Planned Obsolescence?

Rant alert.

I've been pussyfooting around a two-year old LG refrigerator repair issue for a week now (The fridge is two, not the repair issue. Yet.)  Our wonderful repair guy told me that he doesn't work on LGs anymore because it's too hard to get parts, and suggested I find a factory authorized repairman since the problem may still be under warranty. 

I Googled "factory authorized repairs LG" and got some pretty shady-sounding results. Then I went on the LG website "find a repairman" page. Entered my zip code (in Little Rock, Arkansas) and got "No data available." Next, I called Home Depot, where we bought the fridge, for recommendations where I was told, "We don't do repairs if you didn't purchase an extended warranty from us," which we didn't because major appliances should function as intended for many, many years. 

Back to the LG site; found a number for Customer Service (where my call was very important to them, so I should please enjoy this lovely music for awhile) and ultimately got to chat with a very pleasant young lady named Michelle who sounded as if she were somewhere on the sub-continent. She walked me through the script and ultimately found two authorized repairmen "in my area" -- one is in Sherwood; the other is in Joplin, MO. Sherwood will have to do.

*deep sigh*

I guess the moral of the story is: next time go with something other than LG. Even if Michelle is very friendly and somewhat helpful.

Or move to Joplin.

Rant Alert: Madison Avenue Elicits Moogie's Ire

Above is part of the front page of an advertising insert from Sunday's Demo-zette. It's for a new restaurant here in Little Rock, BJ's Restaurant and Brewhouse.

The insert tickles the taste buds by featuring photos of pretty tasty looking food. It's colorful. It pictures a group of smiling people, of all ages, genders, races, and ethnicities -- we can easily imagine that they're happy because they've just eaten a delicious meal and thrown back a couple of house-brewed beverages. It promotes BJ's online services. It promotes new menu items. It has everything you'd expect to prompt you to go to BJ's.

No. It doesn't.

This ad is representative of a recent trend in marketing that drives me stark-staring nuts. The consumer is forced to search the entire ad, including fine print, to find out where the dadgummed place is located!! In this particular case, the address of BJ's is nowhere to be found.

The web page address where you may order in advance of arriving is provided, but nowhere do they tell you where to arrive.

The web page address where you may pay anytime you're ready is provided, but nowhere do they tell you where you'll be served your food.

They warn you that "[consuming] raw or undercooked meats, poultry, seafood, shellfish or eggs may increase your risk of foodborne illness," but nowhere do they tell you where you might consume those potentially tainted foodstuffs.

No phone number.

AAAGGGHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm not a total Luddite. I obviously managed to locate BJ's website, and hence its address, by doing a simple Google search. That's not the problem.

Obviously, the ad served some of its purpose. I noticed all those things listed above about food and people and eye-catching colorfulness.  That's not the point.

The problem is that I, the paying customer, was inconvenienced. I had to make an effort to research a restaurant's location so I could picture where it is in my mind instead of just seeing it in the ad. That makes me be perfectly willing to skip BJ's for now and go instead to a restaurant that cares enough about its customers' comfort to tell the customer where its fare may be consumed. There are plenty of them out there.

Also, once I started glancing over the ad, I was sucked into it, now on a mission to find out where the freakin' place IS!

Take note, Marketeers: Moogie is not pleased with your current strategy. And that's the point.

Rant over. Have a nice afternoon.

Who Knew the Grim Reaper Had a Sense of Irony?

Let's chat a bit about Clayton Lockett.

You know -- the late Clayton Lockett who's reaping all kinds of misguided (and misplaced) sympathy because the drugs used to execute him didn't kill him quickly enough to satisfy death penalty opponents.

The late Clayton Lockett, career criminal.

The late Clayton Lockett who was convicted and sentenced to death by a jury for the torture, beating, rape, sodomy, burying alive, and murder of a 19 year-old young woman in Oklahoma -- a young victim who was selected at random during a crime spree Lockett launched shortly after he was released from prison.

The late Clayton Lockett who died of a heart attack some 43 minutes after he was sedated, and after writhing, twitching, and convulsing for quite some time while the Grim Reaper took a coffee break.

