The Perfect Marriage

If you've been reading this blog you know that Steve and I have the perfect marriage: we laugh a lot, we fight a lot, we have very little in common, and we love each other a lot. When we attended a wedding back in August we received a rare and wonderful compliment: the DJ asked all the married couples to come to the dance floor and asked us how long we have been married. When he got to Steve and I and we answered "18 years" the woman next to us gasped and said to her husband of 38 years, "I would have sworn they were newlyweds! Look Ed, look how in love they are!"

It's quite possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said about us as a couple.

So recently as we stood in the kitchen arguing over my choice of song on MY iPod I wondered what makes us work.

"It's the most wonderful, romantic song in the world! I love this song!"

"Turn it off, that song is stupid, even our 10 year old doesn't have that song on her playlist!" "It's my iPod, I can have whatever I want on it!"

"Great, then don't play it through the speakers. Use your earbuds."

He turned it off. He turned on the football game. I turned on the mixer. And the blender. He took 3 days to confirm me as a friend on Facebook. It took me a whole day before I mentioned I had taken a teaching job without consulting him. He buys his own Christmas presents in October. And November. And December. I spend $6 on butter because it's organic. He likes music where the girls are slutty and the guys are confused. I like a sitcom that hasn't made a new episode since 1995. He said that last night's dinner smelled like dirty sweat socks and looked like dog food. (He was kind of right about that one...) I make fun of his haircuts even when I like them.

And yet, when I hear that song, my favorite-most-romantic-song-in-the-world song, I only think of Steve. This song is sung with such feeling, such depth, such beautiful orchestry I feel warm inside just thinking about it. Steve's romantic song choice: Smooth Up In Ya by the Bullet Boys.

My choice: Kiss the Girl from the Little Mermaid soundtrack, sung by Sebastian the Crab.

Kudos to you, Arbella!

In the interest of full disclosure and giving kudos to those who deserve them I want to report today's conversation with Arbella Insurance.

After discovering my blog entry, Lynn from Arbella called me. The fact that Arbella was interested enough in resolving a customer service issue to research who I am and then call really impressed me. They put their money where their mouth is, so to speak. Lynn was calling simply to apologize. She didn't discount my bill or refund me any money she simply apologized. I am completely satisfied with that. Arbella doesn't need to bribe me to do what's right: pay my bill on time, accurately report our interactions on my blog -- all they needed to do was to accept responsibility and apologize.

Kudos to you, Arbella! Well done on the customer service. I feel confident that should I (God forbid!) ever have a claim that I will receive top rate service.

And if not, well, I always have Lynn's number and a blog!

Grace #25 Freedom of Speech

I have been very lazy about my graces lately, but I have a found a show so worthy of being a Grace that it has pushed me out of my laziness enough to blog about it. I give very little thought to my basic rights in this country because I don't have to think about them. I was born unto them and thus far haven't felt significantly threatened that I'll lose them. A Penn & Teller have a new-to-me-who-takes-a-long-time-to-discover-stuff Showtime series called Bullsh*&t.

In these 28-48 minute shows they take a topic, any topic -- Prostitution, Sleep, Global Warming, Pet Lovers -- and they decide whether or not the commonly held social beliefs or governmental laws about that topic are, well, bullshit.

I like this show because it's funny. I like this show because it's actually very well researched. I like this show most of all because it makes you think. It's entertaining, adult, thought provoking TV and that to me is when TV is at its best. Through Netflix (also a Grace, as you may recall) Steve and I have watched Seasons 4,5,and 6. One of the seasons had a show on Porn. Both sides of the Porn issue were debated: is it addictive, dangerous, morally corrupt, women exploitive trash OR is it harmless adult entertainment. (The show was only dealing with adult porn, not child pornography about which there is no debate: it is criminal and all people related to the making, selling and buying should be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law and then killed - just my opinion). There was an "expert", a professor at some university in the southwest, who kept equating the viewing of pornography with acts like rape, objectification of women, and immoral behavior. She kept using the term pornography to be interchangeable with adult and child. She referred to consensual adult pornography as rape because some porn apparently does depict rape fantasies. What I liked about the show was Penn's response that words mean something. Tossing about the term rape should be not casual. It should be not the punchline of a joke. It should not be used to scare your audience into believing your point of view. The professor admitted that there wasn't any research to back up her claims so she resorted to confusing her audience by drawing conclusions such as viewing pornography encourages rape and viewing adult pornography encourages viewing child pornography.

These types of scare tactics have become common place in our media where words really don't mean anything. Slow news day? Throw some statitistics around scaring people into believing that they will die from H1N1 if not vaccinated by a new and largely untested vaccine. (Could it be that the makers of the vaccine who stand to profit greatly are influencing the media? Hmmm...) Not sure if a criminal sounds scary enough? Call him a terrorist or say he has terrorist ties. Maybe throw the word "serial" into a description of his crimes, that'll get the viewer excited.

Penn is right: words do have meaning. I use exaggeration, hyperbole, and humor all the time on this blog. AND I choose my words carefully. I want them to have meaning. I don't want to just spew more bullshit.

Arbella - Get the Insurance You Need, Then Get a Big Bill

Uh-oh, I feel a customer service rant coming on...

I can't help it, I must wax poetic (or at least annoyed) about this situation. I haven't been this annoyed since I went 10 rounds with Bob's Furniture to get my account properly credited. In the first corner wearing the white collar we have Arbella Insurance. In the second corner wearing a startled expression and holding her checkbook we have Beth. Who will win?

Well, Arbella won. Let me elucidate:

We have our car insurance, homeowner's insurance and we had our renter's insurance with Arbella. This is not uncommon in New England where Arbella holds a substantial share of the insurance market. They are not the cheapest on car insurance but when you look at the overall cost of all the coverage we have, they are very competitive. Things were going along swimmingly until we bought our house.

First Arbella sends us a bill for the first year's homeowner's insurance. I thought we had paid it with our closing costs but hey, I couldn't find the closing documents and I certainly didn't want to be in arrears so I thought I'd pay first, ask questions later.

Then the refund checks began to arrive. First a check for $68.00. We weren't sure why Arbella refunded us $68 and there wasn't any accompanying documentation so we figured it was an overpayment of some kind. We cashed the check. Then a check for $493.00. I believe strongly in a provident universe but this seemed a little too provident so I called Arbella.
"Why did I get this refund?"
"I don't know ma'am. Your accounts are all paid up. Have you made any recent changes to your accounts?"
"Yes, we added a car and a house and dropped the rental. During the month of June we had 2 cars and 2 houses on the policy."
"Ah, that explains it ma'am. The refund is probably the result of discounts being added to your account and the unused portion of the renter's insurance."
"Okay, excellent! So the money is really mine?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Thank you!"
"Thank you ma'am. Is there anything I can help you with today?"
"No."
"Okay ma'am. Have a good day."

