Tales from the Shark Tank

It’s time to catch up, as I’ve neglected the Shark Tank shamelessly. Well, ok, I’ve been too busy to remember my name for most of the week, but still and all, writing is relaxing and I need to relax about now.

The new refrigerator arrived….twice. Before we went out on our initial hunt, I had measured the available space carefully. Unfortunately, I had measured it with a sewing tape measure, which is flexible by definition. I thought I had compensated, but when the delivery men wrestled the behemoth I chose into the kitchen, it became apparent that I had been entirely too optimistic. It was both too wide and too tall for the available nook. By that point all my perishables were in bags and boxes around my kitchen, and my old refrigerator lying on its back (a fatal position for a refrigerator) in the back of the delivery truck. No going back there! So they called back to the store. I’d love to know what they thought they could do, as redesigning my kitchen on the fly did not seem a very practicable alternative. I mean, it doesn’t fit, you can’t very well force it. Refrigerators respond badly to that sort of persuasion, and so generally do the walls of houses.

So they took it back, with me following. Once back at the store, I chose another forthwith, with due attention to dimensions that had been measured this time with a construction tape. I then headed back to the house, beating the delivery men by a matter of seconds. At least on take two they didn’t have to remove the old machine. It was gone forever, and unlamented in its passage. The new one, being smaller, was much more easily coaxed around corners and backed into its appropriate spot. I filled it forthwith, turning it on after the recommended settlement period had passed. And it works beautifully. It doesn’t freeze in spots, nor let milk curdle in others. The shelves in both fridge and freezer pull out, so I don’t lose things in the back. Of course, none of the other things I was supposed to get done on Monday were accomplished; the saga of the refrigerator took until 3:00 in the afternoon, with the bus due to deliver my offspring half an hour later. But we are duly applianced. To put not too fine a point on it, I’m pleased.

The next two days were devoted to car hunting. As previously noted, I am driving my beloved husand’s car. The husband is beloved; the car most emphatically is not. Unfortunately, the things I have managed to find so far have not met our mechanic’s standards. You know you’re in trouble when his response to a car is “well, it will do if you’re desperate.” What complicates matters further is that I am essentially choosing for him, and his desires differ from mine in certain intangible ways. I love my minivan. He’s not crazy about it. Just as well it’s mine, eh?

And not much else has been accomplished. Little legal work, little housecleaning, only a moderate amount of sorting of stuff to dispose of against the liklihood of moving. Hey, even if we don’t move, the decluttering will have been a Good Thing. And maybe once the car problem is resolved, I can get a grandparent to meet the bus one day and run up to Merrillville for lunch with my wonderful husband. Now that would be a treat!

Yesterday I went to pour milk from a newly opened gallon only to find that it had curdled. It smelled fine, but looked like yogurt. Now, this is not generally anticipated behavior on the part of commercial milk, so I checked the refrigerator’s settings. Somehow or other it had been set on the warm end of the scale. So I turned it cold – very cold indeed – and went about the day’s business. In the course of it I acquired a refrigerator thermometer, which I put in when I got home. It confirmed what I had suspected. At its coldest setting, the refrigerator wouldn’t get below 39 degrees F. Bad news. I called the repairman and was told he could come out this morning.

This morning a load of laundry went into the dryer, which promptly began to squeal like a soul in Dante’s Inferno. I called the repair establishment back, and was assured that yes, they could send a man who could deal with both appliances. Turned out the dryer was easy, quick and relatively inexpensive to repair but that the refrigerator was not. Ok, one of two isn’t bad. I made some calls. One was to Li, who promptly offered me the pleasure of her company which I accepted with deep gratitude. We’d already planned a shopping expedition (part recreational, part automotive – not at all recreational but very necessary), so this was just one more stop. And having been fridge shopping recently, she had a good idea what worked. End result? It took longer to drive to the appliance store than to choose the refrigerator. It will be delivered on Monday morning. Since I really don’t want any more spoilt food, I am very glad it will come so quickly.

Then it was off to seek a new car. My husband’s has reached the stage of going through oil at an appalling rate, and roars like an old fashioned train. So off I went, headed for a little used car lot I know of because its owner was in the habit of calling me when I was at BMV to check his business practices when he had any questions. I did dealer hearings and reviews, and this guy was one of very few against whom there was never a complaint during my tenure. Ok, that’s good enough for me. We saw a lovely big sedan, which I liked very much and which we could afford. The engine was in perfect shape; I have seldom seen one run so smoothly, even brand new. Trouble was, the seats weren’t. With the dealer’s blessings, we took it to W. at work to look at. He took a five minute drive in it, and in that time began to get complaints from his back. It’s a pity, but there it is; we need something he can drive in for hours, and that’s a deal-breaker. So the quest goes on.

