(The first episode in a sweeping serial of love and longing, pain and heartache, through the sands of time, lights, camel, action, and right into your homes....)

The Desk, pt 1

So anyway. You all know that I painted the denette, and you all also know that in doing so I caused much disarray at the Poderosa. The denette is now painted, and most of it's all back where it needs to be, and oddly enough, in doing that I also ended up doing some serious cleaning and straightening to the the Beast (the spare bedroom), and even to my living room closet. Which is good, I'll admit. I'll admit that right up front.

But the kitchen is still a mess, because I have certain things I can't move back into the denette yet. Because I'm waiting for my new desk.

Yes, on Sunday I ordered a new computer desk, at great expense to my person, because I've hated the one I have now for some 10 years and I figured while I was making all these denette improvements I may as well go whole hog with it. I found out in the ordering process that even though desks are now suddenly very expensive, sometimes you get your shipping for free, though you still have to pay tax which makes it even more expensive. But I did the deed and ordered a nice little (well, actually it's not that little, a fact I immediately began to worry about) item, forked over my credit card number, and set about the task of waiting for it to arrive.

And so I waited. Impatiently. I think when you order something it should be delivered by Acme, the delivery company of Wiley Coyote, where you put down the phone and the men ring the doorbell with your new item. It's the 21st century, but we still don't have flying cars and we still don't have the instant delivery system, and frankly, I think someone needs to get to work on those pronto.

I waited all week, checking order statuses and the like, and this afternoon as I was passing by the phone I noticed I had 8 messages on my machine. This was a change since last night, when I had 7 messages. These were my seven messages: 1) "This is Sherry (rest of message spoken so rapidly I couldn't tell you a thing in it except a phone number with no area code)." 2) "This is Sherry, from your evil surgery doctor's office wanting you to schedule an appointment." (I never did. Message is about 4 months old.) 3) "Hi, Bet. It's Mom (etc, etc)." 4) "Hi, Bet, it's Mom (etc, etc)." 5) "Hello, it's me, just calling quickly...." (My sister's always "just calling quickly.") 6) "Hi, Bet, it's Mom (etc, etc)." 7) "Hi, Bet, it's Mom (etc, etc)." (Noticing a pattern here? Yes, they're always on the machine, and they always begin the same way.)

So I raced to message 8, erasing messages 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7 (I keep the first two just in case I have a moment of weakness and schedule the appointment), and message 8 was from Ray at the freight company. He mispronounced my name, but everyone does, and told me they had a brand spanking new desk for me and if I wanted it, here's the number I could call him back at. And so I picked up and dialed.

A cheery woman answered the phone, and when I told her who I was she put me straight through to Ray. I didn't know the man and had no preconceived notions of his general aura, but it didn't take long for him to piss me off.

It all began when he told me that he supposed I wanted my desk delivered to TheCompanyIWorkFor there at [my address]. I told him no, that [my address] was where I lived and that it was a house. After a period of stunned silence from him, Ray then proceeded to - try and convince me that no, [my address] was where I worked and not where I lived. After much back and forthing and my doing everything but signing a sworn affadavit of my address he let that go, though he still didn't sound very convinced of the whole thing, and then he got on to the delivery part.

"Now, you don't have any steps leading up to your house, do you?" he asked, and I told him that yes, I did, but only two small ones, and he then told me that there was only going to be one delivery man at my house and this desk weighs upwards of 250 pounds, and was my husband going to be there to help him unload the thing. I made the mistake of telling Ray that I did not in fact have a husband, and for some reason he just didn't like that at all.

"Well, this desk weighs 250 pounds," he repeated, and I said rather sadly, "Well, it's just me." I did tell him that maybe I could try and round up a man for the delivery, but that if I could round up a man, well, I don't guess it would just have been me all these years. I tried to help matters by telling Ray that I'd make sure the driveway was clear so the truck could back up right to my door to make it all easier, after which he laughed in my face right over the phone and said that they couldn't very well back a tractor trailer up to the door in the driveway. And I apologized, though I wanted to say, "How in the fiery fuck was I supposed to know that you deliver these things via tractor trailer?" Then he told me about what time to expect a call for delivery, and that was that.

But it still pissed me off. Listen, world (and Ray) - I'm just a schmuck who ordered a desk. What do I know about anything else? I forked over my money and expected it to arrive at my door. The "how" part is up to you all.

These people work for a freight company. Their job is to deliver things, dammit. They're the experts here, and Ray acted it like it was really more trouble than it was worth to bring the desk I bought (at great expense to my person) to my house. And if that's too much trouble, then Ray is in the wrong business. And personally, though I tried to make concessions over the phone because Ray was something of a bully, I don't give a flip if the desk weighs 250 pounds, or 1250 pounds, for that matter. I ordered it, they were picked by the store to deliver it, and if it's too heavy for one guy to slide into my denette door, then why don't they bring two. In fact, why doesn't Ray himself come along and do some heavy lifting?

And while we're at it, whether I have a husband or not, to paraphrase Sheldon Kornpett in "The In-Laws," when is it the policy for a delivery company to ask private citizens to help them unload and move furniture? Isn't there some sort of union rule against this? If I or my imaginary husband throws out a back muscle during the move, is the freight company liable for our injuries?

Because I'm telling you, people, there's only one thing worse than an imaginary husband, and that's an imaginary husband with a disability.

It comes tomorrow, though. I'll keep you posted.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* And what will become of the desk I have now? I think I'll ask the delivery man to carry it to the shed in my back yard. Or not.