Not my evening

Still the Ludi Romani.

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Ryter was really sick tonight, like, constant agony sick; he's got a tic problem that's popped up (well, he claims it's been there forever, but I haven't noticed it) and it affected his trachea, causing him to have trouble with food and drink. He also is dealing with some medication shifting while he's waiting to see a neurologist, and that may have had something to do with all of this. Luckily his meds kicked in in the evening so it was okay, but we were thinking he might have to go to the ER for a little bit there. If he has that problem tomorrow, he will.

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Then on top of that, my mother called. See, when I was buying school stuff the clerks would offer me various promotions. The conversation would go thusly:

"Would you like to sign up for our Rewards Card?"
"What does it do?"
"Well, you get a discount on all future purchases."
"Does it cost anything?"
"No, it's free."
"And it's just a discount?"
"Yep! Takes no time to sign up..."

And I would sign up, because what's the loss?

So now my mom's called with the news that contrary to what I was told, these are actually credit cards. And what's more, all those pesky "receipts" I signed, and all those times the clerks swiped my card? Yeah, they weren't real. They were just practice, I suppose. Because now they're charging me for it again, on their little credit card that was supposed to be a Rewards Card, like the little key thing you get at Shaw's that gives you discounts on baked beans once in a while.

So their clerks blatantly misrepresented these cards to me, and now I discover I have to pay them off and cancel them and this HUGE hassle. I intend to actually go into the stores that I got the cards from and ask to speak to the manager there, and say, "Your employees GROSSLY misrepresented this deal. They portrayed the card as a simple discount membership, failing to mention that it was in fact a CREDIT CARD and that I would still owe money. I like your merchandise and this won't stop me from shopping here, but I damn well expect the next time I or anyone comes in and you offer this service that you have those clerks mention "credit card" somewhere in their little chat-up."

We;re ignoring the me not reading the small print part. If the clerks had been honest, I would have. As it was, I wasn't expecting that I was entering any kind of contract that could negatively affect me in any way; as it is my mom has to pay these things off for me lest I wind up with a bad credit score, then I have to cancel them.... bah...

How To Go Insane

Today? Not so fun.

I wanted to replant a certain flowerbed for my mother. To do this, I needed a plastic liner (there's a pine tree there), dirt (it's sandy), mulch, flower bulbs and a wheelbarrow.

Step 1. Fetch old wheelbarrow. Realize old wheelbarrow, thanks to years in the rain and sometimes snow, has a massive hole in it. Rusted clean though. Sigh in frustration.

Step 2. Decide to buy a new wheelbarrow. Call mother for permission. Mother says to check credit account first.

Step 3. Go to bank. Ten minutes later, teller says she can't give the info to me because my name isn't on the account. It's on the card, but it's not on the account. Growl internally, call mother again. Mother promises to check via phone.

Step 4. Continue to local hardware store. Hardware store does not have an appropriate wheelbarrow, as wanted plastic one that would not rust like old one. Mother calls in hardware store and says that the account is all screwy but I should be able to pay for things.

Step 5. Go across street to Home Depot. See ideal wheelbarrow out front, ask for it disassembled so it would fit in car. Ask twice about the handles because they are very poorly labeled. Take wheelbarrow home.

Step 6. Realize wheelbarrow handles are wrong size. Sigh, go back to Home Depot, ask to exchange.

Step 7. Am told that their shipper does not send the the right size, so I will have to drill new holes. Ask them to drill it for me; do not think this an unreasonable request as it's not my fault their shipper sucks.

Step 8. Clerk says no, I have to do it myself, because they apparently HAVE NO POWER TOOLS OR PEOPLE CAPABLE OF OPERATING THEM. The latter honestly would not surprise me, considering that this is a store that has staff that think it's fair to sell someone a wheelbarrow and not TELL them at the time of purchase that it requires drilling extra holes.

Step 9. Get home, new handles in tow. Find drill. Realize drillhead is MINUSCULE. Hunt through dusty cardboard boxes of discarded ancient power tools in basement until find box of drill heads.

Step 10. Realize that half the heads are missing, including the one that is the right size. Check boxes in basement again, to no avail. Decide to drill a hair larger.

Step 11. Can't figure out how to get old head off. Wrestle with it for half an hour before realizing that the key is right there, attached to the power cord.

Step 12. In frustration, go play Empire Earth for an hour.

Step 13. Attach new head and begin drilling. Realize that having a table to support the handle might help about when the drill skids off with only a scratch to the wooden handle.

Step 14. Haul over clamp table, clamp in handle, begin drilling again. Smell smoke. Blow shavings away from drill head. Drill stalls. Try again. Same problem. Decide to switch to next-smaller drill head. Go to change them and burn hand on hot drill head. Swear repeatedly and go get ice.

Step 15. Father returns home. Explain what I am doing. Father says I should return the barrow and get a different one. Point out that there are no different ones that I can transport. Suggests another store. Point out that local hardware store didn't have plastic. Suggests metal. Point out rusted old one. Suggests finding another store. Point out that I need to do this before I get back to school, so I don't have enough time for that. Contemplate patricide, or at least a good throttling.

Step 16. Drill has cooled. Switch to new drill-head. Works fine, except produces lots of smoke and burning smell. Blow on it repeatedly.

Step 15. Finish drilling, carefully avoid touching drill. Attempt to put bolt in. Fail. Realize I have to redrill it with a bigger one. Give up for the evening, as alternative involves massive property damage.

Step 16: Mother and sister repeat what father said about returning it, getting different one, because I couldn't POSSIBLY have thought this through.

And that my friends, is my recipe for crazy.