Attack of the Appliances
About two months ago the dishwasher broke. Now we are locked in battle with the repair people, who fucked up the repair and want another go at it tomorrow. At our expense, of course.
Sunday night, I heard a gushing noise coming out of the walls, which turned out to be related to our washing machine. What to do, but buy a new one? I grabbed a tape measure and a few minutes later, determined that the laws of the universe did not permit us to remove or replace the machine, and the condo must have been built around the existing appliances.
While measuring, I saw a peeling sticker with a phone number. It must have been 15 years old, since that's when the rehab was done. I called it anyway. At first, I got an error message, but I realized that could be because Chicago now has more than one area code. I tried one of the "new" area codes and someone actually answered! On a Sunday night! And he remembered our washing machine AND he volunteered to come out the next day!
He looked at it and said, "Oh yeah, I remember now. This is way too much of a pain in the neck for me to deal with." He wrote down a number for Colliculus to call. Another guy answered and came out less than an hour later.
Result: Tomorrow we have to deal with the dishwasher guy AND go out and find a new washing machine. One that defies the laws of space and time.
(Current washing machine's smallest dimension: 25.5 inches; dimension of laundry room doorway, with door removed: 25 inches.)
The problem with choosing your optician randomly
I'm trying to get contacts again. I've tried 6 different kinds over 2 years, and I finally found a pair that doesn't hurt. However, I couldn't actually see with them, so I went back today.
The scene: A tiny optician's office facing Broadway near Belmont. The front of the store is cluttered with eyeglass display cases and a chair occupied by a Pekingese. Behind that is the counter, then a little "doctor's" office. (He's not a real doctor, right?) Then a flight of stairs leading to a dark bathroom with a toilet that runs constantly and no paper towels.
The actors: The owner, a middle-aged Asian guy with an accent; his blond, teenage son; the employee, Nicole; and the "doctor." Everyone had just ordered Thai food.
The "doctor" told me to put the contacts in, so I sat at the counter by the cash register, filthy hands and all, and stuck the right one in. For some reason, the left one just did not want to go in -- it just kept sticking to my finger. So I spent a half hour or so sitting by the cash register, poking myself and yelling "damn!" occasionally while store patrons handed their credit cards over my head.
Eventually I got grossed out by my fingers and the contacts. I ran upstairs to the bathroom and worked at it for a while longer next to the son, where at least I could use stronger language. Then I stumbled back down stairs (the son told me to watch my step, which doesn't help someone with contacts that don't work). The "doctor" told me the owner could help me get some better lenses.
Fine, except the owner was busy yelling at the customers. The woman said there was a scratch in her glasses. The owner said he didn't see anything but he would send them back out, and could she come back Thursday? The woman told him she didn't have time for that, she'd already been a number of times, and she didn't know why she had come there.
Eventually I saw the eye doctor, who told me to wait for the owner to help me find some different lenses. When I stepped back out, there was a full-blown shouting match going on. "You must be blind," the woman was saying. "You call me blind? You want to insult me right in my own store? I'll call the police!" The man said, "Don't you be rude to her. I wish we'd never come in here." On and on.
I looked up from the paper when I heard, "Why don't we go to court, then?"
"I could punch you in the face instead!" This was the owner.
Surprisingly, after that exchange, I heard silence. (There was a display blocking my view.) They continued examining the glasses.
"Let me examine you and see if the prescription is right."
"If you can't get my glasses right I don't want you looking at my eyes!"
"Well, fuck you then."
"Fuck you!"
The police and courts were invoked again. Nicole and the son fled.
By this point, I really didn't want to buy glasses from these people, and the last thing in the world I wanted was to seek the owner's wise counsel on what kind of contacts I needed. Eventually the owner took the glasses upstairs to work on them. I waited and waited and waited. Meanwhile I could hear the couple working on the other customers in the store: "I want to take him to court, but I think it would cost more than the glasses."
Finally the "doctor" came out, now with overpowering pad thai breath, and gave me the new lenses, which I then had to put in at the register by the argument again. Luckily they went in easy this time, I said I thought they were good but would call otherwise, and got the hell out of there.
Superior Eye Care, 3164 N. Broadway. Don't go.
Saturday the Monsignor and I went out for some
bhangra dancing. This was a prominent feature of Providence life, but not here. One bar in Wrigleyhell, Spot 6, just started a monthly bhangra night. That's about it.
Spot 6, it turns out, is divier than most of its W-hell kin. It's dank and small and devoid of furniture (or, most of the time, a bartender). I ordered a vodka gimlet but received an 8-oz glass of vodka with a slice of lime. "We don't have any more Rose's," the bartender told me. Nobody was there except for a half-dozen Indian guys more committed to their suits than the dance music, plus two aging bleach-blonds reminiscent of the Vegas hookers from the Simpsons. Meanwhile, the TV in the back was showing the Notre Dame game. Some of the local junior
Trixies showed up and I began to give up hope.
Things suddenly improved, though, when a massive family appeared and all ages started dancing up a storm. Also, it turned out that one of the junior Trixies was actually an expert bhangra dancer.
We stayed out as long as our ears could stand it, then moved on to Johnny O'Hagan's, where our ears were assaulted by all-too-expert covers of "Space Cowboy," "Sweet Home Alabama," -- during which the girl in front of us yelled "YES" after the "does your conscience bother you" line -- and "What Should We Do with a Drunken Sailor."
I am so glad I don't live there anymore.
