They Don't Make Them Like They Used To...

I wish I had $5 for every time I've heard someone say, "They don't make 'em like they used to." Heck, with inflation, make that $10, since $5 doesn't buy what it used to. Add cash for every time I've uttered the words about making 'em like they used to, I'd be rich.

We could start with cars - my daughter, M.H., just bought another car to replace one she'd bought several years ago, which was really on its last legs or tires - but we won't. The only good part about not making cars like they used to is that Yugos are no longer being made. But the rest - the sturdy steel cars from Detroit's heyday - are enough to make one sigh.

Maybe six years ago, I decided to buy a new dining room table and chairs. It was the first time I'd ever had a brand new table and chairs, and they'd be replacing a dining room table a friend had bought for me twenty-plus years ago. That table was still in relatively decent shape (I really should've kept it, but that's another story), but the chairs had fallen apart and been replaced several times. New chairs and table were obviously what I needed to buy.

I found what I wanted on a chain-store's website and ordered away. (Note: This is not necessarily the smartest way to do this, since seeing a picture of something online doesn't quite give you enough info. Turned out that the table is bigger than I'd anticipated for the size of the dining room.)

A week or so later, a delivery truck arrived. The driver and his helper brought in the table and chairs, put them together, and that was that.

Within maybe eight to ten months, the chairs started falling apart big time. I called the store I'd bought the table and chairs from to see if they'd replace the chairs. For what I paid for them, I figured they would. (They did.)

Here's where it started getting a little strange. The customer service person on the phone asked if I'd bought the table with four or six chairs.

"Four," I answered.

"Okay, yeah, I just found that on the site," I was told. "Four chairs. Great, we'll send them on out."

The problem was that they would have to charge me for the chairs, then refund the money back to my account when the old, broken chairs were received back at their warehouse.

"You're kidding, right?"

Nope. I sighed and gave them the card number.

"You'll need to take the old chairs apart, box them up, and put them into the boxes that the new chairs came in," the man from customer service told me. "We'll also schedule UPS to pick up the boxes with the old chairs from your place the next day, so make sure you take care of it right away."

Around 6:00 P.M. the following Monday, a UPS truck pulled up in front of my house. The driver climbed out, went around back of the truck, got a dolly out, then brought four large boxes up to the house. He knocked on the door, then muscled them, one at a time, onto the porch, where my sons and I then muscled them into the house.

After getting the boxes laid out on the living room floor (the dining room is right off the living room, so no biggie), I opened the first box. There were two chairs in the box. I opened the next box. Two chairs in that one, too!

From what I figured out, the guy at customer service heard four chairs and went to type in the correct amount into his computer. As with computers, though, if there are blanks to fill in, you might not get to fill in all the info; it's entirely possible that their computer wanted the number of items, rather than chairs, shoes, what-have-you; just a generic items. Then, whoever pulled the order to send out saw 4 items rather than 4 chairs; this obviously meant 4 boxes with chairs...which came out to (you guessed it) 8 chairs! If it had been a math equation, it would've been:

4 chairs = 4 items;

4 items = 4 boxes;

4 boxes X 2 chairs = 8 chairs; which gives you:

4 chairs = 8 chairs. Guess this is what's considered new math!

I put together four chairs (two boxes' worth), took the old chairs apart, put them into the boxes that the new ones came in, taped up the boxes, flipped the address labels around so that they'd go back to where they'd come from, and that was that.

The next day, I stuck around the house, waiting for UPS to show up to pick up the four heavy boxes, tripping over them whenever I'd have to go through the living room. (Yes, the living room is small enough and the boxes were large enough that they did take up much of the available floor space.)

Just before 5:00, I began wondering if customer service had actually put in an order to have the boxes picked up, so I called UPS and asked if anyone was on their way to pick up the chairs.

"I'm really not sure," I was told. "I'm not seeing anything, but that doesn't mean that we don't have someone on the way."

So, just in case, I made sure that they'd come out the next day for the chairs.

"And the packages are pre-paid?" the woman on the phone asked. They were. "Good enough. We'll be by tomorrow to pick them up."

