Ha Ha! I win!

March 12, 2007 / lintqueen / 2 Comments

But it was a long and difficult war.

So, in the saga of The Broken, I’d already lost a light bulb (in a fixture waaaaaay up high). kindly offered a loan of one of those long bulb-changing-sticks, but I decided I had better just buy one anyway.

Steps in changing light bulb

1) Buy bulb-changing-stick and attempt to remove old bulb. This is trickier than it seems, in that you have to kind of jam this little cage around the light bulb, which wouldn’t be terribly difficult except for the fact that the bulb is sheathed and there’s not much wiggle room. I am also missing the (almost exclusively male, I suspect) “force it gene”, so I don’t like pushing things when there’s clearly the sort of resistance that might end up with glass shards in my bed.
2) Take bulb to Home Despot. At this point I figure I’m way ahead of the game, in that I actually have a bulb to match (as opposed to my more normal approach of a bulb burning out, ending up at Home Despot, and then trying to describe the bulb to one of the orange-aproned people [“Well, it’s sort of egg-shaped and is medium bright with one of the little screwey-in parts”]).
3) Discover that having a bulb to match is not All That when the bulb is devoid of any markings.
4) By process of elimination (proper screwy-in part, right diameter), decide that bulb is a 60W halogen.
5) Once home, dig through giant expanding file folder of everything that was related to house addition in 2001. Become unreasonably pleased to (a) find the fan brochure and (b) deduce from the light kit description and the bulb packaging that I’ve actually chosen the correct one.
6) Put new bulb in bulb-changing-stick
7) [This step is intentionally out of chronological order]. Have moment of remorse when writing blog entry that I didn’t think to write down the bulb type before throwing away the package.
8) After some amount of cursing, get new bulb threads engaged properly (something I find difficult even in the best-case head-on scenario).
9) WE HAVE LIGHT! HOORAY! REJOICE!!!
10) Moment of joy quickly passes to be replaced by overwhelming panic: THE BULB-CHANGING-STICK WILL NOT LET GO OF THE BULB. HEAT! FIRE! MELTING PLASTIC GOO!
11) Calm returns as I realize I can just turn off the light at the switch and deal with the dislodgement of the bulb-changing-stick at my leisure.
12) THE SWITCH WILL NOT TURN OFF!!! HEAT! FIRE! MELTING PLASTIC GOO!
13) Calm returns as I realize I can just turn off the switch at the breaker box.
14) THE BREAKER IS NOT LABELED!!! HEAT! FIRE! MELTING PLASTIC GOO!

(Repeat steps 13 & 14 while flipping off and on every breaker in the house. Notice none of them seem to correlate with the light. Turn off ALL THE BREAKERS to be safe. Listen while UPS boxes cry.)

15) Belatedly discover that the breaker in question is the last one in the breaker box and controls the utility room lights …where the breaker box is.
16) Grope for emergency lantern.
17) After returning to bedroom, see that the bulb-changing stick is still stuck to the bulb in its socket. (Don’t ask me what made me think that somehow finding the right breaker would entirely resolve the problem, but I did.)
18) After tugging on the bulb-changing-stick several times and wishing wholeheartedly for the coveted “force-it gene”, unscrew the pole and bulb.
19) Net progress at this point is -1. Now I have a gaping hole (which is somehow worse than a non-functional bulb, which you can at least pretend you’ve *chosen* to leave off.)

(This is where the Stupid and Stubborn sets in. I get this way when there’s something that is “taunting” me with its wrongness. And it’s sufficiently late and I’ve taken an Ambien. Note: Ambien increases susceptibility to Stupid and Stubborn.)

20) Get ladder (ladder, of course, is stuck in corner of still-dark utility room).
21) Put ladder on bed (I warned you. Stupid and Stubborn).
22) Climb ladder while ladder is on bed (I was thinking something like “well, gee, Cirque du Soleil people would do something like this, so I should be able to too.” Give credit to Ambien for that logic.
23) Stand on the “do not stand above this step” step.
24) Change FRIGGIN’ bulb already.
25) Dismount. Return ladder. Turn on breaker. Figure out how to disable the switch (by pulling out a little tab-jobby with my chief tab-jobby-pulling-tool: tweezers). Decide I should probably quit for the evening. (Probably the smartest decision I’ve made to this point).
26) Sulk for several days about the light situation. Finally, when it has taunted you enough, call Smarthome to troubleshoot the switch (which, just ’cause I can’t Keep It Simple Stupid, is X-10).
27) Switch is, as I expected, ka-put. What I hadn’t expected is that it was my fault. Turns out that with X-10 switches (particularly ones controlling halogen bulbs), if the switch is on when the bulb makes contact, the resulting spike is enough to cause a short.
28) Order new switch. (Things at this point are going much better, so drama quotient is much lower).
29) Replace old switch with new (YAH ME!). I had labeled breaker (after the earlier kerfluffle) so I was able to kill it without trauma, remove the faceplace, unconnect and reconnect appropriate wires and get the whole contraption stuffed back into the VERY TIGHT junction box.
30) Rejoice.

