Well I had planned on spending this morning putting some letters together into words in this space, but instead I spent the morning trying to keep Judah one step away from complete meltdown.
It goes like this:
(Judah throws soccer ball repeatedly)
Me: Judah, you can't do that right now because you'll wake up the neighbors downstairs.
Judah picks up ball and throws it again
Me: Judah, if you do that one more time, I'm going to have to take the ball away from you
Judah picks up ball and throws it again
Me: Okay, I'm taking the ball away now.
I put the ball on a high shelf where he can't reach it. Judah gets upset and does the standard tantrum-style fall on the floor face down, hands and feet pounding the floor. I go to the kitchen to get some juice. Judah comes running after me and sees the juice and wants something.
Me: You want some milk?
Judah: (sniffling) Yeah
I grab the jug of milk and put it on the counter. I grab a purple sippy cup out of the cupboard.
Judah: No! No! No!
Judah falls on the ground crying
Me: Do you want a different cup?
Judah: (sniffling) Yeah
I grab a pink plastic cup out of the cupboard.
Me: Do you want this one?
Judah: No! No! No!
Judah falls on the ground crying. I grab a yellow sippy cup.
Me: Do you want this one?
Judah: (sniffling) Yeah
I grab the lid to the sippy cup.
Judah: No! No! No! No top! No top!
I put the lid down and grab the milk jug.
Judah: No! No! No! No milk! No milk!
Me: Judah? You said you wanted milk. Do you want water.
Judah: (sniffling) No
Me: Do you want milk or water?
Judah: (sniffling) Milk
Me: Okay
I pour a little bit into the sippy cup
Judah: Big one! Big one!
Me: Judah? I'm only giving you this much because I don't want you to spill it.
Judah: Big one! Big one!
I hand him the cup that doesn't have "Big one" in it.
Judah: No! No! No!
Judah falls on the ground crying.
Me: Judah, please drink this and I'll give you some more
Judah gets up and grabs the cup which barely fits in his little grasp. He takes a tiny sip and puts it down. He runs off into the living room to play with his trains. I grab his cup and my juice and head into the living room. I put the cups down on the coffee table
After playing for a bit, Judah grabs his sippy cup and takes another tiny sip. He almost gets it down to the table, but he lets it go early enough for it to tip on its side and spill all over some important documents. At least he didn't spill it on my computer. And the moral of the story would be: Don't cry over spilled milk. Or not enough milk in your sippy cup either.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Futureworld
Being the good Los Angeles citizen that I am, I'm quickly abandoning any semblance of using modes of transportation other than my car. The bike rides have become less and less as the weeks go by. There's always some lame excuse: It's raining. It's too cold. I have clients in today and I don't wanna be all stinky. I don't wanna crash and destroy my laptop. Etc, etc. Seeing's how I've spent a good majority of my life as a licensed driver not owning a car, I figure I can drive a bit in this town.
So in order to combat the high cost of burning fossil fuels, I use this little widget called, appropriately: Gas. The Gas Widget tells me where I can get the cheapest gas within a specified radius. Except sometimes I go to the station that the Gas Widget points me to, and the gas isn't the same price as it said on the widget! Can't trust anybody. Or any little computerized thingy called widget.
But recently I noticed there's a button on the widget that says "Spot". I clicked on it and it told me how I could become a "spotter", which is basically how the widget gets the information about what the gas prices are. As the legion of spotters drives by whatever gas stations, they're gathering information and putting it onto a website where you can then see on a map what the prices are in a given area. That info is then related to the simple little Gas Widget.
Spotting is no easy task, especially in Los Angeles, where there are bazillions of gas stations on every street. At first I took spotting sorta lightly. I'd drive past a 76 station, look at the sign, and speak aloud the cents part of the cost. i.e. "29 39 49", which means "$3.29, $3.39, $3.49". But the saying it aloud thing didn't work too well with remembering, especially after passing about 3 gas stations. So I started writing them down on a piece of paper. While driving. Hell, half the people I see on the road are either holding a cell phone or texting, so scribbling some numbers on a piece of paper can't be all bad now can it? For the greater good of all gas consumers?
If that's not enough, The GasPriceWatch website even awards points for every updated price you enter into the system. And they keep a running tally of which users have the most points every month, and the high score overall. Needless to say, I want the high score. So I'll waste a bunch of gas driving around LA to find gas prices so I can win!