"But you can't tell if anyone's coming this afternoon?"

Nope, that would have entailed another phone number.

By 7:00, I was pretty sure that no one would be picking up the boxes until the next day. J. and M. and I dragged the boxes into the utility room so that we wouldn't trip over them that evening.

Ten minutes later, we heard the rumble of the UPS truck just outside our house. (You saw that coming, didn't you?! We should've, too.) I met the guy at the door - the same driver who'd dropped off the heavy boxes the day before - and asked him if he'd be able to bring the dolly to the back door.

"Sure thing." He also guessed why I'd moved the boxes.

The next day, I was at the grocery store when my cell phone rang. Apparently, UPS had sent the exact same driver out to pick the chairs up again. When he'd arrived the night before, it had been too late to reach anyone to cancel the pick up. When I'd called that morning, I was told not to worry, everything was fine.

"He looked really relieved when I told him there weren't four more boxes of chairs to pick up," J. told me. Well, I guess! Those things were heavy!

We needed to replace the chairs two more times, as they kept falling apart in a matter of months. This huge table came with chairs that probably should have been marked as "perfect for the super-model who weighs no more than 98 pounds; not meant to hold more than 100 pounds."

The last time two of the chairs fell apart, I put them into our spare room, figuring I'd try fixing them. But after a while, I realized that that was not happening, and put them out on trash day. We still have two of the last four chairs here...

Meanwhile, my mom had had a dining room table and chairs that a neighbor of ours in Connecticut had built during the mid-1960s. When she sold the set, maybe ten years ago, they were still a solid, usable set, chairs and all. (The neighbor had had a small furniture building company and put pride into everything that was built.)

Then there's the computer desk I bought and put together. Ditto the entertainment unit. They're both showing much too much wear...and it's not like they're antiques. Just cheaply made. Meanwhile, the desk I'm working on at the moment was made by a late in-law 60+ years ago! It's nothing fancy: desk top, metal strip around the edges, place to sit with plenty of leg room, and three drawers stacked up on the right-hand side. It's not glamorous, but dang, it's sturdy and still in great shape. It'll probably last another 60+ years.

No, they don't make 'em like they used to.

Double the Fun, or Yes, She Fixed Her Car

My daughter had to replace the handles to her car. The outside door handle on the driver's door broke a while back, followed a few months later, by the other front door handle. One could still open the front doors to the car, it was just a little tricky. M.H. and her husband B. had pretty much mastered the trick of getting into the car, but then, they got enough practice with it. Anyone else (read: friends or certain over-50-year-old relatives) had problems opening the doors.

Recently, M.H. ordered replacement parts for both doors with the idea of fixing the doors herself. While they weren't the right color - the car is white, the handles, black - they were a decent enough price. Add to that the fact that if she did the work herself, it would be a lot cheaper than taking it to a garage to pay for someone else to do the job.

This afternoon, after starting a couple of loads of laundry at my place, we set off to run a couple of errands, then came home, where M.H. announced that she wanted to fix the doors. Today.

This isn't the first time M.H. has had to deal with fixing this car. However, this time, I had nothing to do with jinxing her car. Also, this time was a more do-able fix.

M.H> went online and checked a video on YouTube on how to fix the handle. Seemed pretty straight-forward. Back out at the car, the tool and new car part came out and slowly, painstakingly, the door came apart.

Finally, the only part that needed to come out was the handle itself. This entailed seemily contorting one's hand and/or tools around metal to reach the brackets. At that point, the one tool that M.H. to do this job - the only tool that fit - came apart, with the end falling into the door. Of course, it wasn't the part of the door with the entire panel off, where all she would have had to do was to reach down and pick the part up. Noooo... It fell down into essentially a narrow metal well-like area.

"Really?" M.H. said. "It had to fall there?"

After several minutes of trying to get the part out, J. offered to try his hand at snagging the part. He'd already helped helped get a stubborn bolt that wouldn't budge off. Sure enough, he managed to fish the part out using a flat-head screwdriver.

