Coffee heat rising

Music Soothes the Savage Beast

And as anyone who knows me has realized, “savage beast” is an understatement whenever some fiasco imposed by someone else’s stupidity imposes extra work, extra time-wasting, extra meanders through phone punch-a-button mazes, and extra headaches. Corporate stupidity, in particular, evinces glorious fireworks of savagery.

This weekend I could not get into the “new” credit union checking and savings accounts created by changing the account number. Error message claimed the site was having “technical problems.” By 10 a.m. they were still having “technical problems,” and, since I couldn’t get through on the phone, it looked like I was going to have to make another trip up there to talk with them in person. Given that the Dog Chariot burns about a gallon of gasoline in a round trip to the closest branch, this trip would cost me $3 and another half-day of wasted time.

Meanwhile, I have workmen here and no way to pay them unless they’ll take plastic.

FINALLY I found the credit union assistant manager’s business card, which I had conscientiously put away someplace where it would be safe (read “where not even Sherlock Holmes himself could find it!”). Turns out she neglected to tell me that the account number I was supposed to enter as the userID is not quite the right number….to get in, you have to drop the last three digits of the endless number she gave me.

Anyway, at last I’m in and it looks like everything indeed is just the same as it was in the previous account. They’ve even imported the prior few months’ transactions. The only things we’ve lost, as she said would occur, are the automatic bill pays and the direct deposits.

After a full day of hassle I did get through to a human at Social Security who claimed she changed the direct deposit to the current account. However, I used the number on a form she gave me called “Employer Direct Deposit” and can only assume it’s the correct data. I surely hope so…we’ll know next month. I’m concerned that if the account number that has to be entered for one’s initial online foray into one’s account at the CU is actually three digits shorter than the one she gave me, the next Social Security check will go astray.

In other precincts, the power company said they would move the electric bill on their end. The city water dept and the gas company said “we’ll send you a form.” So far no such form has surfaced from either worthy entity. However, they send statements, so it’ll be easy enough to just bill-pay them whenever the paper shows up.

Last night I went to an amazing performance staged by our church’s music department. It truly was spectacular.

Usually by the end of the day I’m so beat I can’t drag myself out of the house. But on Saturday evening I went to our friend Craig Petersen’s chorale performance — he directs the Mesa Community College choir, which performed at All Saints this weekend — and found that just sitting there listening to the chorale music was SOOO relaxing, it totally unwound all that annoyance stress. Very nice.

So at the last minute thought I’d try for the same last night. For Evensong, the chamber choir — mostly professional singers — sang the Great “O” Antiphons by John Muehleisen. Unbelievably gorgeous!!!!!  This setting of the Advent set of antiphons alternates passages in Latin, sung in traditional chant mode, with their translations, sung in contemporary style — and very beautiful contemporary, not the unmelodic cacophony we too often associate with modern classical music. It was an incredible, spectacular thing to listen to.

The preliminary recital was played by an organist named Curt Sather. He has a Ph.D. now, but…get this! At the age of twelve (!) he was a church organist. He was very, very good — played three pieces by Bach and one by Aaron David Miller.

All in all, it was an impressive performance from beginning to end.

Meanwhile, this morning’s damn hectic.

Yesterday M’hijito’s dog, who given half a chance will run off to Yuma like a rabbit with a coyote on its tail, countersurfed an entire frying pan full of (mercifully cold) cooking oil. This, as you can imagine, had some interesting repercussions.

He’s pretty much stopped barfing. But my son didn’t want to leave him alone all day, so he brought the hound over here. He needs to have free access to the yard, because you can be sure he still has the doggywobbles, even tho’ no manifestations have occurred here. Yet…hmmmm….  Thank heaven for all-tile flooring.

The men are building two French wells and a river of rock in back, to drain rainwater away from the porch and the CoolDeck. The back porch has always been a bit below grade, so when it rains a nice lake comes right up to the back door. And the deceased Devil-Pod tree heaved the CoolDeck on the east end with its accursed roots, and so now that corner floods every time I try to water the plants over there, to say nothing of every time the rain falls.  They’re also replacing the ironwork in front that’s about rusted through. When Pup gets here, I’ll need to wire a little screening on there to keep him from wiggling out, and just now there’s nothing to wire it TO. 😀

At any rate, this activity is driving both dogs nuts. Even Charley, who hardly ever barks, is jumping up every few minutes to sound the alarm, and Cassie has gone absolutely bat-sh!t. She doesn’t have to sound the alarm: she is the alarm.