That was a lovely little exchange, wasn't it? Very polite. All questions answered. I cashed the check. A few weeks later another check comes, this one is the exact amount of my homeowner's premium for the year. I call my local agent this time. She walks me through my closing documents and helps me to find where I already paid the premium with my closing costs. "Is the money really mine?" I ask. "Yes." Great, I cash the check. Last week Arbella sends me a letter saying that $1,255.00 was applied to my account in error and would be removed. They apologized for any inconvenience this may cause me.

I call Arbella.
"What does this mean?" I ask.
"It means you owe us $1,255.00 by December 22" they reply.

Whaaat??? Why????

The polite-but-not-apologetic-agent informs me that there was an error. A glitch. It showed my balance paid in full when it really wasn't. They found the error, now they want the money. "But I called!" I wail, "I asked if the money was mine and you said yes!" "Sorry ma'am, we don't have a record of that call and you're the one who cashed the checks," says Miss-Professional-but-by-God-I-won't-apologize.

We went round and round. You owe, yes but you said I didn't, Yes but now you do, yes but you should have said that when I called, Yes but we didn't so you owe, etc., etc., etc.

I called my local agent and they went a few rounds with Arbella but the answer is the same: you owe, regardless of what we may or may not have told you in July, you owe.

I am not looking to profit from a clerical error. I owe. Okay, I already scheduled the payment through my bank, but I am looking for some decent customer service here, is that too much to ask? Would it have killed them to say "well, we'll write off the checks for $68 and $493 because she called, she gave us the opportunity to discover our mistake, we didn't, we lose." I can assure you that if I made a clerical error and didn't pay on time I would be expected to pay whatever late fees they wanted because I made a mistake and sometimes when you make a mistake it costs you a little. Would I be allowed to say "I'm sorry Arbella. I've had a data entry error in my Microsoft Money bill paying software. It showed that I've been paying you when I haven't. Since this is a clerical error you won't charge me any late fees, right?" I think not.

Yet that is exactly the courtesy I extended to Arbella.

"Well ma'am, if you wish to continue your coverage you'll need to pay by December 22."
"Yeah, thanks. Your generosity overwhelms me."
"Yes ma'am. Is that all I can help you with today?"
"Sigh. Yes. If you believe you were helpful, that is..."
"Okay ma'am, good bye."

(This is where I miss the old fashioned phones. Hitting end just doesn't have the satisfaction that slamming down the receiver used to have.)

SLAM! (there, that felt better).

My favorite time of the day

A couple of days ago my daughter asked me "Mom, what's your favorite time of the day?" I gave her an answer, a simple answer because I knew she didn't want a dissertation on the subject, but the question got me to thinking: what is my favorite time of the day? The answers are many:

After the alarm goes off and Steve has gone out to run but I get to lie awake, warm and comfy, and think my morning thoughts uniterrupted.

When I first wake my daughter for school and her face is still so like a baby's in sleep and she smells of warmth, innocence, and sleep.

After I've dropped my daughter off to school and I get back home with my whole day spread before me and usually some quality phone time with Debbie and/or Chellie coming soon.

After I've worked out and I'm just about to step into a warm shower. I'm pleasantly tired yet energized, sweaty yet about to be clean.

When I pick my daughter up from school and she is bubbling over with what happened in her day, the injustices inflicted upon a fifth grader: rumors, hard tests, unreasonable teachers, and yucky cafeteria food.

When we first sit down to dinner and Steve is bubbling over about his day and the injustices inflicted upon a 40 yr old: rumors, hard problems, unreasonable co-workers, and bad coffee.

After my daughter has gone to bed and Steve and I sit down on the couch together to read, watch TV, or even occasionally talk!

When I first get in bed each night to read. My teeth are brushed, my face is washed, my pajamas are comfy, my bed is warm, and a good book is waiting. I am tired and almost ready for sleep but not quite.

As I look back on all my favorite times I am humbled by how truly blessed my life is.

And one more favorite time: as I sit down at my computer, a blank composition box in front of me, to express all the triumphs and injustices inflicted upon a human being each day...

I've survived another October

October has typically been a month signifying big life changes for me. When I was 12 I had my first period in October. Steve and I got engaged in October. We moved into our house in Cinci in October. My daughter weaned from breastfeeding in October. Steve lost his job in Cinci in October. I was diagnosed with a brain tumor in October. We met our good friends here in Massachusetts in October. I quit my kindergarten "temp" job in October.

So I suppose it's not really hard to understand why I greet each October with a mixture of fear and excitement. Fear for what might happen. Excitement because life is exciting, you never know what's on the next page, but every single event large or small has put me where I am today and where I am is pretty darn good. I've never known in advance what the big life change will be but I have a pretty good idea in which month it will take place. Some would say it's all coincidence and that I could make a pretty good case for almost every month signifying big changes if I really sat down and listed all my life's events, and they would probably be right, but for some reason it's always October that seems to stick out in my mind.

We have a cluster of birthdays for family and friends (a total of 11!) in March and I've heard other people tell similar stories of such clusters of birthdays, anniversaries, or big life events. Perhaps we are drawn to people who are walking similar paths to ours.

I also have an affinity for June: my birth month, graduations month, month I started my "career" job that I kept for 9 years, our daughter's conception month, month we closed on our new house in Massachusetts. Still, it's October that plagues me. I tend to be more anxious in October. My usually-dormant-but-always-present hypochondria is more active in October (of course the fact that the entire month has been co-opted by pink ribbons probably doesn't help). Problems that I handle with ease in August seem monumental in October. I always greet the beginning of November with a sense of relief: I did it! I survived October!

I don't understand Numerology very well but I know that October distills to the number '1' and '1' signifies individuality, new beginnings, positivity, and leadership. I don't know exactly what a "chart" is as used by numerologists, but I would like to imagine that some or all of those qualities would appear in mine. Every event that ever occurred in my life in October ended up being a positive new beginning -- even if it didn't seem so at the time.

Oh yeah, and speaking of positive new beginnings, I started blogging one year ago in, of course, October. Happy Birthday Eye of the Beholder.

