I can only remember laughing in my sleep once in my youth. I was quite young and dreaming in cartoon. The big bad wolf was chasing the three little pigs, and just as the wolf’s jaws were about to snap down on one of the porker’s heads, the pig miraculously transformed into an astronaut. In place of his fat, pink noggin was the astronaut’s helmet. The wolf, whose teeth had just slammed down on hard plastic, was stunned. His plan was foiled, and my infantile mind (I was probably four or five years old at best) delighted in this sudden turn of events. I woke up giggling.
Given the rarity of such somnambulist joviality, I find it interesting that twice in the last seven days, I have woken up in a fit of laughter. Last week, I was dreaming that one of my best friends and I were getting snow cones. Something about the guy who was serving us was incredibly funny. Now that I’m awake, I have no idea what it was. And I’m not 100% sure I ever did. All I know is that, while we weren’t outright teasing the man, I could tell from our fervent attempts not to laugh that he was the butt of our joke. That’s all I can remember.
Last night it happened again, only the laughing was much more intense. Even when I came to full consciousness, I had to take a few moments to chuckle. This time, the dream centered on a magic trick being performed by none other than Fred Willard (I feel I have an extremely high ratio of celebrity “guest appearances” in my dreams—it’s a subject I’ve thought about posting on before, and I probably will someday). The trick went something like this: two little kids climbed under a tarp that was covering a swimming pool. The tarp then transformed into solid ground. The audience was supposed to be in suspense, wondering how the kids would get out of the pool. Fred then went over to a black gym bag sitting on the newly formed ground. He was leading the audience along, reaching into the bag and saying something like, “I wonder what’s in here!” The obvious expectation was that the children would be pulled up out of the bag, presumably coming up through some hole that the bag was covering. However, when Fred pulled his hand out of the bag, he revealed nothing more than a human bone. He screamed in an “oops, that’s not what’s supposed to happen!” type of way. I woke up with guffaws aplenty.
While the humor in these dreams aren’t built upon uplifting moments or anything overtly positive, I can only assume it’s a good sign that I’m having them. To wake up laughing would suggest my life is going pretty well, or so I would hope. Either that or I’m just going crazy. Regardless, I’ve had fun with it and thought I would share. And it also gave me a reason to start a post with the letter z, which is something I’ve never done before. Talk about dreams coming true!
Formerly Benj (& Purge); formerly Sucking on Oranges
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Friday, November 11, 2005
Tales from the Honeymoon Part 2: Off to See the Wizard
The day after Melanie and I got married, we flew to Seattle. It was really an overnight detour on the way to our ultimate goal—a ferry ride into Victoria, Canada—but the 8am sailing time prevented us from taking a flight on the same day. While staying in Seattle was a practical necessity, Melanie and I were more than happy to spend a few hours there. And to frost the cake, our hotel came compliments of my father’s Holiday Inn rewards points. Since we would have flown into Seattle anyway, all this extra night of fun cost us was the price of dinner, and we would have done that had we stayed home. In short, we had a free ticket to the Emerald City.
Funny enough, our free hotel room ended up being one of our favorites. We had less choice about where to stay than at any other point on our honeymoon, but we couldn’t have been more pleased. We stayed at the downtown Crowne Plaza. We were given a room on the 32nd floor with a fantastic view of the city. In one direction you were greeted by the towering cityscape; in the other, you saw the humbler side of the metropolis, with old buildings, aged churches, and, further in the distance, residential neighborhoods. And for the little boy in me, there was the quirk of an elevator equipped with a card reader. Rather than push the floor you’d like to go to, you simply swiped your room “key” and the elevator knew where to take you. Magical!
The only half-decent picture of or from our hotel. Notice my wife hiding behind the TV cabinet. But was she hiding from the camera or from me? Hmmm.
While visiting the city two years ago, Melanie and I had eaten at The Cheesecake Factory, a delicious chain restaurant of upper-middleclass proportions. With Utah being devoid of this fine eatery, we were quite eager to return. As luck would have it, it was just a few blocks from our hotel. After settling into our room, we took a short and enjoyable walk to the restaurant. It was loud and crowded. We had to wait several minutes just to get to the counter to put our names on the waitlist. When we finally reached the hostess, we were told it would be a fifty-minute wait. But just as we were turning to join the hungry horde of loiterers, a manager came up and asked if we were both over 21. Because of all the noise, I thought he was asking us if we belonged to a group already seated in the restaurant. I was about to say “no” when, fortunately for us, my wife, who has much better hearing than I do, answered in the affirmative. He then told us that a table for two had opened up in the bar area, which was first-come, first-serve, and that if we wanted it, it was ours. We wanted it.