So in order to combat the high cost of burning fossil fuels, I use this little widget called, appropriately: Gas. The Gas Widget tells me where I can get the cheapest gas within a specified radius. Except sometimes I go to the station that the Gas Widget points me to, and the gas isn't the same price as it said on the widget! Can't trust anybody. Or any little computerized thingy called widget.
But recently I noticed there's a button on the widget that says "Spot". I clicked on it and it told me how I could become a "spotter", which is basically how the widget gets the information about what the gas prices are. As the legion of spotters drives by whatever gas stations, they're gathering information and putting it onto a website where you can then see on a map what the prices are in a given area. That info is then related to the simple little Gas Widget.
Spotting is no easy task, especially in Los Angeles, where there are bazillions of gas stations on every street. At first I took spotting sorta lightly. I'd drive past a 76 station, look at the sign, and speak aloud the cents part of the cost. i.e. "29 39 49", which means "$3.29, $3.39, $3.49". But the saying it aloud thing didn't work too well with remembering, especially after passing about 3 gas stations. So I started writing them down on a piece of paper. While driving. Hell, half the people I see on the road are either holding a cell phone or texting, so scribbling some numbers on a piece of paper can't be all bad now can it? For the greater good of all gas consumers?
If that's not enough, The GasPriceWatch website even awards points for every updated price you enter into the system. And they keep a running tally of which users have the most points every month, and the high score overall. Needless to say, I want the high score. So I'll waste a bunch of gas driving around LA to find gas prices so I can win!
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Freedom of Choice
The moment had finally arrived. The moment I'd been waiting for since July, when I shipped my iBook G4 off to the winning ebayer: Macworld. Not just Macworld, but the Macworld where they were rumored to be releasing the replacement for my iBook G4: The new and improved ultra-slim MacBook.
But then the dream died. Steve Jobs didn't deliver. Well, he delivered a stunningly beautiful new ultra-slim laptop. But he didn't deliver what I had in mind.
Instead of replacing the MacBook at its price point, he gave us the MacBook Air for (in computer terms) considerably more money. Instead of giving us the same functionality, he took out the optical drive and the ethernet port and firewire. And if I may geek out even more, he gave us a slower processor and slower drive rpm than the less expensive MacBook. I guess I wasn't the only one who felt old Stevie didn't deliver:
That eleven-hundred bucks was burning a hole in my wallet. Coincidentally, my car didn't pass smog, so on the same day as the Macworld announcement I took it in for repairs so it would pass smog. And on that little trip, they found out that my brakes were shot, the ignition was faulty, and the car had an oil leak and a few belts that needed replacing. Price tag: $1100.
But then the dream died. Steve Jobs didn't deliver. Well, he delivered a stunningly beautiful new ultra-slim laptop. But he didn't deliver what I had in mind.
Instead of replacing the MacBook at its price point, he gave us the MacBook Air for (in computer terms) considerably more money. Instead of giving us the same functionality, he took out the optical drive and the ethernet port and firewire. And if I may geek out even more, he gave us a slower processor and slower drive rpm than the less expensive MacBook. I guess I wasn't the only one who felt old Stevie didn't deliver:
That eleven-hundred bucks was burning a hole in my wallet. Coincidentally, my car didn't pass smog, so on the same day as the Macworld announcement I took it in for repairs so it would pass smog. And on that little trip, they found out that my brakes were shot, the ignition was faulty, and the car had an oil leak and a few belts that needed replacing. Price tag: $1100.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)
If you managed to read the one-liner that comprised my last post, then you know that Lily was out of town for a week. Luckily for me, Mr. Jesse Clark was so extremely gracious as to fly down to Los Angeles to help me keep Mr. Judah Gardner alive until Lily came back.
And on one of the days that Lily was gone and the three of us boys were just hanging around the apartment, I heard Judah in another room saying "broken" over and over. I walked toward his voice to find him sitting near an outlet in his room where his truck-shaped night light used to reside. Except now he's got the truck part in one hand and the light part in the other. And like he said, it's "broken".
As I fully intend on shopping for a similar night light the next day - but it doesn't happen - I take an old night light in the hall that emits a lower level blue-ish light and I stick it in his room. Fast-forward to about 3:30 am and the little bugger is screaming bloody murder and waking his dad up and probably his uncle Jesse up as well. Experiment failure noted.
