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While driving to meet up with Mel and a mutual friend, I got utterly lost, then spent forever looking for a parking space-- all of which reminded me of why I normally avoid Beverly Hills. Then a very tall, very tanned, very psychotic man on roller skates leaped in front of my car. I slammed on the brakes, sending everything flying off the seats, and was equal parts relieved and regretful that I managed to not hit him. I met them at the children's bookshop, having promised to help Mel pick out books with female or gender neutral protagonists for three friends with new babies, and discovered that the books were sorted by illustrator, not writer, meaning I had to ask the clerk for every single book I was looking for. The store did not have any books by Jane Yolen or Russell Hoban, nor did it have Blueberries for Sal or, in its YA section, anything by Scott Westerfield. I was seriously annoyed, and not assuaged when they said their stock was low because they were moving.
The Salvation Army, when I called to find out their pick-up time, had lost my info and claimed no one was coming. Finally, after I went slightly berserk over the phone, they said it would be between two and five. They showed up at ten to five, having given me time to read a Paul Fleishman book about a girl who gets stuck in a traffic jam, then writes a play about it years later (eh... Fleishman's skilled, but I always have the feeling adults like his books more than kids do. I liked Seedfolks, but this one seemed a bit on-the-nose and precious); the beginning of a BEA ARC of Jungle Law, a nove about Kipling (couldn't get into it despite my interest in the subject matter); a memoir by YA novelist M. E. Kerr about her relationship with Patricia Highsmith (!) in the 1950s (Again, despite the inherent interest of the subject matter, I found this dull, shallow, and badly written. The characters never come to life, and I ended up skimming for name-dropping of famous lesbians and details of 1950s lesbian culture.); and part of a romance novella about were-panthers by Sherrilyn someone, which must be part of a series because the backstory was just ridiculously convoluted, with lines like, "Yes, I am part of the Kirayama tribe, but I was kidnapped from the future by renegade Arigawas because of my psychic powers and they sent me to the past to murder my grandmother so their king won't be poisoned by her cousin, but my sister busted me out and here I am at Dragon Con. Whatcha doing tonight?"
So the Salvation Army guys walk in, look at my four large and four small bookcases, and claim that they can only take four because, even though they have room in their truck, the order they have says four, not eight. (Obviously someone misheard me saying "Four large and four small.") I flipped out. I told them I'd lose my security deposit. I told them it was an error. I begged. I ranted. I burst into tears and punched the wall.
"Sorry ma'am." (Nothing good is ever going on when someone calls me ma'am.) "The order says four, so we can only take four. That's what the order says."
"OK, fine!" I screamed. "Take the four big ones, then. I'll carry the others out on my fucking back!!!"
"Sorry ma'am," says the one who did all the talking. "The large ones are sub-standard. We're not taking them."
I went even more ballistic at that point, but to no avail. They left me the big bookcases. Just as I was calling a friend for help, the talker poked his head back in. "Mind if I use the bathroom?"
"Yeah, sure," I said. He used it, left, and I surveyed the bookcases. They were too big to carry, but when I was removing the shelves, I noticed that the backs were mere fiberboard. I kicked them out (I have to confess that I enjoyed that) and broke them up. (I should explain that these really were extremely crummy and decrepit bookcases.) Then, hot and sweaty, I went to the bathroom to wash my face before I continued.
There was a yellow puddle on the floor. The Salvation Army guy had peed on my bathroom floor.
I don't mean he sprinkled when he tinkled. He peed on my floor.
However, this had the opposite of the desired effect. I cracked up, and was actually in a better mood, due to the Salvation Army guy's absurdly childish and atavistic revenge, than I had been in before he arrived. Then my friend got there and we finished breaking up the bookcases and disposed of the pieces. I am now home drinking a large Sapporo reserve.
I guess the moral of the story is that if you need furniture removed, convicts are a better bet than the Salvation Army.
The Salvation Army, when I called to find out their pick-up time, had lost my info and claimed no one was coming. Finally, after I went slightly berserk over the phone, they said it would be between two and five. They showed up at ten to five, having given me time to read a Paul Fleishman book about a girl who gets stuck in a traffic jam, then writes a play about it years later (eh... Fleishman's skilled, but I always have the feeling adults like his books more than kids do. I liked Seedfolks, but this one seemed a bit on-the-nose and precious); the beginning of a BEA ARC of Jungle Law, a nove about Kipling (couldn't get into it despite my interest in the subject matter); a memoir by YA novelist M. E. Kerr about her relationship with Patricia Highsmith (!) in the 1950s (Again, despite the inherent interest of the subject matter, I found this dull, shallow, and badly written. The characters never come to life, and I ended up skimming for name-dropping of famous lesbians and details of 1950s lesbian culture.); and part of a romance novella about were-panthers by Sherrilyn someone, which must be part of a series because the backstory was just ridiculously convoluted, with lines like, "Yes, I am part of the Kirayama tribe, but I was kidnapped from the future by renegade Arigawas because of my psychic powers and they sent me to the past to murder my grandmother so their king won't be poisoned by her cousin, but my sister busted me out and here I am at Dragon Con. Whatcha doing tonight?"
So the Salvation Army guys walk in, look at my four large and four small bookcases, and claim that they can only take four because, even though they have room in their truck, the order they have says four, not eight. (Obviously someone misheard me saying "Four large and four small.") I flipped out. I told them I'd lose my security deposit. I told them it was an error. I begged. I ranted. I burst into tears and punched the wall.
"Sorry ma'am." (Nothing good is ever going on when someone calls me ma'am.) "The order says four, so we can only take four. That's what the order says."
"OK, fine!" I screamed. "Take the four big ones, then. I'll carry the others out on my fucking back!!!"
"Sorry ma'am," says the one who did all the talking. "The large ones are sub-standard. We're not taking them."
I went even more ballistic at that point, but to no avail. They left me the big bookcases. Just as I was calling a friend for help, the talker poked his head back in. "Mind if I use the bathroom?"
"Yeah, sure," I said. He used it, left, and I surveyed the bookcases. They were too big to carry, but when I was removing the shelves, I noticed that the backs were mere fiberboard. I kicked them out (I have to confess that I enjoyed that) and broke them up. (I should explain that these really were extremely crummy and decrepit bookcases.) Then, hot and sweaty, I went to the bathroom to wash my face before I continued.
There was a yellow puddle on the floor. The Salvation Army guy had peed on my bathroom floor.
I don't mean he sprinkled when he tinkled. He peed on my floor.
However, this had the opposite of the desired effect. I cracked up, and was actually in a better mood, due to the Salvation Army guy's absurdly childish and atavistic revenge, than I had been in before he arrived. Then my friend got there and we finished breaking up the bookcases and disposed of the pieces. I am now home drinking a large Sapporo reserve.
I guess the moral of the story is that if you need furniture removed, convicts are a better bet than the Salvation Army.
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