For those who don’t know, The Cheesecake Factory offers tons of selections. Their menu is something like twenty pages long. For an indecisive person such as myself, this can be quite a challenge. But alas, choices were made, and excellent ones at that. We started with the ultra-delicious avocado eggrolls with Thai peanut dipping sauce (pictured below). I then had a chicken and potatoes type meal while Melanie had a spicy pasta dish with chicken. They were both exquisite. But of course the restaurant’s true claim to fame lies in their overwhelming selection of cheesecakes. Melanie had the Toblerone® Swiss Almond Cheesecake while I had Chocolate Peanut Butter Cookie-Dough Cheesecake. Stuffed as we were, we took the cheesecake to go and headed back to the hotel.
The Cheesecake Factory’s uber-delectable avocado eggrolls. They’re upper-middleclassalicious!
When we got back to the room, I wanted to take a quick, cool shower before throwing on a complimentary bathrobe and climbing into bed to relax and enjoy my dessert. I basked in the luxury of it all. My only disappointment, which was minimal, was discovering that my cheesecake was thoroughly chocolate. I realize the name should have tipped me off, but I guess I had just expected chocolate swirls or something. I’m not a big chocolate fan, so this wasn’t really the style I was hoping for. Still, it was tasty. Very rich, but tasty.
The Seattle Cheesecake Factory shortly after two thoroughly gorged honeymooners depart the premises.
And that does it. That was our simple night in Seattle. Not much to it as there wasn’t much time to be had. But it was a lovely, easygoing way to spend the evening before our early morning commute. Because of the simplicity of the evening, there are limited pictures to share. All attempts at scenic photography failed miserably. But, to get a better idea of the hotel, feel free to click here for its webpage. I promise that tales of Canada will be more interesting, as will the pictures. Until then…
Funny enough, our free hotel room ended up being one of our favorites. We had less choice about where to stay than at any other point on our honeymoon, but we couldn’t have been more pleased. We stayed at the downtown Crowne Plaza. We were given a room on the 32nd floor with a fantastic view of the city. In one direction you were greeted by the towering cityscape; in the other, you saw the humbler side of the metropolis, with old buildings, aged churches, and, further in the distance, residential neighborhoods. And for the little boy in me, there was the quirk of an elevator equipped with a card reader. Rather than push the floor you’d like to go to, you simply swiped your room “key” and the elevator knew where to take you. Magical!
The only half-decent picture of or from our hotel. Notice my wife hiding behind the TV cabinet. But was she hiding from the camera or from me? Hmmm.
While visiting the city two years ago, Melanie and I had eaten at The Cheesecake Factory, a delicious chain restaurant of upper-middleclass proportions. With Utah being devoid of this fine eatery, we were quite eager to return. As luck would have it, it was just a few blocks from our hotel. After settling into our room, we took a short and enjoyable walk to the restaurant. It was loud and crowded. We had to wait several minutes just to get to the counter to put our names on the waitlist. When we finally reached the hostess, we were told it would be a fifty-minute wait. But just as we were turning to join the hungry horde of loiterers, a manager came up and asked if we were both over 21. Because of all the noise, I thought he was asking us if we belonged to a group already seated in the restaurant. I was about to say “no” when, fortunately for us, my wife, who has much better hearing than I do, answered in the affirmative. He then told us that a table for two had opened up in the bar area, which was first-come, first-serve, and that if we wanted it, it was ours. We wanted it.
For those who don’t know, The Cheesecake Factory offers tons of selections. Their menu is something like twenty pages long. For an indecisive person such as myself, this can be quite a challenge. But alas, choices were made, and excellent ones at that. We started with the ultra-delicious avocado eggrolls with Thai peanut dipping sauce (pictured below). I then had a chicken and potatoes type meal while Melanie had a spicy pasta dish with chicken. They were both exquisite. But of course the restaurant’s true claim to fame lies in their overwhelming selection of cheesecakes. Melanie had the Toblerone® Swiss Almond Cheesecake while I had Chocolate Peanut Butter Cookie-Dough Cheesecake. Stuffed as we were, we took the cheesecake to go and headed back to the hotel.