The Clayton Lockett whom doctors contemplated taking to the hospital shortly before he breathed his last. (Taking to the hospital?!?!)

The Clayton Lockett whom many claim suffered a "botched" execution.

That execution wasn't botched. Clayton Lockett died. In agony, as did his victim. Man may err, but God doesn't make mistakes.

And I believe it was probably the vengeful, Old Testament God who had a hand in Clayton Lockett's demise.

So, shall we chat about Clayton Lockett?

No. Let the trash in the landfill stay undisturbed.

I'm not a good enough Christian to feel any pity toward that animal. Nor to speak his name ever again.

Young, Foolish, and Felonious

My goodness. Moogie seems to have been the Negative Nellie the past few posts.

I don't see that changing today.

It's just that there is sooooo much stupidity out there. And so much of the stupid originates in the criminal justice system.

It seems that Arkansas has a relatively new law making it a felony to "exchange sexually explicit material involving anyone under the age of 17" or to distribute, possess or view "matter depicting sexually explicit conduct involving a child." Arkansas Democrat-Gazette.

Now, don't get me wrong -- I don't have a problem with the law, per se. It's a perfectly acceptable function of government to protect children from  those who would exploit them, for whatever reason.  But, when government uses laws like this to punish children, it overreaches that function and sets young people on a dangerous path that can affect them for the rest of their lives.

Yep, the Jacksonville Police busted three young teenagers who had been "sexting" with one another and charged them with felonies. The sexted videos had been messaged to other kids, too. The kids are a 14 year-old boy and two girls, ages 13 and 14. In other words, they are young enough to be daredevils, ignorant of the law, and foolish.

I have a problem with enforcing laws upon a class of people the laws were designed to protect -- in this case, children under 17 years of age. At least the kids were charged in Juvenile Court instead of County Criminal Court. Hopefully the Juvy Judge will find a way to make this felony expungeable so these kids aren't stamped with a Scarlet "Felon" from the get-go and for the rest of their lives. Their reputations are already trashed. Even if the offense was committed by their own doing, they need to be made aware of the ramifications of the transgression without bearing the full clout of a felony.

The Legislature needs to work on this statute a bit -- give it some much-needed tweaking. But, oh nooooooo. They're too busy debating critical matters like the constitutionality of requiring Voter ID and whether we should have more biking paths.

Help!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This Guy Ain't Exactly Mister Rogers

Just look at this sweet face, soaking in the warm, early-spring sun this afternoon.  Take a good, long look. Can you imagine this people-pleasing pup being guilty of doing anything to cause a human being any consternation?

I didn't think so.

Well, guess again.

Yesterday, Pepper and I were working in the backyard, getting ready for spring by raking up near-literal tons of leaves and sweet gum balls, and the dogs were "helping" us by transporting sticks from one spot to another, and playing in general as big dogs are wont to do. They wandered off every now and then, so we tried to keep up with their whereabouts and call them back if they strayed too far for comfort. 

Looking from the deck, this is part of the green space with a little creek running through it behind the house. You can imagine how big ol' Labradors would just relish romping around out there.

As we were packing up the tools and getting ready to call it a day in the clean-up department, Pepper whistled for Bouie.  At the same time, a neighbor we've never met (because they live on a street far away -- our backyard backs up to that green belt, as do many others from many other streets) yelled out, "Hey!!! Your dog is in my yard taking a pi$$!"

Seeing as how that's pretty much what boy dogs do, both of us were a bit taken aback, as you might imagine.

As you may have deduced over the years that there is a reason my husband's parents nicknamed him "Pepper," you might also imagine that the air might have turned blue in Pepper's general vicinity while he explained to the unneighborly neighbor just how the cow ate the cabbage. (Or, how the labrador hiked his leg.) But, the air retained its pure, clean hue.

Instead, a few long moments of silence ensued while my imagination worked overtime at lightning speed to try to predict what was preparing to explode form my soulmate's mouth.  But then, instead of spewing invective, he simply said rather loudly, "Oh. . . . Sorry."  Then he called Bouie again.