We never got to the recreational shopping, as my housemate was babysitting and wasn’t feeling at all well. But we got to both the necessary stops, and actually found what I needed at one. We also had a wonderful time talking as we drove all over central Indiana. What could have been a painful chore was instead a wonderful afternoon’s sociability. So as with the appliance repairs, one out of two isn’t bad. And W’s car isn’t quite dead yet. So long as I find something new before it is, all will be well.

I just spent a day in a grant writer’s training session. Over for most, for a few of us it goes on for another day. This is the third such event I have attended, so I thought I had some idea of what to expect. Was I ever wrong! These folks are absolutely fabulous. There was so much crunchy informative goodness that I didn’t want to take 30 seconds to go across the room for a beverage, for fear I’d miss something I wanted to write down. I never take notes; I write too slowly. Today I took notes. The last few seminars I’ve taken Nimue, then wondered why I was shlepping her around. Today I was wishing devoutly that I had packed her into her backpack. You’d best bet she’ll be along for the day tomorrow!

What is different about these people is that they don’t assume anything is intuitive. If there is some part of the form that doesn’t apply to a particular type of grant, they don’t assume you’ll figure that out, they tell you so. No one else has done that, including whomever wrote the official instructions for the particular type of federal research grant in question. There is a particular form that has been driving me crazy. Turns out I can’t figure out how most of it applies because of an entire page, only three of the entries actually do. Well, duh. I don’t feel like an idiot only because I know enough about administrative law to know that whatever else it may be, intuitive it is decidedly not.

And need I add that they are organized, articulate, lucid and thorough? That they explain not only what must be spelled out in detail, but why? That they make a set of rules that basically resembles a game of cat’s cradle played by an epileptic octopus into something logical and orderly, with examples? That their written materials are as clear as their live presentation? They give templates, and explain what buzz-words the reviewers are looking for and when and how to use them. It’s amazing. Some of what they told us – for example, that the grant writer can edit the research plan, but that the scientist who will be doing the research absolutely has to write the science or the whole thing will crash and burn on review – I had figured out the hard way, but I was glad to hear the conclusion I’d reached with much frustration affirmed. I’m neither off-base nor misguided in that; I wasn’t missing anything obvious. When I’m trying to figure out something new, that’s very good to know. And some of it simply made it clear that my reality checks weren’t in cometary orbit. Every estimate I’ve heard or read has said that it should take about 60 hours to write one of these things. From what I saw, that wasn’t possible. The first thing I heard today is that anyone undertaking such a project should expect it to take eight weeks. No sugar coating, no “oh, this is so easy” no “any idiot can do this” subtext. Just real information, from women who have been there and done that and figured out what works and what doesn’t. That’s hard to come by, and wonderful to find.

Today there were about 30 of us in training with two instructors. Tomorrow’s session, specifically for the SBA’s contract grant-writers (of whom I am now one) will be much smaller. The same two instructors plus two SBA grant coordinators will be working with a group of five. And I’m really looking forward to it.

I’ve seen some spectacular examples of financial phishing and fraud recently, and I can’t figure something out. How can the crooks be so stupid?

My e-mail provided me with my first several examples. Freelance socialists puporting to represent, variously, a local bank and my isp’s business office asked me to click on a link and verify – or provide – information. The requests themselves were semi-literate at best, but the clincher was the return e-mail address. None of them originated from the company in question. Indeed, each had an originating address that looked remarkably like “JoeShmoe@localcompany.com”. I’m not so naive as to think that poor Mr. Shmoe had anything to do with it, but it’s still a pretty dramatic clue that Something Is Amiss. No, I did not answer or click on links; I forwarded each to the relevant company and to the fraud division of the Attorney General’s office.

The last shining star in the intellectual firmament was actually in the U.K. My friend K. and her family went to England and Wales for a vacation over the winter holidays. Their credit card bill just came in, and on it appeared several thousand dollars, charged in the U.K, that they didn’t spend. Indeed, the charges were made a week after they were back in the States. Ok, that happens. The bright move on the thief’s part? He paid his utility bills – which were in his own name – on their card. Needless to say, prosecution is going to occur. K. is angry enough to go back to England for the sole purpose of getting this twit. She’s certainly sending the investigators everything they could need and then some. Anyone who thinks making me angry is a bad idea has never had to reckon with K. She makes me look positively meek. And if that’s not scary, I don’t know what is.