This is the last week of class, so I’d better get to work on stoont papers.

Identity Theft Aftermath…arggghhhhh!

Or, one might say, gaaaaahhhhhhhhh!

“You may continue to hold, and a representative will be with you as soon as possible”…blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat …

Spent an hour chatting, in person, with the assistant manager at the credit union about the annoying community college district’s having blithely handed over every goddamn iota of my personal financial information to identity thieves. She knew whereof I spoke, in spades: incredibly, the District had sent her the same apocalyptic message I got, but she has never had anything to do with any of their colleges or with anything else related to their entity in her ENTIRE LIFE.

It begins to get hilarious.

Given the hard-copy message, whose credibility we cannot assess under the ridiculous circumstances, we decide that the most prudent course is to assume that the data has been hacked, rather than to take a chance on making the opposite assumption and regret it later. Since my accounts there only hold about 13 grand (the entire amount of my 2014 living expense needs), if money is siphoned off, then the CU (read “FDIC”) will cover it as long as I clue them within 60 days of an illegitimate transaction.

We confirm that it’s possible to create a new account for me within the credit union without my having to lift the security freezes now in place at all three major credit bureaus (Experian, Equifax, and TransUnion).

So, Assistant Manager Renée, a very nice lady and wondrously together, says that now that we’ve changed the account number, effectively closing my account and opening a new one in ONE swell foop, I need to call every merchant that engrosses money from my account automatically (that would be all the utility companies plus my long-term care insurer) and clue them to the new account number; and forthwith I must get ahold of Social Security and give them the new account number, since they deposit my Social Security payment digitally.

So first off I call Social Security. …blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat blat … “Your estimated time is…

“1 hour and 15 minutes“

Moving on…

• City of Phoenix Water Services: “We’ll send you a form.”

• Southwest Gas: “We’ll send you a form.”

• Salt River Project (electricity provider): CSR takes routing and account info but has a difficult time understanding that the credit union will post this month’s bill even though there’s no way SRP can get its act together in time to apply the new account number to this month’s bill. He thinks I’ll have to pay this month’s bill with a check.

• Metlife: HOLY mackerel! Straightaway I reach a human being and she has good sense. Or at least she seems to. She takes the new information and the old routing number and says all will proceed without a hitch. That’ll be the day, I think. Privately.

• Cox is paid a set figure through bill-pay. I’ll have to go into the new account and reset the bill-pay info.

And as for the accursed community college district, which caused this whole mess and which has shared my bank account information with the entire fucking universe: I told them to send whatever further paychecks they emanate by snail-mail. You can be sure that outfit will never get its corporate paws on another bank account number of mine.

This will add a significant new layer of hassle, since depositing snail-mail checks is a major pain in the proverbial ass. But it’s one helluva lot less of a pain than the present endless series of hoop-jumps.

Tomorrow I’ll have to DRIVE TO THE GODDAMN SOCIAL SECURITY OFFICE, be sure my stupid little pen-knife is NOT in my purse, trudge in there, wait around for half an hour or more, and then try to make a face-to-face CSR understand a) what’s happened, and b) what needs to happen.

By and large, however, experience suggests the face-to-face CSRs are a lot smarter and a lot more knowledgeable than the phone representatives, who routinely dispense incorrect information. That notwithstanding, however, based on the outcomes of past exploits it is reasonable to expect that I will miss at least one Social Security payment and so within a few weeks will end up back at that office doing battle again.

ogodogodogodogod it’s not good to know too much

Gunfire in the Night: Bali Hai Is Calling

300px-Ruger_P89_1Out of sorts most of the morning. Between you and me, I just don’t like it when the Cassie and I are waked up in the middle of the night by the sound of gunfire. Even when I get back to sleep, it leaves me feeling damn crabby come dawn.

It wasn’t even automatic or semiautomatic gunfire. Sounded like what my Ruger would sound like if I decided to discharge all its ammo in one happy little frenzy. Six (maybe eight — by the time I woke up a couple of shells could already have been fired) rounds:

BANG…BANG…BANG…BANG…BANG-BANG.

Fvck you very much.

It came from the war zone to the north, which is inhabited by a) a dangerous meth-dealing gang and b) a hapless contingent of America’s poverty-stricken underclass. So, the gunfire could as easily come from some happy drunk who, in a moment of inebriated joy, decided to ejaculate a loud noise into the air as from some entrepreneur shooting at his competition. Either way, though: trash. It’s trashy. Trashy. Trashy. Trashy.