Next day I decided that the blue-ish light ain't gonna work, so a trip to Target was planned. An outing for the boys. Except that we barely made it into the parking lot before it became painfully clear that we weren't going to move, much less find a spot to park in. Actually it took Jesse making that painfully clear to me, and we agreed that I should just get out of the car and go in to buy the night light while Jesse and Judah found a parking spot.
I hurriedly go inside and pass all the schmoes who don't have somebody parking their car outside, and I head for the kid's section. On my way there I realize that I'm not really sure that's where the night lights will be sold. I briefly consider shoplifting the night light, because I know it's going to be a bitch to get out of here with my sanity. There's a Target employee nearby trying to act like she's working, so I ask her where the kid's night lights are. Her face assumes the look of "I don't have any idea", but she points me toward housewares. No dice.
Then it's a trip back to the kid's section, where I find another Target employee trying to act like she's working, and I ask the same question. She's more confident and she tells me "aisle N6". I go to N6. No dice. I wander around looking for anything resembling kids night lights until I find the flashlight aisle, and there are some night lights there. Not exactly the truck night light variety, but I find a nice star-shaped metal light that, from the picture on the box, emits a nice warm glow. Done.
After making my way through the riot-inducing Target checkout, I walked out the doors and spotted our car right near the entrance. Perfect. Jesse told me that he didn't see a single open parking spot the entire time.
When we got home, Jesse took the initiative of installing the star-shaped night light. As far as I can remember, I heard him say "looks great" and then "aw fuck". Apparently after he plugged in the light, he tried to adjust the metal star part and it broke away from the light part. Broken like it's a cheap piece of shit and it wasn't going to be anything other than a cheap piece of shit without an entire tube of crazy glue.
Well Jesse was again so extremely gracious as to get some scotch tape out and tape the hell out of the original truck night light and get it back into working shape. I plugged it back in. That night the boy slept soundly the entire night. Thanks Jesse!
And on one of the days that Lily was gone and the three of us boys were just hanging around the apartment, I heard Judah in another room saying "broken" over and over. I walked toward his voice to find him sitting near an outlet in his room where his truck-shaped night light used to reside. Except now he's got the truck part in one hand and the light part in the other. And like he said, it's "broken".
As I fully intend on shopping for a similar night light the next day - but it doesn't happen - I take an old night light in the hall that emits a lower level blue-ish light and I stick it in his room. Fast-forward to about 3:30 am and the little bugger is screaming bloody murder and waking his dad up and probably his uncle Jesse up as well. Experiment failure noted.
Next day I decided that the blue-ish light ain't gonna work, so a trip to Target was planned. An outing for the boys. Except that we barely made it into the parking lot before it became painfully clear that we weren't going to move, much less find a spot to park in. Actually it took Jesse making that painfully clear to me, and we agreed that I should just get out of the car and go in to buy the night light while Jesse and Judah found a parking spot.
I hurriedly go inside and pass all the schmoes who don't have somebody parking their car outside, and I head for the kid's section. On my way there I realize that I'm not really sure that's where the night lights will be sold. I briefly consider shoplifting the night light, because I know it's going to be a bitch to get out of here with my sanity. There's a Target employee nearby trying to act like she's working, so I ask her where the kid's night lights are. Her face assumes the look of "I don't have any idea", but she points me toward housewares. No dice.
Then it's a trip back to the kid's section, where I find another Target employee trying to act like she's working, and I ask the same question. She's more confident and she tells me "aisle N6". I go to N6. No dice. I wander around looking for anything resembling kids night lights until I find the flashlight aisle, and there are some night lights there. Not exactly the truck night light variety, but I find a nice star-shaped metal light that, from the picture on the box, emits a nice warm glow. Done.
After making my way through the riot-inducing Target checkout, I walked out the doors and spotted our car right near the entrance. Perfect. Jesse told me that he didn't see a single open parking spot the entire time.
When we got home, Jesse took the initiative of installing the star-shaped night light. As far as I can remember, I heard him say "looks great" and then "aw fuck". Apparently after he plugged in the light, he tried to adjust the metal star part and it broke away from the light part. Broken like it's a cheap piece of shit and it wasn't going to be anything other than a cheap piece of shit without an entire tube of crazy glue.
Well Jesse was again so extremely gracious as to get some scotch tape out and tape the hell out of the original truck night light and get it back into working shape. I plugged it back in. That night the boy slept soundly the entire night. Thanks Jesse!