Benjamin Moore is better than Valium

For many people these are symbols of hope, of everything being right in their life, of a better tomorrow:

And while I am a huge believer in several of these symbols myself, for me symbols of hope look like this:

And I don't think I am alone in thinking this way. I think the advent of HGTV and DIY and the boom in the home improvement market comes from people feeling hopeful. Feeling positive. Feeling empowered to make a change for the better in their own personal space. I am never more at peace than when I am tearing down wallpaper, sanding woodwork, filling holes, and rolling on paint. These actions, by their very nature, are hopeful: they show trust in my future, belief in my ability to renew, and a certain mastery over my surroundings. Does a suicidal person pick out a paint color, paint a room and freshen the window treatments? Probably not. Does a depressed person slipcover the couch, sew new pillow covers and light the candles on the mantel? What are some of the first things that tend to slip when a family is in crisis: beds not being made, dishes undone, papers stacking up, and laundry going stale.

I'm a huge believer in "acting as if" because I believe that our subconscious doesn't really know the difference between true hope and hopeful actions. I think we can fool ourselves into being happy, productive, positive, and hopeful simply by doing the things that a happy, productive, positive, and hopeful person does. Right now I'm not exactly sure where my future is going. I quit my job. I'm not in school. I'm not sure what I want to be when I grow up and I'm not even sure that I'm supposed to be anything, at least until my daughter is a little older. At first I felt jittery. I should be doing something. I should be replacing my teaching job with something else. I had a lot of I shoulds.

Then I spotted it, the neon OPEN sign glowing even in the bright sun: Benjamin Moore paints sold here. Welcome, We're Open. So I painted the half bath. Then my daughter's room. Now I'm ready to start my daughter's bathroom. There are wallpaper borders to steam, a deep burgundy to primer, a lot of woodwork to freshen, and some fixtures to move. I'm still not sure about my future but I feel hopeful. I feel energized. I'm renewing my surroundings while my soul renews its career goals.

I may not be on-track for a CEO position, but my half bath sure looks good. And that's something.

One drill, 8 screws, 2 curtain rods & me

Let me begin by stating: I love my home. I think the previous owners did a fantastic job picking out paint colors, wood finishes, designing the floor plan, and choosing the carpeting. The previous owners did not, however, have a talent for putting up curtain rods.

"Please leave all curtain rods and associated hardware." we wrote in our contract when we bought the home. I was trying to save myself from having to move in, fill a bunch of huge-drywall-anchor-sized holes, paint, and then be able to put up new hardware. Ironically I am having to do exactly that because you see the curtain rods are mounted four inches below the top moulding of each window. That's right, I said below. It is the most unusual placement of a curtain rod I have ever seen. Rather than elongating the window it bisects the view. Most standard 84" curtains drag the floor (as opposed to puddling on the floor in a display of decadence and luxury), and it is disconcerting to have the curtain rods below the moulding.

Well I'm no slacker, I'll just get Steve's trusty drill and move those rods up about 6 inches. Easy, right? Wrong. It's important now that you know that when we hung the curtain rods in our daughter's freshly painted room we broke the Phillips Head drill bit for the drill so when I went to remove the screws on the oddly-low rods in the family room I had to use a bit that was not made for the drill and is therefore too small. So it kept falling out. So I kept trying to tighten it back in and try again. It kept losing traction on the screws and falling out. Now I like to keep at problems like this for a good 5 minutes or so - you know just enough time to thoroughly round out the screw head so that I when I finally decide to just get the &*^% screwdriver and take the screw out manually I no longer have enough traction to do so. But maybe that's just me.

So I go back to trying the drill (having learned nothing from my previous 100 failures). This time I decide to push that button on the drill that Steve always pushes when he has failed 100 times. I don't know exactly what the button does, but when Steve pushes it, grunts, curses a bit, and pushes the drill really hard into something he seems to get success.

I pushed the button. I grunted. I cursed. I pushed the drill really really hard into the screw. The drill bit slid right off the screw and punched a decent sized hole in the wall. Hmm. I get the spackle out of my big center apron pocket and patch that hole right up. I try again. This time I decide (wisely) to hold a small cork coaster next to the spot I'm drilling. Yep, it worked like a champ because this time after I pushed the button, grunted, cursed, and pushed the drill really hard into the screw it flew right off the top of the screw and punched a decent sized hole in my hand that was holding the coaster. I didn't have any band-aids in my big apron pocket so I decided to forego the medical attention and just stick to the cursing. Besides by now the drill feels a little hot and I'm thinking the blood running down my hand may cool the bit, kind of a like a morbid wet-saw.

I am having a harder time holding the drill now. My arm is tired. One hand is bloody. The screw-heads are completely rounded out - so much so that I actually contemplate using an Allen wrench instead of a screwdriver. I cursed a blue-streak, grunted, and pushed that drill into the screw as hard as I can yet success eludes me. I briefly consider going to Lowe's to buy the appropriate drill bit for our drill, but I've wasted the afternoon now, school is almost out, and I have to return to my real job.

Drill, screws, curtain rods = 1.
Beth = 0.

But on the bright side, at least I didn't wet my pants this time!

Beth + Home Improvement = Disaster

Well, maybe Disaster is an exaggeration, but I do seem to have some perilous experiences doing what many would consider fairly mundane tasks. Today I was merely painting my daughter's room, a pretty common and not too difficult task, right? WRONG. I love watching the designers on HGTV paint rooms: first they clear everything out of the room, then they prep, finally they paint. Not so at my house where I am forced to paint with all of my daughter's furniture in the middle of her room creating about an 18" border around the edge of the room for me to sit, stand, or place my ladder. This is probably a good time to mention that my daughter's room has 14' ceilings so I needed a really big ladder. A really big and heavy ladder. In addition to not clearing out the room properly, I like to spice up my painting experience by prepping as I go. I don't intentionally skip the prep work, there just always seems to be a stray nail or screw hole that I miss during prep that I notice whilst 6 inches away from the wall, clinging to the ladder, and painting. In order to minimize my trips up and down the ladder I like to wear an apron with a big center pocket where I can keep my drywall spackle, putty knife, Oops! Paint Wipes, and of course my cell phone. That's another key component to remember: during this entire episode I am talking on my cell phone, using my headset of course.

