another appearance in the story.
Check out Blog Talk Radio Wednesday night at 8:00 CST, when The B.O.O.B.s discuss Bill Maher’s recent anti-breastfeeding comments, and discuss the controversy over nursing in public.