Well, I’ve been looking at real estate and found a patio home in Scottsdale, near the border of North Phoenix. Still unfortunately south of the crucial demarcation line for the middle class, the freeway dubbed Arizona Route 101. But nevertheless: bordering a fancy country club to the east and a tract of $600,000 shacks to the south. One could practically walk to the Whole Foods.

But do I really want to move to 56th Street and Cactus? To do so would be to say good-bye to friends, church activities, and son. It’s a LONG way from North Central, longer still when you’re old and it’s after dark. Why? Just so I don’t have to listen to gunfire in the night?

If I’m going to move away from everyone and everything I love, I’d just as soon move to a whole ‘nother town. Prescott, for example.

Which brings us to my neighbors’ activities.

The guy has hooked up his fifth wheel to his truck. The thing’s a VAST living room on wheels that stretches as long as the north side of his house. To frost the cake, he’s now got himself a four-wheel ORV, which he’s stacked on top of the damn thing. LOL!

I waved at him as he was pulling out of the driveway and hollered “HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!”

He emitted a maniacally joyful laugh.

His wife said they’re headed out on Thursday, long to be gone for the holiday.

Smart folks, those.

But…are they smart enough?

Think of how amazing it would be to get yourself a nice, fully self-contained RV — which I could acquire for about half the sale price of my house. Give the furniture to the kid. Donate whatever he won’t take plus all the old-lady clothing to the Salivation Army. Throw the jeans, the T-shirts, a jacket, the dog, and the pending new puppy into the machine, fill it up with diesel, and DRIVE AWAY.

Never to be seen again.

How far could you drive away from the sound of gunfire?

Rv_classaImages:
Standard Ruger P89, DanMP5, public domain.
Class A Motorhome, Claygate. Public Domain.

I. JUST. HATE. THIS. STUFF!

Day from Hell #1,247,80: Attempt to get through what looks like a pretty benign list of things to do.

Well. It would be benign if it weren’t for the five stacks of paper to plow through, residing on the office floor.

November 15, 2013. To Do:

√ 7:00 a.m.: leave for estate sale with La Maya
Read 4 more chapters of client’s copy; return edits to him
Write blog post
√ Cook batch of chicken for dog
Chop chicken in food processor
√ Clean up dog-chicken mess in kitchen
Make bed
Water plants
Go for exercise walk
Walk dog
√ Pick up office floor
√ Do bookkeeping
…√Reconcile credit union accounts
…√Enter debits in budget spreadsheet
…√Enter debits & credits in Quickbooks
MAKE PHONE CALLS!
…√Bosch/Sears: why won’t cycles operate?
…Dermatologist: appointment
…√Cardiologist: appointment
…√Radiologist: appointment
Repair broken nail
√ Fill new wallet
√ Remember to put opera tickets into purse for tonight
√ Make tomato soup
√ Make cucumber soup
Pick up house
Dust
Sweep
Mop

Notice how a) I haven’t gotten to the paying work and b) I haven’t gotten to the pigpen clearance.

6:15 a.m. Phone rings. La Maya: if we leave a little early, we can hit another sale before the one we’d planned. I’m in the middle of fixing breakfast but say OK.  Hurry. Produce dishwater-weak coffee, something I abominate. Should’ve known: it was an omen.

6:40 a.m. On the road to Scottsdale.

7:00 a.m. Hit the first sale. It’s in an old house on McCormick Ranch, once Scottsdale’s crown jewel of “planned communities.” Stick-built stuccoed houses do not age well. Original owners must have aged in place, never updating much: cocaine-white 12-inch tiles, dark wood parquet floors…meh. Apparently the residents petrified along about 1986. Neither of us sees anything we want. We leave, feeling smug about how much better-built and nicer our center-city homes are. We revel in our reverse snobbery.

Shortly before 9:00 a.m. Reach second sale, slated to open at nine. Line of bargain-hunters goes down the street. This one is organized by a company that treats customers poorly; normally we would not grace this outfit with our presence. But on their web page, La Maya has seen a few small tables that interest her.

9:00 a.m.: Sale opens. The bastards let people in two, three, four at a time. We stand and stand and stand and stand and stand and…

9:30 a.m. Recycling pick-up truck arrives. Driver flies into rage at all the cars parked up and down the street, blocking the recycling barrels (it’s illegal to block a recycling barrel here in lovely uptown Arizona). In frustration, he sits there and LEANS ON HIS HORN. Ever here a garbage truck horn? It’s amazingly loud.