So I clamber up the ladder, my center of gravity slightly off due to the heavy swinging of my big apron pocket up front. I don't really have room to set up the ladder properly so I have a nearly vertical ascent instead of a nice safe angled ascent. I have rubber-banded towels to the top of my ladder to keep the ladder's edge from damaging the wall. This works great, except for the fact that the rubber grips on the ladder's edge that are designed to grip the wall can no longer do any ...uh...gripping. Anyway, no matter, I climb the ladder with my EZ Grip paint can in one hand, cell phone ear bud in one ear, and my paintbrush in my teeth. It takes me a moment after I have climbed the ladder to realize that the ladder isn't squarely resting on both feet on the floor, one foot has caught the edge of my drop cloth and is able to pivot. This pivot, felt about 10 feet in the air, is really contributing to my feeling of being off balance. The problem is I have no where to go! When I shift my weight to one foot to go back down, the ladder pivots awkwardly away from the wall. I have only one hand free to hold on the ladder and am concerned, due to my vertical angle, that if I let go of the ladder to try to steady myself against the wall, I'll fall.

Now obviously I'm not still trapped up on the ladder (carrying a laptop in my big front apron pocket would be outlandish, even for me), so eventually I figured out to lean my body weight forward (thus pushing the ladder against the wall) and kind of slither down the ladder without shifting side to side too much.

All's well that ends well. The room is painted. Two coats, no less. I am safely on the ground again and grateful the job is done. A few drops of paint did slosh over the top of my EZ Grip paint can during my "slithering down the ladder" but it seemed a fairly small price to pay considering what almost happened. Actually, it's one of the smaller prices I have paid: once while stripping wallpaper in my bathroom I ended up wetting my pants because I waited too long to use the toilet and found myself with a boiling hot steamer in one hand, no place to put it down, and jeans too sweat-slicked to my legs to come down just using the other hand. I danced around a minute or two valiantly struggling to get out of my jeans and not give myself third degree burns but all the jumping around merely hurried the inevitable: me wetting my pants while literally standing next to a toilet.

I think I'll take up roofing next.

It's the same, but different

The year is 1982. I walk into the Salem Mall in Dayton, Ohio with my mom. It's a banner day for my 12-year-old-self because Mom and I are going to check out the new specialty clothing store that has just opened: The Limited.

Ahhh, the Limited. I loved this store. The Limited came to our town about the same time the hormone fairies upped my interest in my appearance to an all-time-high and I was ready, babysitting money in hand, to be transformed.

Prior to the opening of the Limited my mom and I had shopped in department stores. There weren't a lot of specialty clothing stores around in the early '80s and department store shopping was pretty common. My mom's store of choice was JCPenney. She loved the catalog, the lower prices, the towels, and the "modest" style they promoted for girls my age. My store of choice was Elder-Beerman, a slightly more upscale department store that wasn't at the mall thus making it feel more special because it looked so large in its surrounding landscape. I bought my first pair of "Lee pin-striped-baggies" at Elder-Beerman. My first mini-skirt. My first pair of chinos to be paired with, what else?, a pastel Izod shirt and sweater. My first pair of too-tight Gloria Vanderbilt jeans (also paired with a pastel Izod, of course), and my first pair of Calvin Klein jeans, worn exclusively with my brown leather lace up Eastland "deck" shoes and striped socks that matched my (wait for it...) Esprit striped T shirt. Oh I was a dish, my friends, a dish I say.

But all that changed on that glorious fall day when The Limited opened up at the mall. The Limited was a store catering just to me. No longer did I have to shop where my mother shopped. No fear of my finery being rung up at the same time as one of my mother's industrial strength 18 hour bras. No fraternizing with old ladies with a blue rinse in the purse department. There were deep V Forenza sweaters in jewel tones as far as the eye could see. Matching socks in a decadently thick knit. Belts. Earrings. Everything my little 12-year-old heart could want with a premium price that buckled my knees, boggled my mind, and had me babysitting 20 hours just to afford a Forenza T shirt. I didn't care. It was worth it.

I wrote on my Christmas lists for the next 5 years: Anything from The Limited. Birthdays. Confirmation. 8th Grade Graduation. School clothes shopping for high school. "Any particular color?" my mom would ask. "No mom, just as long as it comes from The Limited." I would answer with just enough contempt in my voice to make it clear that the buyers for The Limited would never make a color error. Forenza. Outback Red (OBR to those in the know). Limited Express. I was in heaven.

Time went by. I aged. I graduated from high school. I went to college. Stores like the Gap, American Eagle, and Banana Republic began battling with The Limited for my spending dollar. I got married. I graduated from college. I got a full time job. Professional wardrobe needs began to push aside denim and I found myself frequenting Dress Barn, Casual Corner, and TJ Maxx. I never really knew when The Limited closed at the Salem Mall. I hadn't been to that mall regularly in years and hadn't been in the store itself for a decade when I noticed one day, home for the holidays and running to the mall for a last minute item, that the store was no longer there. "Oh, The Limited is gone!" I thought for a moment as I whisked by on my way to Lazarus. I had a momentary feeling of loss, quickly crowded out by a shopping agenda and my eye catching a new colorful display at Victoria's Secret. I certainly didn't notice that a key component of what shaped my adolescent sense of style and self was gone.

I didn't notice, that is, until last weekend when, on a routine jaunt to a mall in Massachusetts I saw it, big bold banner proclaiming: The Limited, Now Open! "The Limited!" I exclaimed to Steve and our bored-and-bewildered daughter, "they brought back The Limited!" My reaction was visceral, immediate, and strong: I was instantly yanked back in time 27 years to the first time I had seen the store. The banners proclaiming "Forenza!" were swaying gaily in the air-handler-breeze, the chrome racks were filled with all manner of shirts, sweaters, and jackets. I felt inexplicably happy as I walked by. As I walked by. I didn't go in. It's not my time anymore. I have a not-too-far-from-12 year old myself who was pulling me into Aeropastale. Hollister. Abercrombie. I see her face as we approach these frequently too-dark-and-too-loud specialty stores with premium prices. I know what her Christmas list will say this year: "Anything from Aeropastale!" "Any particular color?" I'll ask. "No Mom, " she'll say with slight contempt and disgust, "just as long as it's from Aeropastale! Or Abercrombie."

Maybe I'll make up my own Christmas list this year: "Anything as long it comes from Coldwater Creek!" "Any particular color?" my husband will ask.

You know how I'll respond.

Okay, I'm Home again...Now What?

This is the view I have from my great room, kitchen, bedroom, and deck. Pretty magnificent, eh? I get to see this view all day long. Every day. You see, it's over: the kindergarten job that just would not end has, well, ended. I'm home again. I feel relieved, excited, exhausted, and completely and utterly without purpose. How did this happen? I have been a stay-at-home mom since my daughter was born 10 years ago! Well, except for 4 years ago when I worked as a substitute teacher at her school. And oh yea, except for 2 years ago when I decided to go back to school to get a Master's in ...well, I never did figure that out. And except for the past 2 years during which I have been a professional volunteer at my daughter's school.