Notes to myself:
1) Next time write down (you have a blog, dummy!) the bulb name
2) Next time make sure the switch is OFF before installing the new bulb
3) Next time don’t climb up on the ladder on the bed
4) Next time you have anything built, suggest that the electrician use a junction box that’s +1 more slot than will actually be there (assuming that’s not illegal).

Notes to companies that make electrical stuff:
1) If you want me to turn off the switch before removing the bulb, you should tell me that!
2) STOP using Phillips head screws to hold the switches into the junction box and using flathead to screws to hold the faceplate on the wall — that’s inefficient and causes me to have to find TWO screwdrivers that are the right size. Why does anyone even use flatheads at all? Are they somehow much less expensive to manufacture than Phillips?
3) Write the info on the bulb in permanent ink. Or etch it, or something. (Yes, I looked on the collar and so did orange-aproned man… nothing there).

Now, to tackle the incar iPod hookup.

OOOH — this looks like fun

March 6, 2007 / lintqueen / 1 Comment

The Music of Pink Floyd – A Rock Symphony

Saturday, May 19, 2007, 8pm

Meymandi Concert Hall, Progress Energy Center for the Performing Arts

One night only, May 19th, experience the dark side of the orchestra as the North Carolina Symphony features The Music of Pink Floyd – A Rock Symphony. Sonic wizardry, compelling lyrics, this spectacular program combining a full rock band, vocals, orchestra and light show will echo everything that made Pink Floyd one of rock & roll’s greatest bands. Hear your classic favorites like “Wish You Were Here,” “Comfortably Numb,” “Dark Side of the Moon” and “Another Brick in the Wall.” Don’t miss this special tribute concert and your chance to experience Pink Floyd in a new way.

Who wants to go?

Music I want to see (yes, oxymoron acknowledged)

March 6, 2007 / lintqueen / Leave a comment

Behind the cut – shows I want to see – holler if you’re interested

Tired of the BREAKING!

February 28, 2007 / lintqueen / 18 Comments

Ignoring all major unhappinesses entirely, within the past week I’ve dealt with:

a broken car (now returned, thankfully. iPod hookup still kaflooey though)
a broken laptop (wine + laptop = bad juju. also, thankfully, now working. yah for quick thinking and a spray bottle of water!)
a burnt-out lightbulb (still burnt out…waaaaaaaaay too high in bedroom ceiling to reach. approach TBD)
a broken puppy-treat canister (1 gallon size, almost full. yah Dyson hand vac and puppy not knowing how to get off couch)
a broken stereo component (still officially broken, but I’ve figured out a workaround)
(ETA) Did I mention the puppy chewed my *good*, new shoes? (not her fault, as she just thought she’d found a chewey, but still…)

Notice to Universe: Enough with the Entropy Already.

Protected: Nothing but a list

February 21, 2007 / lintqueen

Protected: Not so very happy these days

February 5, 2007 / lintqueen

Still not so coordinated, sometimes

January 22, 2007 / lintqueen / 6 Comments

Image via Wikipedia

Do you ever realize that you’re the same old nebbish you were when you were 13, only technology has gotten better, so it’s better hidden?

I had an encounter just now with my old nemesis: the milk carton opening. You know, the old-style, inverse pup-tent like affair that you have to sort of “lift-and-separate” to get to open? Well, my lift-and-separate maneuver has always been more of the squash-and-tear, resulting in many mangled containers and associated messy milk dribbling.

Imagine my joy when those little space-astronaut-plastic-docking-station-tops appeared on cardboard milk cartons (yes, this whole thing could’ve been avoided by sticking with the always-safe-with-a-plastic-lid gallon jug, but there’s only one of me, and I’m just not *that* healthy). Hooray! No more trying to jam a knife between the layers of cardboard that should have separated already! No more turning the carton around and trying the “open other side” side in desperation! No more feeling like someone who never should’ve been allowed to graduate kindergarten because of her inability to master milk opening (in my defense, I was a lunchbox girl, and I am great with thermoses!)

Well, all those feelings of inadequacy and incompetency just resurfaced as I was faced with opening a Trader Joe‘s(1) organic milk container. After some attempts at just-the-right combination of lifting-and-separating, followed by some squeezing and pushing (and failing mightily) I ended up using using a fork to pry the damn thing open.

It’s like being 13 all over again. Sigh.

(1) In a classic “displacement,” I hold Trader Joe’s in no way responsible for my shame. I luuuuuuuuurve Trader Joe’s.

Protected: Surrounded by unhappiness

January 3, 2007 / lintqueen

In Memorium

January 1, 2007 / lintqueen / 4 Comments

The most important thing in my head right now is the fact that my “Grumps” (my mom’s dad1) passed away last week (Charlotte Observer obituary that I drafted a while back). It was expected, and, in fact, a blessing (he was at the point where they were using morphine for pain control), but being OK with it intellectually is not the same thing as absorbing it internally, which I’m still struggling with.