Finally he has to get out of the truck and move trash cans out onto the street so his machinery can pick them up. House is on a cul-de-sac. To maneuver with every square inch of curb parked up by shoppers’ cars, he has to back and fill with his gigantic rig. Vast HONKING horn blasts intermittently, an automatic thing when the vehicle is in reverse. That notwithstanding, he very nearly runs down several line-standers who refuse to give up their place so as to get out of his way.

About  a quarter to ten: After a good 45 minutes, during which the idiot at the door lets in one or two people at a time, we finally get in the door. Of course, the tables in question are already marked sold. They weren’t much, anyway — images on the website were deceptive. This is another old, tired tract house. But tireder, much tireder than the last one. It’s dirty, and there’s absolutely nothing of any interest.

About 10:30, we arrive back at La Maya’s house. La Bethulia is conferring with a financial planner in the living room. La Maya makes coffee and then she and I slink out to the front courtyard, so as not to disturb them and so as to take the morning air. We gossip for quite a while. She describes current antics at GDU…what a place! I am soooo glad not to be working there. She would be very glad not to be working there, too, but needs an income. I think she could do handsomely by marketing her increasingly professional-looking artwork, if only she knew how to market it.

Around 11:30: Return home. Call Bosch customer service. Learn, after about ten or fifteen minutes of experimentation carried on over the phone, how to make the machine’s various cycles operate and why the “reset” function hasn’t been working and how to make it work.

Make a fairly amazing tomato soup (recipe pending). Eat lunch. Put dog meat on to cook.

Call the cardiologist. After long slog through punch-a-button maze, reach a receptionist who says I don’t need to make an appointment until December. I say it’s already almost December. She says all their December appointments are filling up fast — would I like an appointment in December? Thanking god she can’t see me roll my eyes over the phone, I say “sure.” She proposes to schedule me smack in the middle of the comparative mythology section’s final exam.

Call radiologist. After long slog through punch-a-button maze, reach a receptionist who says I’m not in their records. Spell my name (interminable and unpronouceable) and repeat my birth date again. Eventually they allow as how they kind know who I am. Make appointment for 7 o’clock in the damn morning next weeek.

Noonish: Enter office and begin wading through deep piles of paper.

Grow increasingly frustrated while trudging through endless series of profoundly disliked chores. Enter numbers, enter numbers, enter numbers, enter numbers, enter numbers…can’t find entries I know I made; can’t find entries I never made, can’t figure out where they went. Reconcile four accounts. Can’t find file folders in reorganized file drawers whose arrangement I imagined would be so crystalline clear. Enter numbers, enter numbers, enter numbers, enter numbers, enter numbers…

Realize the $44 I paid for two Bach concert tickets could not POSSIBLY cover four tickets, two for me and two for my friend. Call. Get shunted to the director’s day job. Get past the gatekeeper. Reach the director, who also happens to be our choir director. He says no problem, I should just pay him on Sunday. This means a) I can’t charge them to AMEX and collect a kickback, and b) I’ll have to bring a checkbook, and c) therefore I’ll have to drag my goddamn purse to choir on Sunday, something I never do because I do not want that extra hassle.

Purse….purse… Need to put tonight’s Lyric Opera ticket in purse so I won’t leave it behind when I race out the door.  Where’s my purse?

Yes. WHERE’S MY PURSE?????!!!???????

Think I’ve left it in La Maya’s car. Call her. Of course, she’s not answering the effing cell phone. NO ONE answers cell phone calls. Send high-priority e-mail. Totally FREAK OUT!!!! Every credit card to my name is in that PURSE! As are the checkbooks for my personal bank account AND my business account!!!!!!!!!

Holy sh!t.

Realize I’ve left the chicken sitting on the counter all afternoon. Cover it with tinfoil, lift up the plate and…slop GREASY CHICKEN LIQUID ALL OVER THE COUNTERTOP AND DOWN THE CABINETRY AND ALL OVER THE FRONT OF THE DISHWASHER AND ALL OVER THE FLOOR!

Scrub the counter, scrub the cabinetry, scrub the dishwasher, scrub the floor.

La Maya calls. She’s on the way to the school to pick up the grandchild, of whom she and La Bethulia have custody. She says she’ll bring the purse by.

That is, assuming it’s still in the car and hasn’t been stolen.