I'm very good at not having a job, but I'm not very good at staying home.

I think I'm going back to the basics of what I do best: work out and decorate my home. I can't imagine a more perfect fit for me than to work on my health and create peaceful, warm, inviting, and welcoming spaces for my family and friends. I have resisted this very calling since we moved to Massachusetts for various reasons: we were renting, we were unpacking, we were on vacation, I was at work, but I am home now and there are no more excuses not to get busy. Yet still I resist. Why? Well, I'm a little gun-shy. I have worked on me and my home and then sold the home, worked on a new home, sold that home, got a new home, sold that home. Part of the reason that I'm not so good at staying at home is because home keeps changing.

Be resilient. Start over. Have faith.

Show up. Do the work. Let go of the outcome. Enjoy the journey.

Stay home.

Well, I'm home, and right now home is a 4 bedroom colonial with a great view.

Eat your veggies. Meditate. Do yoga. Let go of the outcome. Enjoy the journey. Sanctify yourself and your surroundings will be sanctified with you.

I'm a practicing vegan. I have the class schedule for my gym tacked to the cork board in the kitchen and my workout shoes are by the door. I am drinking water and forgoing sugar. Right now my body is a 39 yr-old slightly flabby model with great potential. I love potential.

Show up. Slow down. Get motivated. Stay home.

Breathe. Yeah, it's always the breathing that I forget to do.

Dear Lord Beth, are you still working?

Yes, Yes I am, actually. How is that possible? Well, the teacher for whom I was substituting has opted to not return to work, a new teacher hasn't been hired yet, and oh yeah, I'm a complete sucker. A complete and total sucker, just to clarify.

I like my kids. I am really connected to these kids. I wish only the best for them. I rejoice in their triumphs and grieve their defeats. I am torn, so terribly completely and totally torn by my sense of responsibility and obligation to the kids and my bone-deep conviction that I need this job to end, and soon. I don't want the kids to suffer a series of subs whilst our principal drags her feet hiring someone new. I don't want their little routine -- the routine for which I have contributed blood, sweat, and tears to create for them -- to be disrupted. I was out of school for 2/3 of a day on Thursday because my own daughter was sick and the principal never even brought in a sub, she just had a series of miscellaneous staff "stop in" throughout the day to assist my 87-year-old aide who didn't know what she was supposed to be doing with the kids and so basically just played "wheels on the bus" with them and took them to the bathroom. This is the commitment the principal has to these kids. Didn't even make sure they had a teacher. So if that's what's going to happen when I am gone for 4 hours, what's it going to be like for these kids when I am simply gone? I know that no one is ever irreplaceable but I also know that there has to be a desire to replace and right now, I'm not sure my principal has that desire.

Yet I also know that this job is not good for me, for my family, for my marriage. It's not that I have a job (although that certainly has been a shock to my family) it's this job, with these commitments, with this drama. If I were you, right about now I'd be sure that I am exaggerating: drama? You're a kindergarten teacher, Beth, not a brain surgeon. Well my friends, there's nothing like a principal who believes in dressing down her teachers in front of the students to create a little drama in your life. My Principal, who despite spelling rules to the contrary is NOT MY PAL, has, for the third time yelled at me in front of my class. This last verbal lambasting was because I had told the kids that the teacher, we'll call her Mrs. M, for whose return I had been preparing them for 6 weeks, would not be returning. my princiPAL didn't want me to say anything until she had a chance to say something. Okay, great, say something. Oh, wait, she didn't! She just expected me to smile blandly at these children when they asked "Where's Mrs. M? You said she was coming back today!" Smile. Smile. Smile. The kids would have thought I was insane. They wouldn't have stopped asking! They wouldn't have just forgotten! They have memories as accurate as a digital recorder when it comes to things that affect their lives! I waited 3 days to say anything and then when no word was coming from the office I figured I'd better prepare the kids that they next day Mrs. M wouldn't be coming in. For this I was yelled at, in front of my class, in front of another parent who happened to be in our class, and treated like dirt.

And this wasn't the first time. On the first day of school my princiPAL yelled at me over the PA system for not being in the lunch room with the kids (the 8th grade teacher was there and suggested I get some lunch while she watched the kids). I've also been reprimanded for not signing the school phone log when I made a phone call (I didn't use the school phone, I used my personal phone because I made the phone call while driving my daughter to dance class).

I have used my own personal money to buy classroom supplies, my own personal UNPAID time to set up the classroom, my own personal books to populate our classroom library, and my own personal sense of responsibility has kept me at this job way past the agreed upon time frame.

All those things, apparently, mean nothing to my princiPAL. Now to be fair, she did apologize for "coming down so hard" on me. Let's face it folks, she apologized not because she was sorry for how she spoke to me but because she remembered I am a tuition paying parent and she didn' t want to lose that tuition.

I need to end this job before I forget all the things I like about the school. I need to end this job before I forget all the things I like about the principal. I need to end this job before the twitching in my eye gets any worse. I need to end this job.

Spiritually I feel in chaos: I was presented an opportunity. I jumped. The opportunity has brought me tremendous joy and tremendous heartache as well. Now 20 little lives are affected by my decisions, not to mention Steve's life, my daughter's life, and mine as well. I am struggling just to go to work each day as I wonder if I'll get hit by another drive-by-shouting by the PrinciPAL. I feel sad that I'll miss their little Halloween party. I feel sick thinking I might still be there by Halloween. I feel sad that I'll not be the one who makes handprint turkeys with these kids. I feel tremendous stress just thinking about work tomorrow. Is this the plight of other teachers? Do they love the kids yet abhor their boss whose priority is not the children but micromanaging-spin-doctoring-and-penny-pinching to ensure that all parents are happy and the bottom line is constant while the teachers are treated like dirt?

Right now I truly believe that I am the only non-parent in the school who really cares what happens to these kindergartners. The princiPAL does not care. If she did, she would have been honest with the kids and parents about Mrs. M not returning. She would have made hiring a new teacher a priority. She would have taught the class herself if she'd been unable to find another sub. She would never have yelled at their teacher in front of them. She would treat them as children, human beings with feelings, fears, and attachments, rather than income.

And that is why I angst about leaving. Steve says, "it's not your problem, it never was." He's right, it's not my problem, but now that I have had 7 weeks with these kids, aren't they my responsibility too? Do I go behind the princiPAL's back and tell the parents to demand a teacher be hired? Do I tell them just how "forgotten" their kids are? Do I tell them to demand their almost $4,000 in tuition back because their kids certainly aren't getting what the parents are paying for?

