Today is the day that the Sears appliance repairman was originally (rather, most recently) scheduled to work on our refrigerator. Earlier this week, someone from Sears called and said that it will be NEXT Friday, October 7, before the repairman comes.
I haven't heard the noise in a while. Maybe the freezer fan isn't making the noise, anymore, or maybe I've grown so accustomed to it that I just don't hear it, anymore.
In any case, it will soon be a month since I made the first call requesting repair service.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Sears, Part II
The saga continues.
The Sears repairman came on September 6, about 1 p.m. Naturally, the refrigerator was not making the offending noise when he arrived. I explained to him that my diagnosis was that there was frost building up on the freezer fan, and that the blades eventually knocked off the ice for a time, then it would build up again. He said he suspected that I was absolutely right, since it is a common problem. He said that the culprit was the half-tube that feeds water into the ice-maker. Since it's only a half tube (like a mini-water slide), water splashes when it squirts into the ice-maker. He slipped a whole piece of tube over the existing half-tube, and said that oughta do it.
The fridge started making the noise again this weekend; this time, it's a serious snarl instead of a low purr.
Today, I took a deep breath, and dialed the Sears repair service again. The deep breath was to keep me from going all ape-shit on them right off the bat. After giving the customer service rep. all of the necessary info, we began to talk about appointment times. I took another deep breath and said, "Can we talk, girl to girl?" She said we could. I told her about the crap we've been through, so far, with this refrigerator. My main complaint was that the repair service historically hasn't done what it said it would do, when it said it would do it. I asked her to please flag the call, somehow, to let these people know that I'm already irked. She said she would.
I can't get a repair appointment until September 30, 10 days from now. The time will be between 8 and 5. They're supposed to call 30 minutes in advance of coming.
We'll see.
Meanwhile, I have video-taped the freezer with my cell phone, to capture the noise. I've also taken snapshots of the freezer contents, because if this problem is as big as it's beginning to sound, Sears may have to buy me some groceries.
The Sears repairman came on September 6, about 1 p.m. Naturally, the refrigerator was not making the offending noise when he arrived. I explained to him that my diagnosis was that there was frost building up on the freezer fan, and that the blades eventually knocked off the ice for a time, then it would build up again. He said he suspected that I was absolutely right, since it is a common problem. He said that the culprit was the half-tube that feeds water into the ice-maker. Since it's only a half tube (like a mini-water slide), water splashes when it squirts into the ice-maker. He slipped a whole piece of tube over the existing half-tube, and said that oughta do it.
The fridge started making the noise again this weekend; this time, it's a serious snarl instead of a low purr.
Today, I took a deep breath, and dialed the Sears repair service again. The deep breath was to keep me from going all ape-shit on them right off the bat. After giving the customer service rep. all of the necessary info, we began to talk about appointment times. I took another deep breath and said, "Can we talk, girl to girl?" She said we could. I told her about the crap we've been through, so far, with this refrigerator. My main complaint was that the repair service historically hasn't done what it said it would do, when it said it would do it. I asked her to please flag the call, somehow, to let these people know that I'm already irked. She said she would.
I can't get a repair appointment until September 30, 10 days from now. The time will be between 8 and 5. They're supposed to call 30 minutes in advance of coming.
We'll see.
Meanwhile, I have video-taped the freezer with my cell phone, to capture the noise. I've also taken snapshots of the freezer contents, because if this problem is as big as it's beginning to sound, Sears may have to buy me some groceries.
Friday, September 16, 2011
New York, New York - 9/9/11 thru 9/11/11
My niece, Libby, and her finance, Jordan, invited us to their wedding in New York City on 9/10/11. When we received their "Save the Date" card and saw the date and the location of the wedding, we thought, "Have they gone mad?" Granted, "nine-ten-eleven" is a catchy date, one the groom should not have trouble remembering in years to come, but why New York City? Won't it be especially crowded, and maybe even a little dangerous?
The "why" had one main point: Libby loves NYC, specifically Brooklyn, having lived there for three years while she was in law school. And, in the good old American spirit, the thought was, "Hang the trouble-makers, they'll not keep us down."