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Since You're Gone
Well, Lily's left me again. For a week anyway. My hands are full with trying to keep the boy alive, editing another lithium-fueled rabbit commercial, and just generally keeping my sanity. So LLMB is on hiatus until I can come up for air.
Thanks for reading, and HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Thanks for reading, and HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Do It Again
I'm sick for what can only be the last time in 2007. There are many more germs awaiting my entry into 2008, for sure. The only blessing about this final 2007 bug is that I'm sick early enough to make a speedy recovery for New Year's Eve, and that means sitting around with some parents whose kids are probably sick, and we'll be talking about what we used to do on New Year's Eve's before we did this.
The added bonus of being sick this time is knowing exactly when, where, and who I got my illness from. The added bonus not being the knowing, but the added animosity toward the person who was so kind as to show up at my cousin's Xmas Eve dinner knowing she was coming down with something nasty, and sharing it with the rest of us.
She's a woman of probably about 57, named Roz. Roz didn't really have much to say to us (or anyone), other than to remark about how rambunctious Judah was being, and also that the Poinsettia he was playing next to was poisonous. According to the Bible (Wikipedia), Poinsettia's aren't poisonous, but we didn't have that information at the time so we all silently watched Judah like a hawk until he moved to a non-Poinsettia region of my cousin's house. The next morning I woke up feeling like crap, and I recalled how good I was feeling until that precise moment.
In any case, here I sit drinking Nighttime Airborne, loathing Roz. Nighty-night.
The added bonus of being sick this time is knowing exactly when, where, and who I got my illness from. The added bonus not being the knowing, but the added animosity toward the person who was so kind as to show up at my cousin's Xmas Eve dinner knowing she was coming down with something nasty, and sharing it with the rest of us.
She's a woman of probably about 57, named Roz. Roz didn't really have much to say to us (or anyone), other than to remark about how rambunctious Judah was being, and also that the Poinsettia he was playing next to was poisonous. According to the Bible (Wikipedia), Poinsettia's aren't poisonous, but we didn't have that information at the time so we all silently watched Judah like a hawk until he moved to a non-Poinsettia region of my cousin's house. The next morning I woke up feeling like crap, and I recalled how good I was feeling until that precise moment.
In any case, here I sit drinking Nighttime Airborne, loathing Roz. Nighty-night.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Trim Up The Tree
What I really want for Xmas this year is to know, once and for all, what my ethnic background really is. When I was a kid, it was simple: Dad was German/English, Mom was Filipino. But over the years it's gotten oh so muddled.
Upon doing a family tree homework assignment in high school, I found out that moms was not just Filipino, but her father was Spanish & Chinese. And then a couple years ago, Lily did some more questioning of my mom to find out what was up with my father's side of the picture, and she found out that there was Scottish and French in there as well.
I wanted to get to the bottom of this, and being as my dad's attending the great gig in the sky and not around to answer questions, I asked his brother. He told me there wasn't any Scottish or French in our family but there was German and Welsh. I'd never heard that I was Welsh before, but I felt like I was getting someplace.
The moment of truth finally arrived this year when we had a family reunion at my uncle's house in San Diego. I was so excited to ask the question about our ancestry and get the last word on what I'm really made of. Nope. Nothing but divergent opinions and ideas on what we were. Oh, and that my grandfather had a completely separate family from the one I knew about.
And then just the other day my cousin, who didn't bother to make the trek down to San Diego to help fill in the blanks in the family tree, calls me on the telephone. I explain the whole story of the reunion and the lack of information. He then tells me that years ago one of our relatives, who's not a relative anymore because of divorce, did the research and told our family (including the people at my family reunion) that not only were we German, English, and Welsh, but IRISH too! Well if that don't beat all. I hope at some point I find out I'm Italian as well. I've always wanted to be Italian.
Upon doing a family tree homework assignment in high school, I found out that moms was not just Filipino, but her father was Spanish & Chinese. And then a couple years ago, Lily did some more questioning of my mom to find out what was up with my father's side of the picture, and she found out that there was Scottish and French in there as well.
I wanted to get to the bottom of this, and being as my dad's attending the great gig in the sky and not around to answer questions, I asked his brother. He told me there wasn't any Scottish or French in our family but there was German and Welsh. I'd never heard that I was Welsh before, but I felt like I was getting someplace.