The Cheesecake Factory’s uber-delectable avocado eggrolls. They’re upper-middleclassalicious!
When we got back to the room, I wanted to take a quick, cool shower before throwing on a complimentary bathrobe and climbing into bed to relax and enjoy my dessert. I basked in the luxury of it all. My only disappointment, which was minimal, was discovering that my cheesecake was thoroughly chocolate. I realize the name should have tipped me off, but I guess I had just expected chocolate swirls or something. I’m not a big chocolate fan, so this wasn’t really the style I was hoping for. Still, it was tasty. Very rich, but tasty.
The Seattle Cheesecake Factory shortly after two thoroughly gorged honeymooners depart the premises.
And that does it. That was our simple night in Seattle. Not much to it as there wasn’t much time to be had. But it was a lovely, easygoing way to spend the evening before our early morning commute. Because of the simplicity of the evening, there are limited pictures to share. All attempts at scenic photography failed miserably. But, to get a better idea of the hotel, feel free to click here for its webpage. I promise that tales of Canada will be more interesting, as will the pictures. Until then…
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Potpourri No. 8
Another honeymoon tale will soon be posted. For now, I will yet again catch you up on some recent events. Sadly, they are not all positive.
Everything and the Kitchen Sink
After finally getting my dishwasher fixed (or replaced, rather), there seems to be a problem with the kitchen sink. There’s a leak—not just a drip, mind you, but an all-out pouring—whenever we turn on the water. Particularly fond of draining into the cabinet below is our garbage disposal. The sad thing is, this makes our ability to wash dishes even more disaster prone than when our dishwasher was broken. After all, then we could at least wash dishes by hand. But now, whether using the dishwasher or our bare hands, using the water means a flood beneath the sink. Do I really need to articulate my frustration with this place? And I haven’t even publicized the broken toilet and lack of hot water, which existed when Melanie and I first took over the place. Luckily those were fixed before we were actually living here, but they still took a week-and-a-half to get them done. I’m seriously beginning to feel swindled.
Sawing Blogs
Not that it will matter to most, but I’ve removed Orange Theology and In the Key of Orange from my profile. The pages still exist—and, in fact, they have recently been updated—but I don’t want them listed on my profile. Then again, I don’t want people to think they disappeared because they are no longer listed. So why have I done this? Because I consider Sucking on Oranges to be the main page, the primordial hub from which all other blogs of orangeness sprang. To visit these other fine pages, just click on the links found to your right. Or, do as thousands of others have done and bookmark them today!
Wanderings
If you’re looking for something interesting to do around the Web, let me offer a few suggestions. For starters, I’ve added just a couple of new blogs to my sidebar. Give them a look if you’re feeling antsy. If those don’t satisfy your cravings, take a look at some of these online oddities of late:
Everything and the Kitchen Sink
After finally getting my dishwasher fixed (or replaced, rather), there seems to be a problem with the kitchen sink. There’s a leak—not just a drip, mind you, but an all-out pouring—whenever we turn on the water. Particularly fond of draining into the cabinet below is our garbage disposal. The sad thing is, this makes our ability to wash dishes even more disaster prone than when our dishwasher was broken. After all, then we could at least wash dishes by hand. But now, whether using the dishwasher or our bare hands, using the water means a flood beneath the sink. Do I really need to articulate my frustration with this place? And I haven’t even publicized the broken toilet and lack of hot water, which existed when Melanie and I first took over the place. Luckily those were fixed before we were actually living here, but they still took a week-and-a-half to get them done. I’m seriously beginning to feel swindled.
Sawing Blogs
Not that it will matter to most, but I’ve removed Orange Theology and In the Key of Orange from my profile. The pages still exist—and, in fact, they have recently been updated—but I don’t want them listed on my profile. Then again, I don’t want people to think they disappeared because they are no longer listed. So why have I done this? Because I consider Sucking on Oranges to be the main page, the primordial hub from which all other blogs of orangeness sprang. To visit these other fine pages, just click on the links found to your right. Or, do as thousands of others have done and bookmark them today!
Wanderings
If you’re looking for something interesting to do around the Web, let me offer a few suggestions. For starters, I’ve added just a couple of new blogs to my sidebar. Give them a look if you’re feeling antsy. If those don’t satisfy your cravings, take a look at some of these online oddities of late:
- Are you familiar with the newly elected mayor of Hillsdale, Michigan? Do you think he won with the promise of new vending machines in the lunchroom? Hmmm.