I play hob getting a decent hair cut. I’m not high fashion, I’m not particularly vain, and I’m fairly articulate about what I want, so it shouldn’t be too tough, but there it is. I had a friend who did it for 15 years or so. She moved to southern Indiana about 5 years back, and I’ve been searching for someone else to do it since. Finally, this past weekend, I got a quite decent hair cut in a place I should have thought of but didn’t. I got it done at a children’s shop called Cookie Cutters.

I was there in the first place to get my son a hair cut. They use scissors instead of buzzing clippers. The buzzers make him crazy. So I happened to look up and see, on their price board, “adult hair cut”. Adult? Hmm. I needed a trim, I was already there, and J. was willing to let me sit beside him and get my hair done while his got done instead of my standing right by him. So ok, this would work. I sat down, with minimal expectations, and told the stylist what I was after. Lo and behold, she got it exactly right. She even told me what was wrong with my explanation, what would work better and why. She was right, too.

When I thought about it after the fact, it made perfect sense. I have baby-fine hair that flies in every imaginable direction given the least excuse. I’ll put a little bit of light product in it, but not much, and I’m liable to forget to brush it after the morning’s arrangement. Now, what is a kid’s hair like? Super fine and flyaway, and they’re not likely to pay it much heed after the morning’s arrangment. So that’s what these stylists are accustomed to dealing with. I wish I’d thought of it sooner, but glad I figured it out now. I’ll be back there, with or without my son. It’s further proof, if any were needed, that in some things I will never grow up.

My husband is working as a temporary attorney for a representative of the Evil Empire whom I’ll call Monster Insurance. Of course, they pay well, which is an excellent thing. On the other hand, they don’t make it easy for him to stay in touch with us here in Indy. All web-based e-mail is blocked, and they’re more draconian than the State was about personal use of things like the phone. At least the State simply put you on your honor not to do anything contrary to policy. Monster Insurance doesn’t even give the choice; they simply make it impossible. I understand concern about hackers and virii, but it’s still no fun.

So ok, he can go to the Lake County library and use the computers there, right? Well, in the most populous county in Indiana, the public library has all of six public use terminals. He’s managed to get online two evenings this week. And since he’s in court so much with this job, my calling him at work is tricky too, especially since I’m a little afraid to leave him a message. That will improve once they get his voice mail working, because he’ll be the one playing it.

The good news is that he actually likes both the work and the people with whom he’s working. He has some concerns, but that’s natural in a new job. He’s ready to go back into law, and I’m extraordinarily glad of that. I wish it were closer to home. We miss each other. But it’s temporary. If it proves out and he stays there, we’ll move. I don’t much like the idea; both his folks and mine are here, and mine have reached the stage where they need me. We moved them down here from northern Indiana years ago because I couldn’t keep running up and down the interstate every single weekend. I’m not keen on doing it again. But we’ll manage. Hey, I might even learn to do the traditional “homemaker” thing. Stranger things have happened!

My husband’s been driving my minivan around northern Indiana, because his car really isn’t to be relied upon for any kind of distance driving. I, in turn, have been driving his Saturn. I have also been forcibly reminded of why I was so glad to replace my own Saturn with the minivan, so I’ve been fairly assiduous in exploring options for replacing his car with something somewhat more reliable. In pursuit of that goal, I’ve been talking to friends, trying to network my way into a car.

So one of my kids has a car she and her husband aren’t using. It’s an old Fire Marshall mobile, a Chevy Caprice that still has “FIRE” stencilled on the sides in large red letters. They offered to sell it to us for what they paid for it, and brought it over so I could take it to my mechanic. Indeed, it is going to the mechanic this afternoon, but not as any of us had intended. It is going under the propulsion and kind offices of a tow truck, having given me and several other people a really obnoxious hour’s work. I climbed into it, confidently expecting to turn it on, let it warm up, and drive it the 3.5 miles between my house and the shop. Instead I turned it on and drove it all of 15 feet. That was just enough to be directly across my own driveway, blocking in both my and a housemate’s cars. There it simply – stopped. The power turned off, and declined to be turned on again. Not a click, not a sound, nothing could be elicited from it. Moreover, it was stuck on the last remaining patch of ice on the street, so pushing it was also damnably difficult.

A young neighbor came home while K. and I were wrestling with it, and we got him to help push it to the curb between our two houses. I have called the tow truck and await its arrival. And I have also called the owner of the car, and told him I am not buying it. He still wants the mechanic to look at it and tell him what’s wrong, and that’s fine. But I already have an unreliable car. I don’t need another.