I was very proud of my Pepper for taking the high road.  Even so, we both had a hard time letting go of this episode throughout the evening.  I mean, Bouie didn't poop, or trample any plants, or "water" the guy's grill cover or anything! He aimed at a tree, for crying out loud!  I mean, it's still stuck in my craw today. What does that guy think the coyotes do back there?!?!  No one should use that tone with someone he's never met.  Nor with his best friends or acquaintances, for that matter.

Here's a view of the neighbor's "pristine" yard from the back rail of our deck:

Looks pretty special, huh?  I'm glad the trees will leaf out soon and we won't have to look at it until Fall.

While all the neighbors on our street are very nice, pleasant folks, the people on his street must not all fit that bill.  I have, therefore, decided to put this guy in the "a**holes I don't care to get to know better" category. He'll have to earn his way out of it.

What do you wanna bet that he's a progressive?

Sheesh.

Where is Ernestine When You Really Need Her?

We recently received in the snailmail an Explanation of Benefits from Aetna in connection with Pepper's little "procedure" back in December.  We received it a little late because, once again, it was mailed to Moogie's Mansion in New Orleans instead of to the Manor, here in Little Rock.

Pepper had tried to change the address several times online, but his attempts apparently never took.  So, with that vein in his forehead throbbing to beat the band, he "suggested" that perhaps it would be wise if I called Aetna to speak to a human being about the address change instead of subjecting said human being to the wrath of Pepper.

Thus, this afternoon, beginning at approximately 1:23 pm, I spent 15 minutes on hold with Aetna (2 full minutes of which were responding to prompts to push a certain number for a certain service). Then, after acquiring a live human being at long last, I was sweetly informed that Aetna doesn't accept changes of address; I'd need to do that through Pepper's former employer, Entergy.  Would I like her to give me that number?

No, Sweet-voiced Young Lady. I'd rather just take my chances feeding random numbers into the phone.  Of COURSE I'd like to have that number!

Then she had to put me on hold to find the number.

*sigh*

Once I was armed with the number to Entergy's HR & Benefits Department, I climbed up the next phone-prompts tree of pushing a certain number for a certain service. Fortunately I wasn't put on hold this time for too long, and was soon speaking to a very nice lady whose name I won't even attempt to spell.   As she was typing away on the changes, we chatted about the differences between New Orleans and Arkansas, and I bade her Happy Mardi Gras as we hung up at 2:01.

So that's how my afternoon has gone.  And here's how I feel about that:

TAKE THE FLIPPING ON-HOLD RECORDING AND FINE TUNE IT!!!!! Listen to it yourself every now and then to hear how it sounds.  If it's so scratchy and garbled that it sounds like it's being played on a Gramophone, FINE TUNE IT!!!!  CHOOSE SOME BETTER BACKGROUND MUSIC!!!!  Elevator music is for elevators from which you're fairly certain that you will be escaping shortly. DO NOT TELL ME REPEATEDLY THAT MY CALL IS "VERY IMPORTANT" TO YOU!!!!!!!! The fact that you've had me on hold for eons is proof positive that you don't give a good diddly squat about me or my call. If you insist on regularly interrupting the lovely background music, and getting my hopes up that I'm on the brink of speaking to a human being, simply tell me that you remain cognizant that I exist and am on hold in your queue; don't court me with your declarations of my import.

Whew. I feel better now.

I'd feel even better if businesses would just return to the days of having switchboard operators -- the sources of all information. Or, at least the repository of everybody's business.

I'm Too Relieved to be Too Terribly Angry

Way back on April 15th, Pepper and I did the Concealed Carry Course and I mailed off our packets the next day.  The packets were returned some three weeks later because I had enclosed personal checks for the fees instead of cashier's checks.  I corrected the oversight and mailed them back in the next day.

*sigh*

My 34th anniversary gift was a sweet little .22 that fits my hand perfectly, together with a neat little holster that nestles divinely in the small of my back.

Our anniversary was June 9th.

Still waiting.

Having been mailed from Baton Rouge on July 3rd, Pepper's permit arrived in our mailbox last Saturday, the 7th.  He and Bouie have been having safer walks since.  But what about Moogie's?

Do you see where this is going?