- Is Swearing Wrong? Student philosophers shoot the $#!^ here.
- If you peruse the newly added blogs on my sidebar, you’ll meet Jessica Benet. And if you meet her, she’ll introduce you to the Diva Cup. Make sure you check out the official Diva Cup site, as linked to in her post. One thing’s for sure—unless you wish you hadn’t, you’ll be glad you did!
- Not quite ready for the Diva Cup? Perhaps you’ll prefer the professional appearance of this parody webpage promoting premenstrual tampons for pre-teens. Can you say that ten times fast?
- Gary Larson once speculated that the real reason dinosaurs went extinct was lung cancer. Maybe he wasn’t that far off! Check out the surprising sponsors in this cigarette commercial!
Friday, November 04, 2005
Dishwasher Safe (Finally!)
I interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you this important announcement. Ladies and gentleman, Mr. and Mrs. K now have a working dishwasher. Or at least, so it seems. Perhaps I ought not jinx it by sharing this momentous achievement in the midst of a wash cycle, but I can scarce contain my glee. Then again, you will not be able to share in my joy if I don’t first share the preliminary tale of woe. And so, let me digress…
Although it has been just over a month since Melanie and I took possession of our new apartment, we have only been living here for about a week and a half. That’s because we spent October moving stuff in and getting the place ready for our post-honeymoon occupancy. Now that the honeymoon is over, we’re finally attempting to live life as normal. And, blessed as I was at my previous residence, life as normal has always included a dishwasher. Like many people, I hate washing dishes more than any other household chore (perhaps because it’s one of the few chores I’ve spent much time doing, but still). When we found this apartment, we were wooed long (or at least a few seconds) before spying the dishwasher, and it was with sincerest gratitude that, last Friday, I finally loaded it up and took it for a test spin.
Perhaps I should have been more suspicious when the appliance sounded more like a garbage disposal than any dishwasher I’d ever known. But, after checking to see if a spoon had somehow dropped down into a gear or something, I was convinced it must just be a quirk unique to our particular model. Sure, it was obnoxiously loud, but at least it was working. And who knows, maybe it was just working out a few kinks after going unused for a while. It’s not like I had any idea how long our apartment had been vacant before we nabbed it. Maybe the dishwasher just needed some time to “wake up” and get back to its normal routine.
Fast forward thirty minutes. Journeying to the bathroom, I suddenly notice a large circle of wet carpet smack dab in the middle of the hall, just below the closet that houses our water heater. More skeptical than panicked at this point, I open the closet door and inspect the tiles directly surrounding the water heater. They’re completely dry. Odd. I return my attention to the carpet and follow the swelling expanse to its only possible origin—the heater vent. Peering closer, I find a thin stream of water trickling from the metallic slats. It’s as though the Hoover Dam has been miniaturized and jokingly transported to my hallway by an evil genie. Hmmm.
With a sickened sense of expectation, I look to the kitchen door. A tiny peninsula of dampened carpet smiles back at me. Moving closer, I find in place of my kitchen a linoleum lagoon. Instinctively, I claw for the lever on the dishwasher door and pull it towards me, stopping it in its soggy tracks. I pull open the door, as though discovering some obvious problem (that I’d somehow missed before) will magically turn back time and prevent the partial soiling of my home. And what do I find? A quiet, undisturbed sanctuary of dry, dirty dishes. In stark contrast to my newly acquired wetlands, there is not a drop of precipitation to be found inside the dishwasher. I’m bugged. I’m befuddled. I’m balding – which has nothing to do with a broken dishwasher, but since I’m complaining anyway….
Needless to say, I head straight to the phone and dial up the main office of my corporate landlord. In what I’m quickly learning is an unfortunate set of circumstances, my landlord does not live on the premises. Rather, my building is owned by a corporation that owns dozens (if not baker’s dozens) of rental units across the city. I was hoping that such a situation would ensure professionalism, but so far it has only made me feel detached. And so it was when I told them of the partial flooding of my apartment. I was politely informed that, because it was after 3pm, chances were slim that somebody could come over that same day. Instead, I should expect the problem to be fixed sometime on Monday.
I was exasperated, but ultimately helpless. I mopped up the floor, sopped up the carpet, and plopped myself onto the couch. Sure, the water had been taken care of, but what about the smell? An overwhelming stench had accompanied the flood and was beginning to permeate every room of the apartment. I thought it was the unavoidable result of dampened carpet, but I quickly learned the smell was much worse in the carpetless kitchen. Could it be the wood of the cabinets somehow? No matter. At least it would be gone by Monday afternoon.