A side note: There are certain family members who have not been mentioned today who get confused by the terms flat-head screwdriver and Phillips-head screwdriver. While it seems obvious to me which is which (the flat-head one is self-explanatory, while the Phillips one is obviously the other one), this explanation doesn't seem to help. However, if I tell this particular person, "Hand me the minus-sign screwdriver," or "The plus-sign screwdriver is on the desk; could you get it for me?", I'll get the right one. Think about if for a minute...without laughing. I dare you...

So, part restored, M.H. got back to work putting changing the offending door handle before starting to put the door back together.

As she got the handle back into place, the end of the same tool came off again, falling into the same darn metal well!

"No way! You've got to be kidding!" she exclained as we exchanged aggrevated looks. This time, J. couldn't quite reach it. M.H. had no luck, either. She could touch the thing, but not in a way to be able to pull it out. Maybe if she took that part of the door apart again...but she needed that tool to do that.

Suddenly, I got an idea. We'd kicked around the idea of using Sculpey to keep stuff together while working on the door. Sculpey is a type of polymer clay that comes in really cool colors. Once you make something with it, whether beads, mini sculptures, or whatever, you bake it in your oven. Very addicting stuff. And it might just be what could give M.H. enough reach with the right amount of stickiness to snag the part.

Of course, by the time I brought the stuff out, the tool part was out. Fifteen minutes later, the door was back together.

"The other door can wait," M.H. decided. I wasn't going to argue.

We both agreed that the second door should be easier. She'd already stumbled through the first door, and did a decent job, not to mention the money she saved by doing it herself. (I'd changed a starter relay for my last car, a 1986 Crown Vic, by myself and know I saved at least $200 by doing so; you wouldn't believe the nonsense I heard from several mechanics when I asked for a price to change it out.)

Here's hoping it won't need another fix for a while. But at least M.H. knows how to change the door handle. Not too shabby, if you ask me.

The Tampa Bay (Car) Triangle, or How I Jinxed a Car

I hate to admit it, but I may have jinxed my daughter's car.

There, I said it, but it needed to be said. Better you hear it here first, than from my daughter, though she might have a word or two to say about it.

Okay, a little back story here. My daughter, M.H., her husband B., and daughter, G., moved back to the area from Rhode Island last summer. If one is going to be technical about it, M.H. and B. moved back here; G. is moving here for the first time. No matter, they're here.

They'd been here for not quite two months when their old car died completely. Nothing like the smell of burning rubber, followed by a loud boom, a large poof of smoke, and a blown engine in the middle of a major intersection to announce its demise. This was followed by the purchase of a scooter so that M.H. could at least get back and forth to work.

Cute as the scooter is, as well as good on gas, it is not exactly designed for hauling around a family of three. At least, not all at the same time. When B. ended up in the hospital (see February 14's post: What a week, or Is everyone in the hospital?"), it was obvious that buying a car was in their immediate future.

M.H. mentioned she'd been looking at cars. Then, a couple of days later, I called and got B. on the phone.

"M.H. is on her way to your place," he told me. "At least, I think she is."

A few minutes later, a car horn sounded out front. It was M.H. in her new white Toyota. Well, not new new, but new to her. It ran well, it didn't have a blown engine, it had room for four people, comfortably; in other words, it's wonderful. She was able to take B. and G. places, able to pick me up for errands, able to get to and from work comfortably when it rained.

A week or two later, M.H. stopped by. "Come on, we're going to the beach!" There was no one else there.

"We, who?" I asked. When she gave me that look that said, "A little slow today, are we?", I hurried on, "Are we picking B. up on the way?" We had to pass right by their place on the way to the beach.

"Sure, we'll swing by our place and see if he wants to come along," she said. "He'll probably want to come."

But no, B. was comfortable where he was. After hanging out for a few minutes, M.H. and I headed back to the car.

"Enjoy yourselves," B. said as we left.

Once in the car, though, we realized the beach was not an option. Remember the question about how to make God laugh? (Answer: Tell Him your plans.) This was one of those times. The car would not start. Wouldn't even make a noise like it wanted to turn over, no click, click when she turned the key, nothing.