I rifled through Saturday's mail in the trash and combed through magazines and advertising circulars searching for the envelope.  I was just about to fear I'd failed the background check, but I strongly suspected that an envelope bearing the return address, "Concealed Handgun Permit Unit," had been mis-delivered by our cracker-jack postal carrier to some thug's house who was going to alter the photo and use it for no good.  I've re-delivered mis-delivered mail so often around here that I should be on the USPS payroll.  Then, this afternoon I got a Facebook message from my good neighbor to tell me that he had just put an important-looking envelope in my mailbox that had been delivered to his house by mistake.  And my good neighbor is not a thug!!

So, now I'm legal!!!

Thanks, R.C.!

(The picture of me is absolutely horrid, so I covered it up to spare your eyes.  I hope I don't ever have to show it to anyone!)

Blogger Ate My Post!!

Seriously?  I went in to do one little edit, had a blank screen, hit publish, and the post went away?!?!

I'll try to re-construct it shortly, but I'm just a little too miffed right now.

Your Government Thinks You're a Dolt

So.  NPR characterizes the Obamacare/Sebelius contraceptives regulation as follows:

This past week, President Barack Obama offered a compromise to his controversial requirement that faith-based institutions provide contraception in employee health plans. Under the new rules, religiously affiliated employers will not be required to offer free contraceptive coverage. Churches were already exempt. Instead, insurance companies would have to offer and pay for contraception.

The U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops, while a bit wobbly at first, has now firmed up and declared the mandate to be a "nationwide government coercion of religious people and groups to sell, broker or purchase 'services' to which they have a moral or religious objection," and "an unprecedented attack on religious liberty."

Last week, while some in the liberal press were heaping praise on Obama as the Great Compromiser, I was scratching my head.  I never saw a "compromise" in the proposed regulations; the only shift I saw in the requirement to provide free contraceptives was in pocketbooks -- providing contraceptives moved from the employer's own purse to the employer's checkbook as he writes a check for insurance premiums, then to the insurer's pocketbook which is filled as he cashes the premium check, whose amount has gone up to cover the insurer's "hidden" increased costs.  Everyone will still have access to "free" contraceptives; however, we must bear in mind, as my Daddy taught me -- there is no free lunch.  Anywhere.  Ever.

When the headlines and pundits were screaming that Obama had won, and brokered a "save" for his mandate, there had been no actual "save."  There had not been any distinctive change at all to Government's dictate that we all not only purchase insurance, but that we also purchase insurance that covers what Government decrees.  Contraceptives will still be paid for by everyone through their premiums, even if they're not broken out by line item.  Trust me on this one. 

Did some people actually believe that, simply because there will not be birth control vending machines onsite at workplaces, those employers and employees won't be paying for them anyway?

I really don't have a dog in this hunt because I'm not terribly passionate about reproductive issues.  But -- come on, people!!!!!  Listen, and think!!!  This is little more than the next step by progressive liberals in their quest to protect us all because they know what's best for everyone, and simple people shouldn't be burdened with having to make their own decisions and choices.  And simple people certainly shouldn't be influenced by religious views because religion tends to be a little too steely in its dogma, and simple people certainly shouldn't be snookered into making a decision based on what their churches teach them.

The Supreme Court cannot hear the challenge to this whole tyrannical scheme too soon to suit me, but how much money will have been wasted, how many tears shed, and how much more divided will the nation be by the time an opinion is rendered?

If we still have a nation.

Sorry.  Today is a doom and gloom day.

Some People Need to Break Out of Their Own Little Universe

If I had to choose one thing that makes that big vein in Pepper's temple swell and pulse to beat the band, it's encountering another driver who is talking, or texting, on a cell phone.  (Asian women drivers in New Orleans are a close second, but cell phones definitely win). 

I can usually tolerate chatting drivers, unless they're totally distracted and approaching me under head-on-collision conditions, but I saw something today that I. Could. Not. Believe.

I was sitting at a red light and heard/saw an ambulance coming down the four-lane cross-street with lights flashing and siren blaring.  There were several cars ahead of it, most of which were jockeying for position to get out of its way.  Most of them, that is, except for the lady talking on the cell phone and gesticulating wildly as she moseyed on down the road in her silver Altima, totally oblivious to the ambulance on her rear bumper.  I mean totally oblivious.