I don't know what to do.

Hup 2, 3, 4...Hup 2, 3, 4

I have been going about this whole teaching thing the wrong way. I have been trying to teach letters, numbers, and the days of the week to tiny little people who can't even form a line without violence, tears, and/or someone wetting their pants.

This week I am trying a new strategy. Forget the Letter People, we'll get to them when we do. Forget math and science, there will be plenty of time. This week we are going to practice basic life skills: lining up, going to the bathroom, holding the door for one another, sharing, saying please and thank you, and identifying our own written names.

That's all. That's a lot! My kindermonsters, gartners, cannot do any of those things. It has taken me 3 weeks to realize that I am focusing on all the wrong things. I had to look back to Dr. Robert Fulghum and his humorous book Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten. He's right, he probably did learn these things, but so far I am not teaching them.

But I will. Starting this week.

First lesson: Lining up, waiting one's turn, and holding the door for the person behind you. Right now we have a mass exodus with a tremendous amount of pushing and shoving and at least one fist fight. That's okay. I've felt that way before too. I once went to a Janet Evanovich book signing and lost my mind and yelled at the people in front of me for not moving forward quickly enough so that I could move 3 feet and wait for another hour. I have cut off people that "looked slow" to get to a red light first because I didn't want to wait behind them to take off when it went green. And I have definitely let the door slam on the person behind me because I was in too much of a hurry to hold it. I get where the kindermonsters, gartners, are coming from. I can identify.

Next we'll work on going to the bathroom. I have no credibility here at all because as a former irritable bowel syndrome sufferer, I too have waited too long and lived to regret the consequences. I have never exposed myself to any other people in the bathroom as my boy 'monsters, I mean 'gartners tend to do, but then I never had a penis to show off either.

Hopefully we'll get to sharing. Not coveting your neighbor's duplos. Taking turns on the swings. Again, I get it. These little people have nothing on me when I go into someone's house that looks straight out of Pottery Barn magazine. I can covet better than any ol' 5 year old! I don't always want to share either. How about that recent request for baked goods from the PTO? Were my brownies nestled among the rest of the treats? Nope. Didn't feel like sharing. The Salvation Army Santa I passed last Christmas, was my dollar stuffed into his little red kettle? Nope, I was in too much of a hurry to get out of the cold. My purse was zipped and I didn't feel like opening it. I forgot to put money in my pocket so I figured I'd do it on the way out. Yada yada yada. I just didn't feel like sharing.

Finally, maybe by Friday afternoon we'll work on learning to identify our written names. I've had a few identity crises myself and frankly, I would have loved to have someone spell it out for me and say "here, this is who you are!" Sense of self, recognizing who you are in a sea of others. Feeling proud of that self. I have struggled with all of these things, so I get how they are feeling.

If I can truly teach these children patience, generosity, caring, and give them a sense of self I will have taught them lessons so much more valuable than anything else in the world. I will have made a difference in our world, and in theirs.

If I can do those things I still won't have a license, but I'll be a teacher.

Who is in charge around here?

The events of my kindergarten classroom would definitely make a good case for the monkeys running the zoo. Two pee-ings, one pooping, one napping, two terrible temper tantrums, one lost-and-then-thankfully-found-by-the-Grace-of-God, and 22 children running rampant over my clearly-not-suited--for-the-teaching-profession body.

We have only been in school for 7 days.

For some reason the powers-that-be decided that there would be two distinctly different classrooms: one classroom run by a 15 year veteran kindergarten teacher has 21 kids. All 21 of those children attended our school for preschool, their parents are known to the teacher and help out on a daily basis, and they have a young, energetic, 31 year-old teacher's aide who is herself a mom and understands this age group.

Then there is my class: a ragtag group of 22 kids, none of whom attended the same school for preschool, many of whom didn't attend preschool, being schooled by an unlicensed-zero-years-experience "teacher" with the help of an 87 year-old-distinctly-not-energetic-retired-nun.

Is anyone surprised that things are a little...difficult?

The classroom itself was being used as a storage room up until 5 days before school started. Our school has no air conditioning but my classroom has the distinction of having no fans either. It's really a treat for 22 five-year-olds to be stifling away in wool blend pants and jumpers for 6.5 hours a day in a too-small room with no fans. A treat, I tell you.

I like kids. I like being in the classroom. Of course I always figured a classroom to be a place with books, manipulatives, some toys for quiet time and rainy days, a chalkboard or white board, and, for kindergartners at least, some "centers" where they can free explore. My classroom had none of those things. I brought in my daughter's very own carefully saved-loved-and-preserved children's book and I cast a fearful eye toward the bookshelf every day as I see my kindermonsters, um, gartners eagerly handling them. I brought in my own begged, borrowed, and bought toys. I brought in my own white board and manipulatives! Am I teaching in a well-to-do private school or a third world country?

Full day kindergarten. Six and one half hours of "education" for children who were in diapers 2 years ago. It's a crime against our children. It's a crime against our society.

And it's definitely a crime against substitute teachers!

My New Job

For awhile now I have been wondering what I want to be when I grow up. I have done the computer-programmer thing and frankly, even with all the orderly 1's and 0's appealing to my need for order and control, I just don't see myself doing it again.

I have substitute taught, a job I loved, but the erratic schedule drove my family crazy.

I have volunteered my little heart out which is definitely work, but somehow still I have felt unfulfilled.

I have considered going back to school for everything from my master's in education to a degree in physical education so I can be a personal trainer.

I just didn't know what I wanted to do...

...So I prayed about it and waited and worried about it and waited and forgot about it and then the phone rang: "Beth, are you available to teach kindergarten for at least 4 weeks starting Wednesday?"

"Ummm..."

"We realize that you don't have a teaching certificate or even a substitute teaching certificate but you are background-checked and we are desperate!"

"Ummm...I um guess I um, well yeah! I'd actually love it!"

"Wonderful! You start Monday with a conference but you'll need to get your classroom in order because after the conference is orientation on Tuesday and school starts Wednesday."

"Okay!" I get off the phone. The reality sets in. What have I done??

Well, I've leaped again, that's what I've done. This is another leap of faith in a long line of leaps, jumps, and hops and I'm sure this one will turn out to be (like all the others) exactly the right thing to be doing at the right time.

I'm scared, though. Nervous. Intimidated. And very, very excited.

I love kids this age and I love being in the classroom. So here I go: 1, 2, 3 JUMP!