Friday, 9/9/11
So, on 9/9/11, Joel and I, along with six other members of our family, boarded an early morning flight to New York City. My Aunt Barbara and Uncle Larry were part of our entourage. They'd never been to New York. Uncle Larry was especially excited about the trip, and he wanted to see everything - EVERYTHING - that he could see in the three days we'd be in town.
When we arrived at noon on Friday, my brother, the father of the bride, picked us up at the airport and took us to our hotel on Smith St. in Brooklyn. As we checked in, the clerk handed us cute little gift bags with tags that said, "Thanks for coming!" We peeked into the bags when we got to our rooms and found little bottles of champagne, a little bag of macarons (no, not "macaroons" - "macarons"), a map of the area, and menus from nearby restaurants. How sweet!
After stashing our bags in our rooms, the group re-assembled in the hotel lobby, then hit Smith St. in search of lunch. Not far from the hotel was a restaurant called Coco Roco. The menu on the storefront listed Peruvian dishes. "I've never had Peruvian food," I said. That settled it. "Then let's eat here," my brother said. We went inside. The food was good.
That evening, the groom's family hosted an outdoor cocktail party at Anable Basin Sailing Bar & Grill. We had been expecting drinks and light hors d'ouvres, and we'd made plans to nibble at the party, then go to Chinatown or Little Italy for a late dinner. If food had been our only consideration, we could've skipped the trip over to Manhattan; the "light hors d'ouvres" would've sufficed. I still don't know the specific names of the dishes served to us, but there were delicious little sandwiches of pork belly wrapped in pancake-like bread, sausages, corn on the cob, broccoli, pulled pork with barbeque sauce, and several other treats that I did not get around to trying.
As the sun set, the view of Manhattan across the water was amazing.
We left the party around 8 p.m., went back to our hotel to swap our dress shoes for walking shoes. With maps in hand, we headed for the subway. I shall (mostly) refrain from teasing my brother about his map-reading skills. I shall simply say that we walked quite a long way before finding a subway entrance, and that men, in general, seem unnecessarily reluctant to ask passers-by for directions. ;)
Chinatown almost made me puke. For real. Oh, it was an amazing sight, for sure. But the smell of old, rotting fish was almost more than my constitution could bear. I put my hand over my nose and mouth, but it did not block out the smell or the sound of my gagging. We hurried toward the next corner, anxious for the sight of green, red, and white decorations that would signal Little Italy.
Maitre d's attacked us as we entered Little Italy. We escaped several of them before one snagged us and dragged us into his restaurant. The waiters quickly pieced together a table for 12, and we sat down to a very good Italian dinner.
Back at the hotel, I showered and fell into bed. It was only 11 p.m., but I'd been up since 5 a.m., and my feet were aching from all the walking. Sleep did not come as rapidly or deeply as I expected. Country bumpkins normally sleep in quiet places, where the only sounds that can be heard (aside from house noises) come from insects and frogs. The city dwellers among us may not have even noticed the symphony of noise coming from the street, but I heard every horn blast and siren.
Saturday, 9/10/11 - Wedding Day
After breakfast, we headed back to the subway to get to Times Square, where we bought tickets for a double-decker bus tour of the city. Times Square was writhing with people. The sights on the billboards are almost more than one brain can process. As I stood there, numb with visual overload, I doubted that the founders of the city could ever have imagined what it would become in 400 years.
But, oh, the weather was perfect, and when we climbed aboard the bus and snaked our way to the top deck, life was good. We did the "downtown" tour this day, going past Rockefeller Center, the Empire State Building, Macy's - all the tourist destinations. Uncle Larry most wanted to see the Statue of Liberty, so when we reached Battery Park, we left the bus and took a round-trip ride on the Staten Island Ferry to see her from afar. After that, we got back on the bus and went back downtown in search of gen-u-ine New York pizza. When lunch was over, the group split up, with some going shopping and others going back to the hotel to rest and dress for the wedding.
The ceremony happened in the Dumbo area (which I later learned stands for "Down Under Manhattan Bridge Overlook"), in a tiny park between the Brooklyn Bridge and the Manhattan Bridge. We assembled on the slate steps at the water's edge, where the bride and groom sneaked in a quick vow-saying between the rumbles of passing trains. The bride's brother had passed out a basket of wooden train whistles, and we merrily honked our whistles as the newlyweds enjoyed their first kiss(es) as husband and wife. With the legal formalities done, we scurried across the street to the Smack Mellon Gallery for the reception.
