Divorce Pranks are on the rise…are you guilty?
Oh. My. Gawd. I can’t begin to tell you the day I’ve had today. It has very little to do with divorce except for the part that occurred around 3:30 p.m. which inspired the blog title. But I have to talk about my day. It was off the charts. And this is where I vent, on this blog, so if you don’t want to hear it, move on to the next post.
Ok. So I get up at 7:30, shower and dress in my only available outfit – the same one I’ve been wearing since Tuesday (long story). I pour myself some oj and pop my vitamins and wait for the CONTRACTORS to arrive for their fourth day of work on my apartment. I am stir crazy because since Tuesday, I haven’t gotten out of my cage. This is already a bad start.
Contractor Sorry. He says he’s the “foreman” arrives half hour later than he said he would, at 9:00. The foreman’s already reeking of alcohol, and his eyes are slightly glazed. His brother Rymundo is in tow. (Foreman’s name is Salvadore, btw.) Ok. Whatever. Yesterday he came back from lunch reeking of marijuana and I bit my tongue cause, well, what am I going to say. But at 9:00 he has alcohol on his breath? Is he going to finish the job today? Cause I can’t take this anymore. I need to do things. Like write on my blog, go to the gym, take walks, respond to client requests for “documents” and a whole bunch of other shizo.
“Why were you drinking so early?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
“Oh, I like to have a beer first thing in the morning before work,” he says.
“Oh. Well, that’s not healthy” I say, trying not to sound judgmental, but absolutely fuming inside.
“Oh, I know. My wife doesn’t like it either,” he says.
“So, do you think you can finish up the job today?” I ask.
“Um, I don’t think so. I think I can finish the living room today and I have to come back one more day tomorrow to finish the bedroom.”
Say what? I look at him without speaking. I can’t believe he’s telling me this. I am not a painter, but I can look over the place and see I could have the whole damn thing done by noon. What does he mean he has to come back one more day? Does he understand that my computer is lost in a sea of chaos and that I haven’t seen my blog in days? Does he understand that I need to go out and enjoy a walk so that I can think but that I can’t since Tuesday since I can’t leave him and Rymundo in my apartment alone cause for one thing, they have a penchant of going out and locking themselves out of the apartment and causing a scene in the entire building?
“I’ve got to have this done today,” I say. “I can help you with the bedroom. Just give me a paint and a brush and I will do the rest.”
Rymundo and Salvadore exchange amused looks. I can see they think I can’t paint. I”m too girly. But I know what I can do. And right now, I am over Salvadore and Rymundo’s laissez faire approach to renovation, their long breaks for everything from shitting, to smoking a spliff, to drinking a beer, to having lunch, talking on their cell phone, to god knows what else. Plus, I’m just a woman at the end of the day and while they seem harmless, I can’t be 100% sure that things can’t change as their intoxication levels increase. After all, Foreman volunteered yesterday that he “hasn’t touched his wife in 3 weeks” because he works days and she works nights…(what was I to do with that bit of tmi, I wonder?) I need them to finish the job today and get the hell out of my home.
“where is the paint and brush?” I demand.
Rymundo sets me up with the apparatuses (Rymundo is just off the boat from Mexico and does not speak a word of English, I am told). Armed with nothing but sheer force of will, I begin to paint the bedroom. I discover it is easy! Piece of cake. I love it. I can think. I can talk to myself as I paint. Just my kind of activity.
I look to the ceiling and I see that there is a patch that needs plastering. I call out for one of the guys to bring me the plaster and I plaster the damn thing like an old pro. First I scrape it, then I plaster it (as if I”m a construction worker, I swear; if you were there you’d actually be impressed) Then I proceed to paint the whole thing in record time.
Rymundo is on the phone with Salvadore at one point (Salvadore was probably on his marijuana break) and he goes in Spanish, “Chikita es Rapido!” He has the audacity to think I don’t understand what he is saying. He fails to understand that it is not that I am rapido, it’s that I want the job done and I am willing to do it myself if that is what it takes….[btw, just as an aside, I used to think that if God had not created men, women would be living in caves or one story shacks (since men are the construction workers) but after today, I know that if there were no men, women would have built their own high-rises....in other words, it's not that we can't it's more like why mess up our manicures if men are there to do the dirty work for us kind of thing.]
Anyhoo, at this point, sweat is dripping (popping really) from my scalp and down my face. It burns my eyes and I can’t wipe my eyes because both my hands, my arms and every other part of me is covered in paint. It is very hot in the apartment even though the AC is on. I can’t believe how my clothes is clinging to my body. I HAVE NEVER SWEAT LIKE THIS IN MY LIFE. NOT EVEN WHEN I GO TO THE GYM (that is a whole other issue we won’t even go into at this time, but it is a problem in an of itself.)
Anyhoo, something about my energy is inspiring the Foreman and his brother. Cause all of a sudden, they are working faster and I look around, and the living room is finished, practically. It’s only about 3:30.
So that is when I get the call from a woman who says her name is “Miriam.” She had called me the other day to say that she had been recommended by a referral service I use. But she had presented herself so weirdly on the telephone, that I knew she was a fake and was a prank and so I called to confirm and they told me they hadn’t recommended her. They suggest she may have gotten my name and number by using a fake name to them, obtaining my number from them under false pretenses and then called me using yet another pseudonym. Splendid. Turns out I had already made an appointment with her today for 2:30 and she was waiting for me at the office. She calls in the middle of my moment when sweat is popping from my head and I am literally covered in white paint from head to toe. She has no idea I know she is as fake and a prank and the last thing I have time for, is her brand of shizzo.
She goes, “hi, this is Miriam? We had an appointment today?”
I go, “Yes, Miriam, we did. The problem is I called the referral service since they didn’t follow the usual protocol with this referral, and guess what I found out?
She goes, “What?”
I go, “I find out you were not referred to me by them. They have no idea who you are. They have no idea how you got my number.”
Miriam stammers a bit. She tells me another lie, something about the fact that she had a looong list of attorneys to call and that she may have mixed up how she got my number. She assures me that she is not a prankster.
I go, “Uh huh. Well, the thing is, I am a very busy individual and I really don’t have time for games from folks like you. So do me a favor. Check your list a second time and verify how you got my name. And don’t call me till you get your own name straight. Cause I don’t know much. But I can tell you this. Your name ain’t Miriam.”
Click. I ended the tedious conversation and got back to painting. Rymundo and Salvadore are looking at me with a new-found respect. None of us stopped till the place was spotless at 6:00 sharp.
Now, hours later, now that I have (by myself!) shoved, pushed and pulled most of the furniture back into its place (I literally prayed with a couple of pieces and asked Jesus to push with me); and have taken the longest, sweetest, most ungreen shower evah! I feel soooo good, but sooooo tired. My back hurts, my legs and arms ache. And my stomach is empty. I didn’t realize it but I haven’t had a bite to eat all day. Can you believe that?! And I’m not hungry. I am here with a tall glass of iced tea, blogging. And I am sooooo happy. I’m thinking maybe construction was really my calling and not law. I should have been a fricking construction worker. Who knew? I bet you I wouldn’t have to put up with divorce pranks and fake pump clients.
Ok. Am tired. Gotta rest now. Off to bed…..oh wait. First I have to do the kitty litter, then I can go to bed…. Well, bye. talk to you tomorrow….sorry for the long vent.
Oh, and speaking of pranks, read this not-funny story out of Australia. I mean, how sick are people? http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090824/ap_on_fe_st/us_odd_toilet_prank
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