She didn't even react when the driver honked at her as he turned onto the side street where Touro Hospital is located.  I suppose Touro was its destination, and that tells me that it was loaded with someone in enough medical distress to summon an ambulance.  And with the cost of medical transport these days, there had to be plenty of medical distress involved to make that kind of investment!  And, although unlikely, that woman could potentially have cost that patient precious seconds in receiving life-saving treatment!

They say that what goes around, comes around, and that Karma is a bitch.  If that's the case -- and I do believe it is -- I'd say that we should all steer clear of the lady in the silver Altima for the near future.

Sheesh.  Some people.

Musings About Hatred

I'm not one to hate easily.  But, do you know what I hate?

I hate it when thoughtless, slovenly people throw empty glass bottles into the water at City Park where adorable dogs who are banned from the City Bark Dog Park because they're still in possession of their family jewels must go to swim instead.

Then, I really hate it when one must drop a C-note at the vet to fix the by-product of that thoughtlessness.

At least he didn't have to have stitches.  Poor puppy.

Musings: Legal Education in a Different Vein

I was watching "Horrible Bosses" on the Jaywalking segment of The Tonight Show last night and it brought a rather unpleasant memory out of hiding.  Not as bad as some of those, but unpleasant nonetheless.

There weren't a whole heckuva lot of lady lawyers in Arkansas when I graduated from law school.  I was only the second to be hired in my firm (even though most of the new-hire associates and clerks in the next few following years were ladies.  Or women, at least.)  In those days, the late 70s/early 80s, there was still a "Men's Grill" at the Little Rock Club where a whole lotta gender-segregated business went down during the lunch and cocktail hours -- the Men's Grill was open only to folks with external plumbing.

I had done a lot of grunt work on one case -- research, writing pleadings and motions, tracking things down.  I remember, two senior partners (one of which was my cherished mentor -- a friend of my father; the other was Daddy's fraternity brother) and I had been in the large conference room for hours with opposing counsel, working on settlement negotiations, when it got to be about lunchtime. 

At a break, just as we were getting really close to a settlement, Fraternity Brother stood up, stretched, and announced, "Let's take this over to the Club."  Everyone stood up but me, gathered what they needed, and headed for the door; Mentor was the last in line.  I'm certain that my face flashed twelve different shades of red. 

As they filed  out of the room, I stood, and as I straightened my files and picked up my coffee cup, Mentor turned to see me preparing to head to my office upstairs.  He said, "Oh.  Moogie.  We can go to the regular dining room instead of the Grill."  I thought it over for a minute and told him, "No, that won't be necessary; just let me continue to bill over lunch while I get these notes cleaned up."

I'll never forget the expression on his face.  He finally got it. 

I didn't then, nor do now, object to gender-specific, or race-specific, clubs in general; but I did, and do, object to using them to conduct business to the detriment of a player via exclusion.

That particular scenario didn't play out again, either with me or with any of the other women -- probably because, of course, the "good ol' girls' network" was quickly made privy to that incident.  Along with the named and managing partners, I'd bet.  Accordingly, I like to think I had something to do with the education of the partners of my old firm.

I also like to think I had something to do with the rather generous maternity policy for lady lawyers at the firm.  Since I was the prototype (the first pregnant associate), the senior partners asked me what I needed, so I told them: since I would do a little work at home (which I did, including testifying for one of the partners 1 1/2 weeks after Younger Daughter was born), I expected to be paid, and that I needed at least the standard (at that time) six weeks off, clearance from my OB to return to work, time for doctor appointments, continuation in benefits, and deeming the pregnancy in the same light as they would any other disability.  They had no counter.  See The Pregnancy Act of 1978.

They also had no ammunition to argue against continuing the paid leave when I needed an extra four weeks with Elder Daughter due to some recovery issues.  Or two weeks of bed rest before Younger Daughter was born due to a serious lung infection, complete with at least one visit to the ER before I was scheduled to give a dinner party.  But, that's another story.