The moment of truth finally arrived this year when we had a family reunion at my uncle's house in San Diego. I was so excited to ask the question about our ancestry and get the last word on what I'm really made of. Nope. Nothing but divergent opinions and ideas on what we were. Oh, and that my grandfather had a completely separate family from the one I knew about.
And then just the other day my cousin, who didn't bother to make the trek down to San Diego to help fill in the blanks in the family tree, calls me on the telephone. I explain the whole story of the reunion and the lack of information. He then tells me that years ago one of our relatives, who's not a relative anymore because of divorce, did the research and told our family (including the people at my family reunion) that not only were we German, English, and Welsh, but IRISH too! Well if that don't beat all. I hope at some point I find out I'm Italian as well. I've always wanted to be Italian.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Deep in the Heart of Texas
When my employer asked me to travel to Dallas to edit a spot, I was asked one minor question: Do you want a rental car? Seems like an easy answer: Yes! But after speaking to another editor who'd traveled to Dallas, the likelihood of getting lost in Dallas in my rental car seemed very possible. And because I'd never been to Texas before, I decided it was probably a better idea to use taxis to get around.
Simple enough. Cab drivers know their city, right? Wrong. Every morning, I'd hop in the taxi, tell the driver the address and neighborhood, and each one would turn around and look at me like I was speaking Tagalog or something. The first day, the driver drove away from the hotel, pulled out a Thomas Guide and proceeded to look for the name of the street. Seeing's how I didn't want to get in a wreck over something as silly as getting me to the office, I said "gimme that" and looked for it myself.
The next day, things were looking up. The cab driver had a GPS thingy on his dashboard. Aside from the fact that he didn't know how to punch in the address, it functioned perfectly. Except for the fact that 75% of the roads around the office are under construction/not there anymore. We drove around in circles, with the GPS thingy saying "Turn right. Recalculating" every time we made a right. Luckily I had some modern technology of my own, a cellular telephone, to make a call to a co-worker and get real directions.
By the time you read this, I should be halfway to the office or circling around the same patch of roads under construction.
Simple enough. Cab drivers know their city, right? Wrong. Every morning, I'd hop in the taxi, tell the driver the address and neighborhood, and each one would turn around and look at me like I was speaking Tagalog or something. The first day, the driver drove away from the hotel, pulled out a Thomas Guide and proceeded to look for the name of the street. Seeing's how I didn't want to get in a wreck over something as silly as getting me to the office, I said "gimme that" and looked for it myself.
The next day, things were looking up. The cab driver had a GPS thingy on his dashboard. Aside from the fact that he didn't know how to punch in the address, it functioned perfectly. Except for the fact that 75% of the roads around the office are under construction/not there anymore. We drove around in circles, with the GPS thingy saying "Turn right. Recalculating" every time we made a right. Luckily I had some modern technology of my own, a cellular telephone, to make a call to a co-worker and get real directions.
By the time you read this, I should be halfway to the office or circling around the same patch of roads under construction.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Sweet Child O' Mine
Lily tells me our son now says the word "Dammit". I wonder where he picked that up from? Damn!
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Bellbottoms
Not long ago, probably about a month ago, it dawned on me that my wardrobe was getting some serious wear. And tear. Which is a good thing, because I want to get as much mileage as I can out of my gear before the style police come along and tell me it's time to get into whatever retro year it is this time.
So on a Sunday, the family went on a little outing to the Beverly Center to do some shopping and basically hit the closest H&M to our neck of the proverbial woods. To make a long story start, we went into Club Monaco and I tried on some slacks. Nice, but they needed tailoring, and Club Monaco does free tailoring with your purchase. At least that's what the fashionista working the dressing rooms told me. Turns out that it's free if your merchandise is not on sale, which mine was, so I had to pay 10 bucks. Not bad for the convenience of not needing to go someplace else and do the whole fitting, pinning, paying exercise all over again.
The much-younger-than-me guy working the register handed me a ticket to fill out with my name and phone number. He tore off one part of the ticket and handed it back to me, and he told me my pants would be ready next Wednesday. I walked out of the store feeling oddly satisfied that I did some shopping, but I had no merchandise.
Wednesday arrives and Lily is kind enough to brave the Beverly Center again to pick up my pants. That night I pull the pants out of the bag to try them on and complete the shopping nirvana feeling. But I find that there are still pins in my folded, cinched pants. No tailoring had been done. I asked Lily about it, and she said she just picked up the bag from the store. The employee said they were done. Done has a lot of meanings I guess, but this didn't fit my definition of done.