Time passes. Continue trying to track down phantom and unexplained bank account entries; continue entering data in spreadsheets.

Around 4:00 p.m. La Maya shows up. She’s found the purse, but not until after a brief scare. When she went out to the car, it wasn’t in there.

OMG, thinks she: someone has already taken it out of the car!

Then she realizes the car is still locked and none of the windows are broken, so it’s not likely the purse was stolen out of her vehicle. This means she has to trudge back into the house, dodging two dogs (one of which wishes for nothing more than to slip out the door and head for Yuma at a dead run) and search for the purse. She finds it on the kitchen counter. Neither one of us can remember my having carried it in there. Relieved, she delivers the satchel to my house.

By now my hair, not surprisingly, is sticking out all over like a witch’s. In mere minutes, I have to be ready to head out to dinner with a friend, thence to a lyric opera musical play.

Plug in hot rollers, throw on a few clothes while they’re heating. Roll hair. Brush teeth. Paint face. Unroll hair, comb hair — not bad, for an old hag!

Exhausted, sit down in front of computer and start writing this post.

5:00 p.m. Phone rings: my friend is outside in the front driveway.

We had a very fine dinner at La Grande Orange, one of the stylish Phoenix-based Portofino restaurants. We decided to try their alleged gluten-free pizza, just for the helluvit, and were delighted to find that it was very delicious. In fact, the thin, crisp crust was actually better, in both of our opinions, than a regular soggy pizza crust. Toppings were outstanding.

So was the wine. But then it should have been: one glass of the house wine cost more than a whole bottle of the plonk I buy at Costco.

11:30 p.m. The musical was fun, long, exhausting. The dog was not fed before I raced out; tossed down some food for her and now will have to wring her out before climbing into the sack, lest she decide the servant should get up at two in the morning to let her out.

And so, to bed, there to hope for a little less craziness tomorrow…

What Happens When You Don’t Keep Up with the Incoming Paperwork at the Funny Farm

AUUUUUUUGGGGHGHGHGHGHG!!!!!

Just LOOK at this!!!!!!!

P1020632

Over the past two or three weeks, I’ve been not feeling on the top shelf. Not only that, but every time I sit down at the flicking computer, I get up so damn spavined I can hardly stand up. So, as you can imagine, I’ve been putting off whatever I could, because I don’t want to sit at the computer any more hours than absolutely necessary, because it hurts to sit at the damn computer. Everything that can’t be put off goes on the front burner, and that includes nothing more than what someone is paying me to do — and not even all of that. The rest of it gets put off for another day.

See that thar, above?

FIVE FLICKING STACKS OF INCOMING!!

• We have stuff to file.

• We have stuff I need to do something about, ASAP.

• We have transactions (in some cases unending lists of transactions) to post. These annoying pieces of paper will then be moved to the TO FILE stack.

• We have the mounds of incoming paper related to the latest identity fraud attempt.

• And we have piles of sh!t that I don’t even know what to do with!

That doesn’t even count the MOUNTAIN of junk that goes directly from the mailbox to the recycling barrel.

And it’s just come in over the past couple of weeks, while I really, truly, haven’t felt like dealing with it.

Am I the only one who feels harassed by the need to keep up with incoming pesky paperwork (or online statements) and overwhelmed when even a week or two goes by without constant upkeep?????

Go ahead. I dare you to click on the photo to see exactly what all those five mounds of paper entail.

Dishwasher Purchase, Chapter 2 :-)

Dishwasher_open_for_loadingHey! Despite all the concern about whether my dinnerware will fit in the bottom rack of the budget-busting new dishwasher, lo! Those gigantic plates fit just FINE. That the tines are closer together means they stand up straighter, take up less space, and so the machine can hold MANY more dishes than the Late Lamented Unit did.

Not only that, but somehow Bosch has managed to redesign the top rack so that — mirabilis! — it holds the wine glasses!! Not only holds them, but holds them with plenty of room to spare!

The old one wouldn’t hold them upright (so they always gathered hard-water spots where water pooled near the rim and on the bottom of the foot), and the fit was so tight that when you closed the top rack they’d sometimes fall over. So there’s a pain in the tuchus that no longer applies.

What a freaking day. You’d think that waiting around for a repairman to show up would be fairly dull, wouldn’t you? Ah, but that’s in real life. The Funny Farm exists in a universe parallel to but slightly out of whack with the Real World.

To start with, certain food items were running low. So I had to make a run on the grocery store, an expedition from where I am.

