The trouble with going on vacation for a month, particularly if you’re leaving the country, is that you have to get everything in order.
Time’s run out on all those pesky projects.
When the weather got nice, I abandoned my desk for the garden. The gray fleece sweats went into a trunk and the khaki shorts came out. There is nothing as life affirming as the feel of the sun warming the backs of your legs while tending nature’s blessings: watering, weeding, planting or just moving the rocks around.
I’m leaving for France this week–ohmigod, I’ve only got three days left-and my desk is piled high with bills to pay, tax forms to fill out, documents to find, receipts to file, catalog orders to be checked (something’s always on back order).
Every single thing seems to require an hour or more on the telephone, usually in a holding pattern, listening to elevator music interrupted every 30 seconds by an automated voice saying, “Your call is important to us, so please stay on the line. Don’t hang up, the next available idiot, er operator, will take your call.” Yeah, right.
Now there are only a few things you can do while in Bell hell. Those who find canned music soporific can doze off, at the risk of missing the next available operator. I find faux music less soothing than supremely irritating, so a quick nap is out of the question. I have a portable phone, but I can’t carry it out to the garden because if I ever get connected to a live body, they will want a zillion numbers from my invoice or whatever. So, confined to the desk, I do crossword puzzles, pondering the possible synonyms for “parapet opening,” nine letters beginning with “e” or “rendezvous participant,” seven letters ending in “r.” Maybe tryster? Dumb word.
I must limit these telephone quests to one a day or I’ll go mad. For instance: I’ve been trying to get a replacement for a defective plumbing part for about two months. A series of calls to the sales rep went unanswered, messages were not returned, etc. Finally, I reach her, tell her my sad story, give her the numbers off the invoice, and she says, “No problem. Just call Price Pfister and they’ll send you a replacement.” Oookay.
Now P.Pf. holds the all time record for long distance waiting. “Due to the unusually heavy volume of calls, you may experience longer waits than usual (about a week). Please try another time or stay on the line for the next available you know who.” Two minutes of elevator music. La, la, la. Lest we nod off: “Your call is important … blah, blah, blah.”
I’m frowning over 61 across when finally a cheery voice says, “Thank you for waiting. May I help you?” I certainly hope so.
I describe what’s wrong with the faucet, date and place of purchase and a zillion numbers from the invoice. “We should be able to send that to you, but we’ll need you to fax us a copy of the invoice.” Great. I drive two miles to my son-in-law’s shop. The fax won’t go through. Are you sure it’s the right number? I call back; get 20 minutes of la, la, la.
No puzzle, so I gaze at posters of super cross riders flying through the air on their motorcycles. This keeps me awake. Right number. “I’ll go check the fax machine.” Elevator music. “The machine isn’t out of paper or anything, so fax it again. Would you like me to stay on the line till it comes through?” Wow. You bet I would. “I got it,” she says. “It’s very faint, but I can read the letterhead.” She gives me a ticket number and I go home having spent almost three hours on this quest. Out to the garden to recapture my sanity.
Two weeks go by, no faucet, no UPS man driving up the dusty road. I lay out my crossword puzzle and dial with dread. Same drill, I’m lost in the voice mail vortex. Finally a gentleman answers. Ms. Cheery Voice has gone home. Can he find my faucet? How was it sent? He leaves the line. More elevator music. Let’s see, 24 down is “Hillary’s conquest.” Not that one! Seven letters. Oh, it’s Everest.
A voice breaks in mid-cadenza, “It’s on back order.” Fearing I will be in France and the faucet will be left on my deck by the UPS man and carried off into the brush by coyotes, I begin to whimper. “The spout will be in within a day or two, and we’ll send it right out.” That was last week.
It’s three days till blast off. The UPS man delivered my rain barrel, which has been back ordered for two months, but still no bright, chrome faucet spout.
I can’t call P.Pf. again. Today I’m calling the Bakersfield Californian to have my paper delivery stopped for a month. The puzzles are done. I turn on the French tapes. “Je suis presse parceque j’ai beaucoup de choses a’ faire avant je part pour des vacances.” A voice from the ether asks if I’d like the Spanish translation.
Sacre Bleu!