"Oh, great, now what?" she asked.

"Pop the hood," I told her. The rule is that if your car won't start, even if you have no idea what's wrong, even if you can't tell an alternator from an alternate universe, you pop the hood, right?

I tried moving the battery cables. If the car isn't getting any juice from the battery, it's obvious the car won't start. But the cables seemed tight. M.H. tried turning the key again. Nothing. She called B. on her cellphone. (Yes, I know: we were still parked in front of their place; at this point, that's beside the point.)

"The car won't start," she told him.

I didn't hear the rest of the conversation, as I'd grabbed my cellphone to call my friend Kevin. He's regaled me with enough stories of growing up and putting together car after car after beater car with friends that I figured he'd be able to give us a pointer or two. I was already leaning towards either a new battery or an alternator, but I figured he could offer some advice.

After listening to the symptoms ("ran great coming here, now it won't even try to turn over"), he concurred that it was probably either the batter or alternator. "If she still has the scooter, she can try jumping the car off that. I'm guessing the scooter's got a 12 volt battery, so it should be able to handle that."

I thanked him and passed along the news. We went inside, got the jumper cables, along with a battery charger B.'s mom had given them several years ago. Unfortunately, the charger needed to be charged for hours before its first use. The scooter was equally helpful for jumping off the car.

Finally, M.H. asked a neighbor for help. Mr. Neighbor pulled Mrs. Neighbor's pickup truck around, we hooked up cables, and sure enough, the car started. Sounded beautiful. We thanked Mr. Neighbor, put the cables away, then headed back to my place. We both figured the beach was not an option that evening.

There were a few more quirky happenings with the car that evening, part of which involved Kevin bringing his cab to my place to jump-start M.H.'s car again. It died a third time as she pulled up in front of her place.

A few days later, with a friend's help, she got the car to where she'd bought it; it turned out to be the alternator. It was changed, and off she went.

Then, this morning, M.H. called and offered to help me run errands. We got a few things done and came back home.

"Hey, want to try going to the beach again?"

"Sure, why not?" It would be a pleasant diversion.

We got back into the car and first headed to her place. She had groceries, so we'd put them inside and see if B. wanted to come along. M.H.'s neighbors were sitting out front. I hoped that this wasn't going to be a pattern: we decide to go to the beach, we stop at her place, we see the neighbors out front, the car dies.

B. said he wouldn't come along, he was happy to stay home. Again, he told us to enjoy ourselves at the beach.

So, we get into the car. M.H. puts the key into the ignition...and it starts! We both smiled.

"Good!" we breathed.

We were almost to the beach when M.H. decided she needed to gas up the car, so we pulled into the next station. After putting in a few gallons, she climbed back in, put the key into the ignition, and...nothing. She tried it again. Nothing.

"Really?" she said. "I pick you up to go to the beach, we stop by my place, and the car dies again?"

We pushed the car away from the pump (no minor thing with this particular car) and into a parking space. M.H. called someone from work who promised to stop by after work. Then she called B.

"The car won't start." I got out of the car to give her some privacy.

The coworker arrived a little while later, but while the car sounded like it wanted to start, it wouldn't. So M.H. called the place she'd bought it from. The mechanic who'd changed the alternator told her to have me try moving the positive battery cable. Didn't help. He'd send someone.

After the coworker left, but before the mechanic arrived, we both decided that I'd jinxed the car. "You, the beach, the car: It's the Tampa Bay Car Triangle!"

This time, however, it was a simple fix: the clamps on the battery cables were loose; they were fixed and we were good to go.

"No, don't worry about it!" the mechanic told us when we tried to slip him some cash.

"Okay, it's a tip!"

But no, he wouldn't take the money. We thanked him, he left, and we headed for the beach.

It was almost deserted, wonderfully cool, nice waves...definitely relaxing.

On the way home, as we waited at a light, M.H. glanced over. "I've got an idea. Once a week, I'll come over, tell you we're going to the beach, we'll stop by my place, the car'll die, we'll have a hissy fit, then I'll take you home."

I guess this means that if that's our plan, God'll let us go to the beach...