So, I guess "horrible bosses" don't have to be horrible if they're schooled appropriately, even if one of the senior partners insisted on putting his arm around me when I was great with child and explaining to me how Cherokee women just stepped off the trail, gave birth, and kept right on moving along the Trail of Tears.  He was not exactly a sensitive 70s kind of guy.  (not like Buck!)  Arm-arounder's wife left him and he wound up leaving the firm, living on a boat on the Arkansas River.  Literally.  (But considerably nicer than a van down by the river!)

I guess they don't have to be totally horrible bosses.  It just takes a good teacher.  With thick skin.  ;-)

First They Came for the Light Bulbs . . . .

I think it's just a matter of being treated like a child by my very own government, but this light bulb thing is beginning to tick me off.

I didn't pay much attention when the manufacturing ban on incandescent light bulbs was first enacted -- heck, who did?  But now real-live shortages are cropping up.  I'm sure I'll wind up being "nudged" into buying the new, expensive bulbs that put out crappy light, but I don't have to be happy about it!  After all, ladies of a certain age prefer softer light.  Just ask Blanche Dubois.

On Tuesday, 228 Republicans voted yes on HR 2417 to repeal the ban; ten Republicans voted no. 183 Democrats voted no, but only five Democrats voted yes, so I'm guessing it will do me absolutely no good to contact my new, uber-Democrat (non)Representative.

This might be what we're really in for in the not-too-distant future:



There's another vote in the House, probably tomorrow, on another Bill (HR 337, energy and water appropriations) to which the Burgess amendment (to repeal the manufacturing ban) was offered today; this bill will take only a simple majority to pass.  Maybe it's not too late to wrest business decisions away from Washington and put them back in the hands of consumers.

Then again, maybe it was too late a long time ago.

Run!  The Nudge is coming!!

I Don't *Heart* the USPS Bureaucrats

Younger Daughter received the cute wedding ring/wedding cake stamps last week that I had ordered online so she could mail her elegant wedding invitations (that require extra postage, of course).  I did a Little Rock road trip over the weekend to go to a few parties -- lingerie shower and welcome-home-to-The-Son -- so we spent Friday evening stamping and stuffing all those envelopes.  We couldn't deposit them in a mailbox, though, because the return address labels weren't ready (somehow, we neglected to have return address labels printed on the envelopes, and the sweet young friend who addressed all those envelopes didn't have the strength to do returns).

Guess what happened on Sunday?

Yep.  Postal rates went up for "oddly-shaped first class items." 

Yep -- 3 cents per.

Who knew that a square is an "odd" shape that makes things heavier?

The USPS doesn't make cute wedding-ish 3 cent stamps.

Younger daughter wants this to be over with, so she couldn't wait out having custom stamps made from one of those neat websites out there, and I didn't want to argue with her about it.  "I want them out of my house," she said through teeth that I could hear clenching up over the phone.  (That small voice in my head whispered, "Choose your battles," and I chose to heed the voice.)

At least she didn't go all "postal" in the Post Office substation when she got the bad news after going in to check whether the rate increase we heard about on the Sunday news briefs would apply in this circumstance.  I think she might have gotten a little teary-eyed, though, because the kindly Post Office clerk told her she could probably give it a shot and maybe they'd let the invitations slip through since it's so close to the rate change.  But, she didn't want to take the chance of having all those invitations being returned for insufficient postage, and a line was developing behind her. 

A kind lady in line behind her expressed sympathy for this latest pothole in the road to wedded bliss and asked how many extra stamps she would need.  When Younger Daughter sweetly, yet tersely, replied, "Two hundred sixty," the kind lady's face kinda drained of color and she repeated her sympathies.  She did not, however, offer to help re-stamp all those invitations.

*sigh*

Moogie's Interesting Day

After last night's rather forceful hail storm, today has been one of "interesting times," as in the old Chinese proverb and curse.

Let's recap, shall we?

I stepped in dog poop on the way to a doctor's appointment.  With both shoes.

Younger Daughter picked up the "Plan B" bridesmaids' dresses today (chosen after it came to pass that "Plan A" didn't come in navy blue after all) and says they're hideous and noisy.  Plus, the shoes agreed upon after quite a lengthy debate and much discussion have been discontinued.