When Monday afternoon had come and just about gone, we had not yet heard from anyone regarding the dishwasher. I called our landlord. I was told that someone would check on the status of the work order and get back to me shortly. By Tuesday afternoon, when still no one had gotten in touch with me, I called again. All I got was an answering machine, assuring a prompt reply. I left a message explaining the situation, making it clear that I expected a fixed dishwasher sometime that day, and informing them to call me back as soon as possible. When an hour and a half had passed and still no one had called me back, I tried again. Once again, I got the answering machine. I regurgitated the same information from my previous message, hung up, and waited just over an hour before giving them yet another call.
This time I spoke to a real (supposedly) human being. I was told that my being ignored was a total surprise, as someone should have responded long ago. Nevertheless, she would make sure someone came over within the next couple of days and get the problem fixed. Nearly ready to scream, I told her that I was guaranteed a working dishwasher on Monday, not Thursday, and that I had already had to call numerous times just to get nothing done. She promised she’d see what could be done and, feeling hopeless, I hung up.
Much to my surprise, a repairman showed up at my apartment not much later. He only tinkered around for about ten minutes before pronouncing his victory over the machine’s maladies. Excitedly, I re-started the dishwasher. It was still loud and grinding, but—perhaps due to my wishful thinking—it did sound a little bit better.
But it wasn’t. Ten minutes later, a small pool of water was spreading across the kitchen floor. Furious, I immediately called the landlord and, yet again, was forced to leave a message. Desperately I pleaded with the non-existent entity on the other end of the line. I begged that, if it were at all possible, the repairman be contacted before he was out of the vicinity. I hung up the phone, willing the slackers at the corporate office to turn from their computer solitaire just long enough to hear my one message. Now. Now! Now!
But my efforts were in vain. Nobody called back. It would be the middle of the next morning before I’d get in touch with a live person. And much to my depleted delight, they did get somebody out here right away. And a different person, thankfully. Of course, all this person did was assess the problem and tell me it would be fixed the next day, but at least he seemed competent. And at least I wouldn’t have to call anyone again (knock on wood).
Thursday morning, the repairman showed up just as he promised. He dislodged the dishwasher, revealing the source of the horrific odor. Sludge of some unknown source had completely coated the floor beneath the appliance. As I sat in the corner and choked, the repairman/hero used a snow shovel to remove the grime. It took a staggering two trips to the garbage can to completely rid my home of this foe. This placated me enough that, when the repairman announced he needed yet another part and would have to return tomorrow, I was more than grateful. Apparently, they suspect a mouse had chewed through some of the pumps and seals and whatnot. Who knows for sure.
Today, as I got home from school, I noticed my dishwasher had a new appendage—a button offering me the option to “temperature boost” my wash cycle. The repairman had promised me that, if he couldn’t obtain the necessary part for my dishwasher, he would replace the entire unit with a dishwasher from another (presumably vacant) apartment. The new button tells me this is what happened. And I couldn’t be happier. Praying for divine intervention, I started my new dishwasher and began writing this post. As it turns out, the cycle is already complete and the dishes are sparkling. The floor is dry, but my eyes are flooded with tears of joy. Finally, I can get on with my life.
Finally, my life is dishwasher safe.
Although it has been just over a month since Melanie and I took possession of our new apartment, we have only been living here for about a week and a half. That’s because we spent October moving stuff in and getting the place ready for our post-honeymoon occupancy. Now that the honeymoon is over, we’re finally attempting to live life as normal. And, blessed as I was at my previous residence, life as normal has always included a dishwasher. Like many people, I hate washing dishes more than any other household chore (perhaps because it’s one of the few chores I’ve spent much time doing, but still). When we found this apartment, we were wooed long (or at least a few seconds) before spying the dishwasher, and it was with sincerest gratitude that, last Friday, I finally loaded it up and took it for a test spin.
Perhaps I should have been more suspicious when the appliance sounded more like a garbage disposal than any dishwasher I’d ever known. But, after checking to see if a spoon had somehow dropped down into a gear or something, I was convinced it must just be a quirk unique to our particular model. Sure, it was obnoxiously loud, but at least it was working. And who knows, maybe it was just working out a few kinks after going unused for a while. It’s not like I had any idea how long our apartment had been vacant before we nabbed it. Maybe the dishwasher just needed some time to “wake up” and get back to its normal routine.