The sign outside said "Eat, Drink, and Be Married!" What a fun party it was! Food, booze, music and dancing. There was "Connect Four," and "Operation," and a Ms. Pac-Man video game. There was a photo booth where we grabbed masks, plastic moustaches, and eyeglasses on sticks and acted goofy while a photographer snapped our pictures. We had a great time.
Sunday - 9/11/11
Since we didn't have to be at the airport for the flight home until 3 p.m., and since our bus tour tickets were good for 48 hours, and since we hadn't had time on Saturday to do the "uptown" tour, back to Manhattan we went. A tour bus was loading as we emerged from the subway. Seeing that it was almost full, already, we asked the tour guide, a cute little octogenarian, if there was room for 8 of us on her bus. "Yes, of course!" she said. "But no talking on the tour!" I looked at her as if she'd sprouted a second head. "I mean it!" she insisted. "No talking, and no cell phones!" I could see right away that she might need to be thrown from the bus before this tour was over.
Off we went - past Central Park, over to Harlem, past rows of burned-out tenement houses, around to 5th Avenue, past rows of mansions and museums - and all the while our cute little tour-nazi was informing us, not so much with facts and dates, but with stories about the buildings and the people who lived in them. "Don't look for it," she would say, as she began the next story, "we're not there, yet!" "Slow down, Miguel!" she would call to the driver from the top deck. "Now, Miguel, go slowwww-ly forward...a little more...a little more...there! Ladies and gentlemen, there's your picture!"
We didn't have to throw her off the bus, after all. :)
Lunch at a corner deli fortified us for the trip home. We grabbed our bags, called a car, and headed for the airport. Our driver was from Bangladesh. He was smiling and friendly and didn't seem to mind one bit when I fired off a dozen questions to him about his home and his life, but I must admit that I did not understand all that he said.
The flight home was uneventful and arrived on time.
It was such a fun trip, but, as always, it was good to be home.
The "why" had one main point: Libby loves NYC, specifically Brooklyn, having lived there for three years while she was in law school. And, in the good old American spirit, the thought was, "Hang the trouble-makers, they'll not keep us down."
Friday, 9/9/11
So, on 9/9/11, Joel and I, along with six other members of our family, boarded an early morning flight to New York City. My Aunt Barbara and Uncle Larry were part of our entourage. They'd never been to New York. Uncle Larry was especially excited about the trip, and he wanted to see everything - EVERYTHING - that he could see in the three days we'd be in town.
When we arrived at noon on Friday, my brother, the father of the bride, picked us up at the airport and took us to our hotel on Smith St. in Brooklyn. As we checked in, the clerk handed us cute little gift bags with tags that said, "Thanks for coming!" We peeked into the bags when we got to our rooms and found little bottles of champagne, a little bag of macarons (no, not "macaroons" - "macarons"), a map of the area, and menus from nearby restaurants. How sweet!
After stashing our bags in our rooms, the group re-assembled in the hotel lobby, then hit Smith St. in search of lunch. Not far from the hotel was a restaurant called Coco Roco. The menu on the storefront listed Peruvian dishes. "I've never had Peruvian food," I said. That settled it. "Then let's eat here," my brother said. We went inside. The food was good.
That evening, the groom's family hosted an outdoor cocktail party at Anable Basin Sailing Bar & Grill. We had been expecting drinks and light hors d'ouvres, and we'd made plans to nibble at the party, then go to Chinatown or Little Italy for a late dinner. If food had been our only consideration, we could've skipped the trip over to Manhattan; the "light hors d'ouvres" would've sufficed. I still don't know the specific names of the dishes served to us, but there were delicious little sandwiches of pork belly wrapped in pancake-like bread, sausages, corn on the cob, broccoli, pulled pork with barbeque sauce, and several other treats that I did not get around to trying. 