Pepper is sick with a chest cold on the day before I leave town for bridal frivolity.

The grocery was out of rotisserie chicken, with which I was going to pamper myself after an "interesting" day.  I deserve pampering, so we're going with by-golly fried chicken!  (Suffer with the image of fried chicken, Michelle Obama.  Suffer.)

And, it seems that, at five feet in height, and not-obese-poundage in weight, and at 56 genteel years of age, Moogie can still change a flat tire.  In drizzling rain.  With freshly washed and styled hair.  In under an hour.

I despise so very much the interminable wait for automotive assistance in the Crescent City that, after checking twice that the tire was in fact too flat to make it to Firestone (because I was in denial after the first time), I decided to walk the two blocks home to change clothes, and to change the sucker myself.

First I re-scheduled the doctor's appointment.  Those people charge you anyway if you decide just not to show up! 

Then, I pulled out the owner's manual to brush up on where all the tire-changing equipment is located (and to figure out how to use that fancy twist-instead-of-pump-to-operate jack -- this alone should give you an idea of how long it's been since Moogie changed a flat)  (and where, exactly, to place the fancy jack) (and how to lower the spare from its snug perch beneath the MoogieMobile).  Those fine folks at Toyota wrote a driver's manual that is actually helpful! 

I miscalculated how very heavy a full-size spare for an SUV crossover is, but somehow, and with much perspiring and colorful language and laughing aloud all by myself at the absurdity of the whole situation, I managed to wrestle the flat tire off, and the spare onto, that wretched rear passenger-side wheel.

Of course, all along I was hoping against hope that some kind gentleman would happen upon me and come to my rescue.  My Mama didn't raise no foolish children, after all.  And, about 35 minutes into the process, just as I had gotten that "interesting" jack to lift the car to an adequate height, and was preparing to pull the contemptible flat off, from the corner of my eye I spied a white pick-up truck slowing, and coming to a stop across the street!  I heard the door shut, and sensed the motion of someone heading in my direction!

Not wanting to appear too eager, I didn't immediately turn on the damsel-in-distress charm for my Good Samaritan.  And, it's a good thing I didn't bother wasting any of that charm because the man who headed in my direction was not a Good Samaritan -- he was the Samaritan's evil twin.  Or Satan incarnate.

First, he asked me in passing, "How ya doin'?"  As I replied, "I've been better," he continued to stroll right into the nicely manicured yard beside which the hobbled MoogieMobile was parked. Then he sashayed past me again to open the gate.  All in all, that scrawny landscape guy passed me, as I strained and sweated, FIVE times.  Then he crossed the street, got in his truck, and took off, without so much as a fare thee well.

After more colorful language, and considerably more perspiring (I was well beyond "glowing" by this time), I succeeded in getting the spare situated, and stood on the lug wrench to tighten each nut.  And, just as I was preparing to crank the despicable flat up into position to take it to be repaired, good neighbor Wayne pulled up.  He asked if I needed any help, and when I said no thanks -- I was just putting stuff away now -- he remarked that he had apparently gotten there at just the right time. 

Ha.  Ha. 

When I told him about the landscape guy, he asked if the guy was blonde.  I told him, no, he was more grayish and really slim.  He said, "Yeah that'd be Joel.  Doesn't surprise me that he'd take off without helping."  So, apparently Joel's reputation precedes him, and follows him.

I rinsed my hands with water from a thermos and toweled off with stowed-away Wendy's napkins,  (I apparently failed to see the filth on my calves, acquired while trying to coax the spare onto the frickin' wheel.  At least I didn't notice it until I was sitting and soaking in the pedicure chair -- which, by the way, I absolutely deserved today!  The nice pedicure lady made an "interesting" face when I apologized for having filth on my calves because I had just changed a flat tire.  She should count her blessings that at least I took a quick spit bath of the important parts and changed clothes before going there.) and headed for Firestone.  The nice clerk checked and aired up all my tires, apologizing because my tire can't be ready until tomorrow.  When I'm leaving town.  In my car.  And then they were out of soap in the ladies room.