Fast forward thirty minutes. Journeying to the bathroom, I suddenly notice a large circle of wet carpet smack dab in the middle of the hall, just below the closet that houses our water heater. More skeptical than panicked at this point, I open the closet door and inspect the tiles directly surrounding the water heater. They’re completely dry. Odd. I return my attention to the carpet and follow the swelling expanse to its only possible origin—the heater vent. Peering closer, I find a thin stream of water trickling from the metallic slats. It’s as though the Hoover Dam has been miniaturized and jokingly transported to my hallway by an evil genie. Hmmm.
With a sickened sense of expectation, I look to the kitchen door. A tiny peninsula of dampened carpet smiles back at me. Moving closer, I find in place of my kitchen a linoleum lagoon. Instinctively, I claw for the lever on the dishwasher door and pull it towards me, stopping it in its soggy tracks. I pull open the door, as though discovering some obvious problem (that I’d somehow missed before) will magically turn back time and prevent the partial soiling of my home. And what do I find? A quiet, undisturbed sanctuary of dry, dirty dishes. In stark contrast to my newly acquired wetlands, there is not a drop of precipitation to be found inside the dishwasher. I’m bugged. I’m befuddled. I’m balding – which has nothing to do with a broken dishwasher, but since I’m complaining anyway….
Needless to say, I head straight to the phone and dial up the main office of my corporate landlord. In what I’m quickly learning is an unfortunate set of circumstances, my landlord does not live on the premises. Rather, my building is owned by a corporation that owns dozens (if not baker’s dozens) of rental units across the city. I was hoping that such a situation would ensure professionalism, but so far it has only made me feel detached. And so it was when I told them of the partial flooding of my apartment. I was politely informed that, because it was after 3pm, chances were slim that somebody could come over that same day. Instead, I should expect the problem to be fixed sometime on Monday.
I was exasperated, but ultimately helpless. I mopped up the floor, sopped up the carpet, and plopped myself onto the couch. Sure, the water had been taken care of, but what about the smell? An overwhelming stench had accompanied the flood and was beginning to permeate every room of the apartment. I thought it was the unavoidable result of dampened carpet, but I quickly learned the smell was much worse in the carpetless kitchen. Could it be the wood of the cabinets somehow? No matter. At least it would be gone by Monday afternoon.
When Monday afternoon had come and just about gone, we had not yet heard from anyone regarding the dishwasher. I called our landlord. I was told that someone would check on the status of the work order and get back to me shortly. By Tuesday afternoon, when still no one had gotten in touch with me, I called again. All I got was an answering machine, assuring a prompt reply. I left a message explaining the situation, making it clear that I expected a fixed dishwasher sometime that day, and informing them to call me back as soon as possible. When an hour and a half had passed and still no one had called me back, I tried again. Once again, I got the answering machine. I regurgitated the same information from my previous message, hung up, and waited just over an hour before giving them yet another call.
This time I spoke to a real (supposedly) human being. I was told that my being ignored was a total surprise, as someone should have responded long ago. Nevertheless, she would make sure someone came over within the next couple of days and get the problem fixed. Nearly ready to scream, I told her that I was guaranteed a working dishwasher on Monday, not Thursday, and that I had already had to call numerous times just to get nothing done. She promised she’d see what could be done and, feeling hopeless, I hung up.
Much to my surprise, a repairman showed up at my apartment not much later. He only tinkered around for about ten minutes before pronouncing his victory over the machine’s maladies. Excitedly, I re-started the dishwasher. It was still loud and grinding, but—perhaps due to my wishful thinking—it did sound a little bit better.
But it wasn’t. Ten minutes later, a small pool of water was spreading across the kitchen floor. Furious, I immediately called the landlord and, yet again, was forced to leave a message. Desperately I pleaded with the non-existent entity on the other end of the line. I begged that, if it were at all possible, the repairman be contacted before he was out of the vicinity. I hung up the phone, willing the slackers at the corporate office to turn from their computer solitaire just long enough to hear my one message. Now. Now! Now!
But my efforts were in vain. Nobody called back. It would be the middle of the next morning before I’d get in touch with a live person. And much to my depleted delight, they did get somebody out here right away. And a different person, thankfully. Of course, all this person did was assess the problem and tell me it would be fixed the next day, but at least he seemed competent. And at least I wouldn’t have to call anyone again (knock on wood).