He was a great man, and I loved him a lot. In a time when little girls most often played with Barbie dolls, Grumps used to let me go out to his shop with him (if there were any questions about why my studio looks they way it does, I think this photo answers them) and saw and hammer and spray paint (supervised, of course). My “most bestest” project was the faux record player I made — completely non-functional (I still suck at electronics) but a rather good facsimile of the real thing, complete with a turntable, RPM knob and arm with needle (a nail). It was silly, to be sure (why? a non-functioning replica record player? why not something useful like a cabinet?), but that didn’t stop Grumps from encouraging me to do it.

Every (_every_) Saturday night (until the point he was too unwell to be at home) he cooked steak on a little (20″ diameter?) Weber grill that he made taller by stacking it on top of an old metal trash can. Before cooking them, he’d trim the steaks so they were uniform, and he called those pieces the “itty-bitties”. Often we ate the itty-bitties raw with Wor-chest-er-shire (as we called it) sauce, and those we didn’t eat “tartare” Grumps would grill. Because they were so small they were ready before the rest of the meat (my whole family eats steak rare — I say that we like our meat to have a fighting chance ), and if you asked nicely (and waited with Grumps at the grill) you could have an itty-bitty right off the fire — mmmmmm!

Grumps worked at the Carolina Motor Club (now part of the AAA) for his whole career and spent the last 20?ish years as the President, which had its perks. Every year, for example, until I was about 10, the Charlotte Thanksgiving parade went right by the Motor Club headquarters downtown, and we’d watch the whole thing from Grumps’s office window. (Mom recently reminded me that the judging station was right in front of the office too, so we saw the highlight of each band’s performance… maybe that’s where I got my love of drum-and-bugle corps type stuff?).

Grumps also worked for many years with the NC Travel Council, often donating to them clocks he’d made cases for in his shop (yes, even more tool chaos behind link) or carvings he’d done. As a result, he knew tons of folks in NC, including Andy Griffith. (For those unfamiliar with Mayberry, Grumps is on the left, and Andy is on the right).

Grumps also introduced me to the concept of a searcy (sp?)2 — a small, unexpected, for-no-special-occasion surprise. Grumps brought each of the grandkids a searcy when he came home from work … never anything large (often it was something like SuperElastic Bubble Plastic or a Slinky, or a pad of paper from the office scrap bin and colored pencils), but we loved it… I still give people searcies, often causing confusion (wait? was it my birthday and I forgot?!)

There’s a lot more to be said (and maybe I’ll manage to write some more another day), as witnessed by the fact that the three grandkids3 that spoke at Grumps’ memorial service (Tommy, Drew & I) each had come up with a different set of recollections — all wonderful). The fourth of us, my cousin Merry, is an amazing professional singer who sang two hymns at the service (honestly, I was mostly OK until she started singing the Lord’s Prayer…I haven’t heard her sing since we were 10 and duetting on “If”4)

Here’s roughly what I said (I didn’t take notes with me to the podium, ’cause if there’s one thing I can do, it’s talk, but this is what I remember):

When I was thinking about what to say today, I had a moment of indecision, as there are easily a thousand stories I could tell about Grumpsie-boy. This is the first that jumped to mind though, and it demonstrates how much he loved and was devoted to his family.

When I was 14, I had the opportunity to go to my first sleep-away camp — a good camp, the sister camp of the camp that my father and his brothers had gone to when they were young. Unfortunately, over the intervening twenty-mumble years, the character of the camp had changed and by the time I arrived it was mostly filled with girls who’d known each other since they were small and who, quite frankly, didn’t like me, an interloper, all that well.

Anyway, I was miserable and wanted very badly to come home, but was convinced to stick it out for the experience (and, yes, I’m glad I did). I called Grumps and boo-hoo-hoo’d to him, but he reminded me that I was a strong girl and that they couldn’t hurt me unless I let them (a valuable lesson I try to remember to this day), that I should show them love (even when they were unkind to me), and that he believed in me and loved me to pieces.

The next day, I received in the Camp Post a letter from Grumps…needless to say, I was cheered immediately. The letter wasn’t itself full of Earth-shattering content, being mainly an account of the things he and Buddy Boy (also known as Drew, my little brother) had done during the day, like going to Hardees to get biscuits and mowing the lawn. Woven throughout, though, were the reminders of how loved I was and that I could do anything I put my mind towards.

The letter, in and of itself, was not extraordinarily unusual. Don’t get me wrong — it was a wonderful letter! — but what really amazed me at the time (and still does to this day) is that *every* *single* *day* for the rest of camp I got another letter from Grumps.

Those letters from Grumps made all the difference in my experience at camp, and, more importantly, they taught me that true love — great love — is not found written on billboards or yelled at the top of your lungs, but instead shown by all the small things you do every single day.

1 He chose the name Grumps for himself, when asked shortly after I was born what he wanted to be called. We don’t know why — he was just about the furthest thing from grumpy possible…
2 As an adult, I’ve only met two other people, Heather and Ann, who also know what a searcy is. As they’re both Southerners, I’m hypothesizing that it’s perhaps a Southern thing?)
3 From left to right, Tommy, Merry, me (kneeling) and Drew
4 Yes, the one by Bread. eek.”