*Sigh*

So, I'm going to indulge in a cocktail this evening before our fried chicken dinner.  And it's good to know that I can still change a tire when the necessity presents itself.  I suppose.

I'm gonna be sooooo sore tomorrow.

Moogie, the Feckless-Techless, Presents (Hopefully) Carnival 2011 in Pictures

Well, for some reason, the videos that I posted yesterday appear to be "Unavailable at this time."

And I just wasted a couple of hours creating a PowerPoint slideshow of pics from Carnival to share, complete with in-depth descriptions, but apparently one can't import a PowerPoint slideshow to Mr. Blogger.  And, one apparently can't copy and paste dialogue from a PowerPoint slideshow anywhere.

*Sigh*

So, I'm trying a different tactic by creating a slideshow in Flickr of the same pics, but greatly abbreviated commentary.  I'll try to import it here.  If that doesn't work, check for Moogie in a bell tower with a computer, about to toss said computer overboard.

Somedays it really sucks to be so low-tech and feckless-techless.

The Marketeers Are Out-clevering Themselves

Being the civic-minded citizen she is, Moogie often signs online petitions related to many diverse causes from the heathcare debate, to the resurgent cancer of organized labor, to women's issues, and beyond (after checking out the cause beforehand, of course).

Occasionally, the organization that sponsors a petition will email a follow-up survey about the petition's content or the issue or whatever.  I usually don't mind responding to a brief survey if I feel that I won't be marrying myself to the organization by doing so.  No big deal.

Except.  Except when the organization moves itself into the fundraising field.  Even so, and rarely, I will contribute to a cause from time to time if I feel my little pittance will actually matter in advancing the cause I've adopted as my own.

But now the marketeers have come up with a new scam, and it has gotten Moogie to seeing red. 

The other day I received an email from one of those organizations about political issues, which ones I feel -- as a woman -- deserve a voice in DC, and why.  I decided to take the survey.  It was composed of thoughtful questions about significant issues and called for actual analysis before answering.  How, exactly, do I rank surreptitious efforts to regulate environmental issues rather than passing them through the legislative process?  Which is more important to me -- repealing healthcare or slowing Congress down from its breakneck speed of legislating-frenzy?  I spent a good 30 minutes thinking about, and crafting,  my answers.  Then I hit "Submit."  And the survey took me to a "You haven't donated yet" page.  And it wouldn't accept my survey form until I gave it a credit card.  So, I closed the window (actually, I did the virtual equivalent of slamming the window shut!) and vowed not only not to play with those people anymore, but also to be much more circumspect about who will be invited to play with me in the future.

That, folks, is theft by deception.  You're stealing my time by asking for my help and then trying to guilt me into ponying up the bucks.  You're stealing my time by leading me to believe that I'm participating in something worthwhile.  You're stealing my time without giving the disclaimer up front.

You're no better than a three-card Monty game, or the scammer in the French Quarter who bets you $20 he can tell you "where you got your shoes at."  You're as bad or worse than the folks in Nigeria/London who inform you that you've hit the Nigerian lottery/become co-heir by default to a huge fortune, and that you can claim the spoils by providing the correspondent with your banking deposit information/a contribution to offset costs of probating the estate.

So, here's fair warning, Good Causes and your Marketeers: it won't fly anymore at Moogie's Mansion.  Don't keep doing it and risk ruining it for all the other causes out there, because Moogie is just about to the point of cutting all of you off from her time as well as her money.

And, that you can take to the bank.

Musings on a Dark and Rainy Evening

Here are some musings for ya.

How come the garbage bag waits to break and spill until you've struggled to get out of the kitchen door without an eager dog, it's dark and rainy, and you've already busted a blood vessel trying to move the big green monster trash can far enough away from the house to get the lid to stay propped open so you could've swung the previously unbusted garbage bag into said big green monster on an evening when your blood sugar is running low and you've been understandably a little testy? Trust me, you've been understandably a little testy. Trust me, okay?!?!

And just who busts a blood vessel in the knuckle of her pinky finger anyway? And who ever suspected a busted blood vessel in the pinky finger would smart so much?

Just wondering.