Thursday morning, the repairman showed up just as he promised. He dislodged the dishwasher, revealing the source of the horrific odor. Sludge of some unknown source had completely coated the floor beneath the appliance. As I sat in the corner and choked, the repairman/hero used a snow shovel to remove the grime. It took a staggering two trips to the garbage can to completely rid my home of this foe. This placated me enough that, when the repairman announced he needed yet another part and would have to return tomorrow, I was more than grateful. Apparently, they suspect a mouse had chewed through some of the pumps and seals and whatnot. Who knows for sure.
Today, as I got home from school, I noticed my dishwasher had a new appendage—a button offering me the option to “temperature boost” my wash cycle. The repairman had promised me that, if he couldn’t obtain the necessary part for my dishwasher, he would replace the entire unit with a dishwasher from another (presumably vacant) apartment. The new button tells me this is what happened. And I couldn’t be happier. Praying for divine intervention, I started my new dishwasher and began writing this post. As it turns out, the cycle is already complete and the dishes are sparkling. The floor is dry, but my eyes are flooded with tears of joy. Finally, I can get on with my life.
Finally, my life is dishwasher safe.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Tales from the Honeymoon Part 1: A Grand Experience
Months ago, Melanie and I made reservations at The Grand America Hotel for our wedding night. Generally content to stay in such modest accommodations as a Super 8 Motel or Holiday Inn Express, Melanie and I had splurged and reserved not just a room, but a luxury suite at the city’s finest hotel. Pulling up to the main entrance of the hotel, we were immediately greeted by a charming bellhop who promptly unloaded our luggage and had our car valet parked. Making our way through the palatial lobby, Melanie and I reached the front desk, still dressed in our full wedding day regalia, and gave them Melanie’s maiden name, under which the reservation had been made.
“Hmmm,” the woman at the front desk said after spending some time clicking and typing various bits of information into the computer. “I don’t see it. Could it be under another name?” Although we felt relatively certain we had made the reservation under my wife’s maiden name, we offered them my surname. “Nothing,” the woman said. “Do you have a confirmation number?”
I did have a confirmation number. It was tucked neatly away in one of the bags the gracious bellhop had just taken from us. “Keep looking,” I said as I made my way back outside the hotel. Luckily, the bellhop was right there. He led me to a room where our luggage sat in limbo, waiting for a room assignment before reaching its destination. I felt particularly tacky reneging, at least partially, on the bellhop protocol. As it was, I had already stiffed the guy when it came to a tip because I had no cash on my person. But I promised I’d come back later and make it up to him and, with my bag in hand, made my way back to the front desk.
As it turned out, they had dropped a letter from Melanie’s maiden name, making the reservation difficult to find. But the confirmation number quickly resolved the issue and, soon enough, Melanie and I found ourselves in a 22nd floor suite.
The hotel certainly strove for lavishness. It is no surprise that a simpleton such as myself would experience a few firsts here. For starters, they had offered us complimentary bottled water and cookies (non-bottled) while we were checking in. But the room itself had many unique features. Among them was a doorbell, a separate marble tub and glass shower, a scale (although I don’t know who, in the midst of a supposed vacation, would want to worry about weight), and complimentary bathrobes. Then there was the service, which was top notch. It seemed that everyone in the hotel, both that evening and the next morning, knew who we were. We were congratulated by almost every employee we looked at, and when Melanie and I went out for a stroll later in the evening, the original bellhop greeted us as Mr. and Mrs. K. What a memory! (And yes, I did finally give him a tip.)
More impressive than anything else was our balcony view. It looked directly down into a picturesque (it’s true, I even took pictures) courtyard, as well as offering a handsome view of the city (just east of the city center). The photo below is of the courtyard at approximately 5am, when Melanie and I woke up for no good reason and decided to goof off on the balcony. The next shot is (obviously) a daytime shot of the city view. Should you be interested in useless trivia, that main white building on the bottom left is the city courthouse. The gothic building surrounded by trees is called the City and County Building. So what, eh?
Melanie and I had a great time on our first night, but, as fancy as it was, the best was yet to come. Oh, except at 7am when the alarm clock in the hotel went off. Apparently somebody forgot to turn it off that morning. Or else they were playing a mean joke on the next guests. As sleep is apt to do, our main priority whenever the alarm sounded was simply to shut it up. And so, we ended up pushing snooze until about 748am, when we finally turned it off for good.