Then, it’s been so long since I cleaned house that the entire shack lay beneath a layer of litter and debris. Bills were unpaid (most of them still are, as we scribble). The calendar was under a pile of loose papers, so if I was supposed to do anything I had no idea what it might be. Trash was strewn across the dining table, the desks, the floor in the TV room. It had been so long since I’d changed the sheets that Cassie and I were beginning to get nervous about climbing onto the bed. Cassie’s dog-hair-catching bed blanket was white with shed fur. Ugh.

So this morning I had to throw myself around to get through this stuff before InstallerMan showed up.

Meanwhile, I’d fobbed the Chinese Statistico-Psychological Study onto Tina, officially the Associate Editor here at The Copyeditor’s Desk. She had read through it, found a pile of stuff I’d missed and dreamed up some new issues that needed to be fixed, and sent it back. So I needed to finish reading 80 exceptionally opaque pages and do it now, since we are way, way, way, way late in returning this thing to the client.

Fortunately, Client is busying herself with applying for post-docs, a chore that, you can bet, is distracting her attention nicely from our shortcomings.

Hours pass. Hours filled with mind-numbing ditz. Hours filled with batsh!t CHAOS.

InstallerMan, scheduled to show up between 1 and 5, surfaces closer to 1 than to 5. When he phones to announce his advent, he asks me to empty all the junk out from under the sink.

Ducky. I’m in the middle of this complicated, damn near incomprehensible project and now I’ve got to drop everything, get down on hands and knees, and shovel out the freaking kitchen cabinetry!

Luckily, rather little is under there, so it’s not that big a deal. Except that the interruption is annoying.

Back to work. Twenty minutes later, the guy shows up and Cassie greets him with a yapfest. I let him in, move my car, and open the garage door so he can get the contraption into the house with the least possible hassle. Then it’s back to the laptop, trying to get through the Chinglish.

Cassie can’t stand it. She launches into a new yapping frenzy about every three to five minutes. I’m constantly having to quiet her down, and even if I try to ignore her ear-splitting barks, I can not concentrate on this stuff while she’s carrying on and the workman is tromping back and forth.

It takes him an hour or so to get the dishwasher in. During that time, unknown to me he tries to shut off the water to the house — the clothes washer is full of sheets and this will cause God only knows what to happen to THAT pricey contraption; if he’d said something I would’ve gotten up and shut off the washer. The main valve leaks, so, afraid he won’t be able to stop that, he shuts it off, comes into the house, and shuts off the water at the valve under the sink. That leaks, too.

He asks for a bowl so as not to flood the kitchen. I can see we’ll be calling the plumber soon, another gerzillion bucks down the drain.

He manages to get the machine installed. The leak stops. I wish him a happy Thanksgiving, wave good-bye, move the car back into the garage, and race back to the computer.

Finally, finally, finally I arrive at the end of this exercise. A moment of extraordinary good luck occurs: I hit “save” before doing the file conversions I wished to do, and I cleverly saved the project to DropBox.

Can you not see what’s coming?

But of course. When I tried to produce clean copy containing only notes & queries, Word instantly hung.

And it stayed hung. Permanently.

Fukkaroonies.

Trudge into the office, get onto the giant iMac. Save and close every open Wyrd file, of which there were a-plenty (multi-tasking is what I do instead of breathing). Surprisingly, find the saved file in DropBox — something has been saved, anyway.

Persuade file to open — another surprise. Search for the most recent changes…find them. Another surprise. Rename and save to a new directory. It works. Apparently the file has not corrupted. These miracles may never cease.

The big computer compliantly manipulated the damn file as desired and I shipped it off to the client.

Thank heaven for DropBox! If that file had resided on the laptop, I would’ve been SOL.

Anyway, the thing is now mailed to Shanghai; next, the bookkeeping. But first: dinner.

Putting the cleaning gear back under the sink, what should I find but that this connection box thing — very clearly an electrical connection for the machine’s power cord — is laying on the floor of the cabinet, right next to where the cut-off valve allegedly is leaking. It has little holes drilled in its frame — evidently it’s intended to be bolted to a vertical surface. Instead, it’s laying on a surface prone to flooding with leaking water.

Electric box…meet water. Water…meet electric box.

Helle’s Belles. Now I’ll have to call the plumber first thing Monday. Like I haven’t already bankrupted myself!

Image: Open Dishwasher Loaded with Dishes. Carlos Paes. Public domain.