Eat This...AND That..and that...and that..

After a four year hiatus I am returning to a vegan lifestyle. I have never felt so good in my life as I did during the 5 years I was a total vegan: my energy was up, I slept great, I was always healthy, people said I looked younger, and keeping my figure was effortless. You may wonder what could occur in someone's life to make them change a lifestyle that is obviously working so well for them, well, it was during the height of all this health that I was diagnosed with a brain tumor. While I know logically that it's not possible that being vegan caused the tumor somewhere in my head the lifestyle leading up to the diagnosis and the actual diagnosis itself got all twisted up and I found myself reluctant to continue being a vegan. At first it was for practical purposes that I began eating animal products: I needed to keep my weight up. After the tumor was discovered I was panicked, unable to eat, continuously nauseous (due to fear), and losing weight rapidly. Because I was already very slender when I was diagnosed, the 5 pounds that I dropped within the first 2 weeks were really noticeable. Steve said "you've got to eat and not that weird seaweed crap you usually eat, I want you to eat meat!" and so I did. I felt like somehow the tumor was punishment for the ultra-healthy lifestyle. I know it doesn't make sense, but that's what I was thinking.

Then, after the surgery I returned to veganism but found myself feeling afraid, shaky, and nervous most of the time. I didn't realize at the time that I was dealing with what a lot of people who have had a surgery deal with - a kind of post-traumatic-stress-syndrome where you know the immediate danger is over but now begin to ask the big questions about long-term survival. I found that I seemed to feel less shaky when I ate bigger, fuller meals and that quickly led to meat and then finally even to some dairy as well. I gained weight. I felt okay. I began to get the regular assortment of colds that most people consider normal - though I had not had a cold the entire time I was vegan. My allergies kicked in to high gear.

A year went by. Then two. Three. Four years later here I am feeling awful. I have joint aches, I have had several colds/sinus infections, I feel heavy, lethargic, and old. I kept wondering what should I be doing that I am not already doing? I exercise. I eat a very balanced diet of fruits and veggies. I am active with friends and happy in my marriage and family life. Why don't I feel well? While walking yesterday it hit me: it's what I eat. I think that some people's bodies just aren't really made to digest animal products. Specifically I think my body doesn't digest them well.

The first time I went vegan it was like throwing a switch: one day I was eating pepperoni pizza, the next day I wouldn't eat anything made with animal products. That approach works, but maybe there is a more balanced approach that I can take this time around. I simply won't prepare any foods containing animal products for myself when I am at home. I always ate whatever I was served at people's homes and I will continue to do that but this time I won't be such a pain when we go out to restaurants. This time I will allow for gray areas such as butter or eggs. I'm going to try it. I think a month's worth of time is a reasonable test period and I'm going to see how I feel. My theory is that the joint aches, stomach aches, and heaviness will be gone. I'll let you know.

Either way it's going to be good for me to dissociate veganism from a brain tumor. It's good to process all those feelings and put them in perspective. It's good to look forward to eating again because what I am eating feels right to me.

Glass of soy milk, anyone?

Beth vs. Bob, The Reconciliation

In the interest of truth, accuracy, and the American Way I am reporting that Bob's has finally properly credited my account. I still have not received the receipt in the mail so American Express won in the race with the postal service. Frankly I may never receive a receipt which makes no difference to me since the account was credited.

The Battle is over. They were heavy losses on both sides...okay, well maybe there weren't losses exactly, and I doubt that anyone in the Bob's Discount Furniture company is even aware there were sides...but I know that I triumphed and scored one for the little guy. I have no doubt that had I not persisted in pursuing the refund I would have paid for a chair in which I never even got to sit.

I can't say for sure that I'll ever patron Bob's again. I was happy with the sales staff. Happy with the delivery guys. Happy with the merchandise. But I spent so much time and expended so much effort to correct an accounting error that should have been a no-brainer -- and I never even got the satisfaction of a decent apology from the company. If I would do business with them again and something similar would happen I would feel like I should have known better. It's something about which I'll have to think long and hard.

Customer service, a dying art.

Grace #24 Walking as Meditation

As part of my ongoing effort to take 10,000 steps/day I have begun taking a morning walk. Again. I used to walk all the time, then winter came, then I joined a gym, then I hurt my foot, then I moved, then I started wearing a pedometer and so here we are again, back to the morning walk. I suppose one can walk at anytime of day, but I seem to prefer the morning because I a) actually get in the walk and b) it seems to set the right tone for the rest of the day.

The truth is that I actually enjoy my morning walks and get far more than exercise out of them. I am nosy: I love walking the neighborhood and checking out my neighbors' landscaping, exterior paint jobs, and porch furniture. If someone actually has a lit interior such that I can see inside their home I unabashedly look right in and assess the decorating. Like I said, I'm nosy. Also I sometimes bring my iPod along and it's always nice to just listen to your favorite songs and let your mind wander. The most important thing I get from the walk is the rhythmic pounding of my feet on pavement that ultimately leads to a meditative state.

This morning as I was walking I noticed that the sun, which has been noticeably absent this summer, was shining on a glorious morning. Now my brain always knew that the sun was present and merely obscured by cloud cover, but my soul had begun to doubt. I started thinking about God: I know God is always present but sometimes I want to see Him. Our sun is a constant source of energy from which all manner of good things come. It's easy to take the sun for granted. Too much sun isn't good for you, it can give you headache or burn your skin. Too little sun is depressing and can lead to a vitamin D deficiency. We can't always see the sun. We're not supposed to always see the sun. We have faith that even when we can't see it - it's there and continues to provide its life sustaining warmth and energy and even if that energy is currently being directed at another side of the Earth we are still benefiting and will get our share.

God is a constant source of energy from Whom all good things come. It's easy to take God for granted. Can you get too much God? I believe you can. I believe that it's not really God if it's too much, it's probably human-made bureaucratic details or discussion points that are bogging you down. I run as fast as I can from people who want to share with me their relationship with Jesus and quote the Bible. Anyone looking particularly fevered or angry when they speak of God makes me nervous. I would far prefer to hear about some one's spiritual moment had while hiking than a sermon. Of course if you can have too much of something you can also have too little. We've all known people with too little God in their lives: they are people without self esteem or reverence for life, people without a compass who seem to just bounce from disaster to catastrophe again and again. They are the people who will throw a cigarette butt into the Grand Canyon, toss a rock at an animal, or slowly destroy their bodies with drugs and alcohol. They may not need more religion, but they certainly need more God.