To conclude, I will offer a few more pictures. The first is the sexy marble tub and glass shower. The second is the sink. Not much to it, but it gives you an idea. Everything was gold. Gold equals fancy, you see.
Next is the living room, complete with the remains of our room service dinner. As you can see, the décor is a bit grandma-ish, but the couch and everything was very comfortable.
This is a sampling of the wet bar. Despite the temptation to eat something just because we’re not used to having a wet bar, we left it intact. And it’s a good thing. According to their price list, those normal sized bags of M&Ms cost $3 each. Jiggawhat? Yeah, that’s right.
Thanks for tuning in. I probably won’t blab at such lengths with subsequent honeymoon posts. I’ll try to keep it simple and to the (interesting) point, and perhaps keep it more picture based so you have something to do besides read. If you’d like to see more pictures of the Grand America, simply click here to visit their site. Until then…
“Hmmm,” the woman at the front desk said after spending some time clicking and typing various bits of information into the computer. “I don’t see it. Could it be under another name?” Although we felt relatively certain we had made the reservation under my wife’s maiden name, we offered them my surname. “Nothing,” the woman said. “Do you have a confirmation number?”
I did have a confirmation number. It was tucked neatly away in one of the bags the gracious bellhop had just taken from us. “Keep looking,” I said as I made my way back outside the hotel. Luckily, the bellhop was right there. He led me to a room where our luggage sat in limbo, waiting for a room assignment before reaching its destination. I felt particularly tacky reneging, at least partially, on the bellhop protocol. As it was, I had already stiffed the guy when it came to a tip because I had no cash on my person. But I promised I’d come back later and make it up to him and, with my bag in hand, made my way back to the front desk.
As it turned out, they had dropped a letter from Melanie’s maiden name, making the reservation difficult to find. But the confirmation number quickly resolved the issue and, soon enough, Melanie and I found ourselves in a 22nd floor suite.
The hotel certainly strove for lavishness. It is no surprise that a simpleton such as myself would experience a few firsts here. For starters, they had offered us complimentary bottled water and cookies (non-bottled) while we were checking in. But the room itself had many unique features. Among them was a doorbell, a separate marble tub and glass shower, a scale (although I don’t know who, in the midst of a supposed vacation, would want to worry about weight), and complimentary bathrobes. Then there was the service, which was top notch. It seemed that everyone in the hotel, both that evening and the next morning, knew who we were. We were congratulated by almost every employee we looked at, and when Melanie and I went out for a stroll later in the evening, the original bellhop greeted us as Mr. and Mrs. K. What a memory! (And yes, I did finally give him a tip.)
More impressive than anything else was our balcony view. It looked directly down into a picturesque (it’s true, I even took pictures) courtyard, as well as offering a handsome view of the city (just east of the city center). The photo below is of the courtyard at approximately 5am, when Melanie and I woke up for no good reason and decided to goof off on the balcony. The next shot is (obviously) a daytime shot of the city view. Should you be interested in useless trivia, that main white building on the bottom left is the city courthouse. The gothic building surrounded by trees is called the City and County Building. So what, eh?
Melanie and I had a great time on our first night, but, as fancy as it was, the best was yet to come. Oh, except at 7am when the alarm clock in the hotel went off. Apparently somebody forgot to turn it off that morning. Or else they were playing a mean joke on the next guests. As sleep is apt to do, our main priority whenever the alarm sounded was simply to shut it up. And so, we ended up pushing snooze until about 748am, when we finally turned it off for good.
To conclude, I will offer a few more pictures. The first is the sexy marble tub and glass shower. The second is the sink. Not much to it, but it gives you an idea. Everything was gold. Gold equals fancy, you see.
Next is the living room, complete with the remains of our room service dinner. As you can see, the décor is a bit grandma-ish, but the couch and everything was very comfortable.
This is a sampling of the wet bar. Despite the temptation to eat something just because we’re not used to having a wet bar, we left it intact. And it’s a good thing. According to their price list, those normal sized bags of M&Ms cost $3 each. Jiggawhat? Yeah, that’s right.
Thanks for tuning in. I probably won’t blab at such lengths with subsequent honeymoon posts. I’ll try to keep it simple and to the (interesting) point, and perhaps keep it more picture based so you have something to do besides read. If you’d like to see more pictures of the Grand America, simply click here to visit their site. Until then…
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