At my earliest convenience, I called Club Monaco @ Beverly Center and spoke with a manager. He apologized not so profusely and said I could bring the pants back in and it would be done. Really? I'm allowed to drive my car into one of the worst parking lots ever and enter one of the few places I really consider hell on earth just so they could finish what they were supposed to have completed in the first place? No no no. I asked if I could bring the pants to any Club Monaco to have the tailoring done. He said yes, and that if anyone gave me a problem, to have them call him. Ooh. Tough guy.
There's a Club Monaco on the 3rd Street Promenade in lovely Santa Monica, and it's conveniently located walking distance from work. I drive there and bring the pants in on a Friday. I tell an employee my story, and we're good. She tells me to come back Monday, and they'll be done. I come back Tuesday. They're not done. There's no apology. Just a smile and the kind of blank stare you get from a lot of vendors in Southern California, begging you to say or do something you'll probably regret.
I assumed that they expected me to come back at some undefined later date in hopes that my pants will one day be tailored as we agreed upon way back when at the Beverly Center. But instead of playing that game, I asked them if they could be so kind as to call me when they're done. Blank smile girl said "of course". No apology.
Time passes and there's no phone call. I make the call, and I discover that the pants are ready, and they've been ready for a week. I ask for the manager, and I find out that I'm already speaking to him. I tell him my plight, and he's sympathetic. When I go in and get my pants, they're ready and they fit perfectly. The manger gives me a $30 store credit. What do I do with it? I buy more pants that need tailoring.
So on a Sunday, the family went on a little outing to the Beverly Center to do some shopping and basically hit the closest H&M to our neck of the proverbial woods. To make a long story start, we went into Club Monaco and I tried on some slacks. Nice, but they needed tailoring, and Club Monaco does free tailoring with your purchase. At least that's what the fashionista working the dressing rooms told me. Turns out that it's free if your merchandise is not on sale, which mine was, so I had to pay 10 bucks. Not bad for the convenience of not needing to go someplace else and do the whole fitting, pinning, paying exercise all over again.
The much-younger-than-me guy working the register handed me a ticket to fill out with my name and phone number. He tore off one part of the ticket and handed it back to me, and he told me my pants would be ready next Wednesday. I walked out of the store feeling oddly satisfied that I did some shopping, but I had no merchandise.
Wednesday arrives and Lily is kind enough to brave the Beverly Center again to pick up my pants. That night I pull the pants out of the bag to try them on and complete the shopping nirvana feeling. But I find that there are still pins in my folded, cinched pants. No tailoring had been done. I asked Lily about it, and she said she just picked up the bag from the store. The employee said they were done. Done has a lot of meanings I guess, but this didn't fit my definition of done.
At my earliest convenience, I called Club Monaco @ Beverly Center and spoke with a manager. He apologized not so profusely and said I could bring the pants back in and it would be done. Really? I'm allowed to drive my car into one of the worst parking lots ever and enter one of the few places I really consider hell on earth just so they could finish what they were supposed to have completed in the first place? No no no. I asked if I could bring the pants to any Club Monaco to have the tailoring done. He said yes, and that if anyone gave me a problem, to have them call him. Ooh. Tough guy.
There's a Club Monaco on the 3rd Street Promenade in lovely Santa Monica, and it's conveniently located walking distance from work. I drive there and bring the pants in on a Friday. I tell an employee my story, and we're good. She tells me to come back Monday, and they'll be done. I come back Tuesday. They're not done. There's no apology. Just a smile and the kind of blank stare you get from a lot of vendors in Southern California, begging you to say or do something you'll probably regret.
I assumed that they expected me to come back at some undefined later date in hopes that my pants will one day be tailored as we agreed upon way back when at the Beverly Center. But instead of playing that game, I asked them if they could be so kind as to call me when they're done. Blank smile girl said "of course". No apology.
Time passes and there's no phone call. I make the call, and I discover that the pants are ready, and they've been ready for a week. I ask for the manager, and I find out that I'm already speaking to him. I tell him my plight, and he's sympathetic. When I go in and get my pants, they're ready and they fit perfectly. The manger gives me a $30 store credit. What do I do with it? I buy more pants that need tailoring.
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