We left the party around 8 p.m., went back to our hotel to swap our dress shoes for walking shoes. With maps in hand, we headed for the subway. I shall (mostly) refrain from teasing my brother about his map-reading skills. I shall simply say that we walked quite a long way before finding a subway entrance, and that men, in general, seem unnecessarily reluctant to ask passers-by for directions. ;)
Chinatown almost made me puke. For real. Oh, it was an amazing sight, for sure. But the smell of old, rotting fish was almost more than my constitution could bear. I put my hand over my nose and mouth, but it did not block out the smell or the sound of my gagging. We hurried toward the next corner, anxious for the sight of green, red, and white decorations that would signal Little Italy.
Maitre d's attacked us as we entered Little Italy. We escaped several of them before one snagged us and dragged us into his restaurant. The waiters quickly pieced together a table for 12, and we sat down to a very good Italian dinner.
Back at the hotel, I showered and fell into bed. It was only 11 p.m., but I'd been up since 5 a.m., and my feet were aching from all the walking. Sleep did not come as rapidly or deeply as I expected. Country bumpkins normally sleep in quiet places, where the only sounds that can be heard (aside from house noises) come from insects and frogs. The city dwellers among us may not have even noticed the symphony of noise coming from the street, but I heard every horn blast and siren.
Saturday, 9/10/11 - Wedding Day
But, oh, the weather was perfect, and when we climbed aboard the bus and snaked our way to the top deck, life was good. We did the "downtown" tour this day, going past Rockefeller Center, the Empire State Building, Macy's - all the tourist destinations. Uncle Larry most wanted to see the Statue of Liberty, so when we reached Battery Park, we left the bus and took a round-trip ride on the Staten Island Ferry to see her from afar. After that, we got back on the bus and went back downtown in search of gen-u-ine New York pizza. When lunch was over, the group split up, with some going shopping and others going back to the hotel to rest and dress for the wedding.
The ceremony happened in the Dumbo area (which I later learned stands for "Down Under Manhattan Bridge Overlook"), in a tiny park between the Brooklyn Bridge and the Manhattan Bridge. We assembled on the slate steps at the water's edge, where the bride and groom sneaked in a quick vow-saying between the rumbles of passing trains. The bride's brother had passed out a basket of wooden train whistles, and we merrily honked our whistles as the newlyweds enjoyed their first kiss(es) as husband and wife. With the legal formalities done, we scurried across the street to the Smack Mellon Gallery for the reception. 
The sign outside said "Eat, Drink, and Be Married!" What a fun party it was! Food, booze, music and dancing. There was "Connect Four," and "Operation," and a Ms. Pac-Man video game. There was a photo booth where we grabbed masks, plastic moustaches, and eyeglasses on sticks and acted goofy while a photographer snapped our pictures. We had a great time.Sunday - 9/11/11
Since we didn't have to be at the airport for the flight home until 3 p.m., and since our bus tour tickets were good for 48 hours, and since we hadn't had time on Saturday to do the "uptown" tour, back to Manhattan we went. A tour bus was loading as we emerged from the subway. Seeing that it was almost full, already, we asked the tour guide, a cute little octogenarian, if there was room for 8 of us on her bus. "Yes, of course!" she said. "But no talking on the tour!" I looked at her as if she'd sprouted a second head. "I mean it!" she insisted. "No talking, and no cell phones!" I could see right away that she might need to be thrown from the bus before this tour was over.
Off we went - past Central Park, over to Harlem, past rows of burned-out tenement houses, around to 5th Avenue, past rows of mansions and museums - and all the while our cute little tour-nazi was informing us, not so much with facts and dates, but with stories about the buildings and the people who lived in them. "Don't look for it," she would say, as she began the next story, "we're not there, yet!" "Slow down, Miguel!" she would call to the driver from the top deck. "Now, Miguel, go slowwww-ly forward...a little more...a little more...there! Ladies and gentlemen, there's your picture!" We didn't have to throw her off the bus, after all. :)
Lunch at a corner deli fortified us for the trip home. We grabbed our bags, called a car, and headed for the airport. Our driver was from Bangladesh. He was smiling and friendly and didn't seem to mind one bit when I fired off a dozen questions to him about his home and his life, but I must admit that I did not understand all that he said.
The flight home was uneventful and arrived on time.
It was such a fun trip, but, as always, it was good to be home.
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