Time after time I have seen proof and more proof of God's existence and yet...and yet...still the doubts come. I don't actively question "Is there a God?" but I will find myself worrying about things, wondering if everything will be okay, afraid of the future, or not trusting my own gut feelings. I may not say I don't believe in God but sometimes I act that way. Sometimes when things seem to not be going very well for me but seem to just be flowing right along for everyone else I wonder am I getting my share?

And then, just when I am getting caught up in all sorts of unimportant minutiae I am inspired to begin walking again. Through the pounding of my Asics on pavement and the pounding of my heart as I gasp my way up the hills I am soothed. I am quieted. In that quiet I hear the truth that my worrying voice was drowning out: it's okay. You're safe. God is in you. You were the cloud obscuring the sun but you can move anytime you want and let that sun shine through. All is well.

Take a walk. Take a moment. Trust in yourself. And may God be with you.

Beth vs. Bob, the Saga continues

Bob called me back! Well, not Bob personally, but Bob-ette, or whatever the store manager's name was. Her phone call was a tad less perky than the other Bob-lings with whom I had been dealing but far more effective. She said I should receive in the mail a copy of the new receipt showing my credit card has been properly refunded. I shall eagerly await this correspondence. It is now a race to see who will show the refund first: American Express via their online card management, or Bob via the paper receipt.

If this truly is the end of the correspondence then I am both grateful and a little let-down. While I was gearing up for a face-to-face-public-showdown with the manager, the manager was slightly apologetic but mostly just businesslike. And while businesslike is what you expect when dealing with a ...um...business...it doesn't help with those feelings of annoyance, irritation, disbelief, and disappointment that had been building during my previous 10 conversations with the store.

Let it go, Beth, just let it go...

And I will. I will let it go. I will move on. Assuming the credit card truly is properly refunded.

But if it's not, I'm going to freak out!

Beth vs. Bob, cont.

Just to keep you up to date, I am on Round 10. I asked for a manager, spoke to a manager and now the manager is the one supposed to be calling me back. I don't want to sound pessimistic, but I've been here before and my belief that a manager will call me back is not very high.

The next step is to go into the store and speak, rather loudly, with a manager about why this is taking so bloomin' long. I say loudly not because I intend to shout, merely to be heard by any customers in the store. Sometimes stores work a little faster when it's no longer you and them on the phone but a more public forum.

I don't have on my avenging cape, but I am wearing an apron and wedge sandals circa those scary pictures of the vodka-tonic-swilling-bright-red-lipstick-wearing-hair-marcel-waved '50s housewives that are lovingly depicted on old Coke memorabilia. I just hope it's enough.

Beth vs. Bob

New house. New floor plan. New room sizes. New furniture, right? So off we went to look for a chair to "fill up" the Great Room. We looked in at least 5 different furniture stores before we found Bob's. Bob's was a little different as furniture showrooms go: huge fish pond in the middle of the store, ice cream parlor in the back, great furniture, and really laid back salespeople who worked on commission but didn't hover. It was like heaven. We didn't stop with just one chair, no sirree, we bought 2 chairs, a chaise, 3 counter stools and matching desk chair, a desk for Steve with matching Barrister bookcase, 2 end tables, a coffee table, and 2 bean bag style chairs for the basement!

Bob's hit the jackpot with us that day. The prices were good, the salespeople were helpful, and the delivery would take place in 3 days. So far, so good.

For the record I was a little worried about the delivery because the movers we had hired had not been all that great and they took a "bang and toss" approach to getting our furniture in the house and I wasn't sure my nerves could take another crew with a bad attitude. My nerves need not have worried because Bob's delivery guys were great. They came in a Bob's truck (as opposed to the mysterious unmarked van in which other furniture stores have delivered furniture) wearing a uniform with name tags and they carefully unwrapped each item, helped us to inspect the item, and then gently loaded it into our home. I was so amazed I actually called the store to compliment them on their delivery personnel. It was during the inspection of one of the chairs that the damage was noticed: the fabric on the arm of one chair was pretty unravelled. "No problem" said the wonderful delivery guys "we'll take it back with us now and you can either arrange to have a new one delivered or be credited for the return."

We decided that the room would be too crowded with the 2nd chair and to simply have our AmEx card credited.

That was when the trouble began.

We called Bob's and they were extremely pleasant: sure we'll credit your AmEx card, no problem, so sorry that happened. I check AmEx, no credit. I wait 3 business days. No credit. I wait 5 business days. No credit. I call Bob's: sure we'll credit your AmEx card, no problem, so sorry that happened. I wait 3 business days. No credit. I wait 5 business days. No credit. I call Bob's: my goodness we don't know what went wrong ma'am, we'll credit your card immediately. The next day I receive a credit card receipt in the mail showing they have credited an AmEx card with the correct amount. Unfortunately the card number is wrong. I call Bob's: sure we'll correct the error, no problem, so sorry that happened. I wait 3 business days. No credit. I call Bob's: the office manager is out today but we'll take care of it tomorrow and call you back. Tomorrow comes, no call. I call Bob's: the office manager is working diligently to correct the error ma'am. No, she isn't in the office right now but I'll have her call you back with the status of your account in an hour. I wait all day, no call.

Now for those of you keeping count I have called Bob's a total of 6 times so far regarding the same issue and it still isn't resolved. Nearly 3 weeks has elapsed. I spend about 10 minutes of time each day checking my AmEx statement online for the credit then calling Bob's to find out why they haven't made the credit. The time is adding up and soon the amount of time and energy I have put into getting the credit will exceed the price of the chair! So I ask you, why? Why can a store charge money to an account within minutes of the purchase but it takes 3 weeks (and counting) to get a refund for merchandise that never even entered my home? Why is it that the salespeople and delivery guys can be so great but the business office so inept?

It's the Battle of Beth versus Bob and right now Bob is winning. He's wearing me down. I find myself becoming more and more reluctant to call Bob's yet again. I feel the drag of apathy and I am fighting against it, I mean this is real money folks! I can see why this tactic works: it is draining to battle the polite-and-helpful-and-apologetic forces of evil. I have actually wondered a few times if I am somehow to blame for all this. Tomorrow will be Round 7. I'm down, but not out. My fingers are bloody from dialing their number again and again and my head aches from their chipper-yet-completely-ineffective-apologies but I feel confident I will prevail. Truth and justice are on my side.

I may not be a big franchise or have a cute bobble head doll representing me but with my Rocky theme song playing in the background I will win! I will get my AmEx card credited!

But just in case, maybe the next time I call them I should wear a cape?