mommydearest's blog

Have your socks ever tried to escape from your feet? Until recently, one sock or the other might work itself over my heel, but that was a far as it got. Then, I bought a three-pack of chenille socks from Costco. They came in three, pastel colors, were amazingly soft, and felt as if they would keep my feet nice and toasty. Having toasty feet was a goal that was difficult for me to achieve, so that possibility clinched the sale.

The first thing I discovered about the new socks is that I didn’t DARE wear them on our hardwood floors. Most socks have questionable traction on hard surfaces at best; these socks, with their super fluffy fibers, either sent you zapping across the floor until you hit the nearest solid object, or dropped you immediately on your butt, as your feet slid out from under you and up in the air. But, they kept my feet wonderfully toasty, so I just avoided the hardwood floors, or took the socks off temporarily.

My new socks and I were getting along famously.  Each morning I’d slide them on my feet, smile, and take a couple of seconds to run my hands over the socks’ soft fibers. They became my pet socks, and all was well…until one morning.

That morning, I needed to get the newspaper from our front yard. Frustrated that I couldn’t find my slippers, I decided to walk down our stone-and-cement steps wearing my new socks. It didn’t occur to me that there would be a problem. Although the surface of the steps was flat, it certainly wasn’t smooth like the hardwood floor. In fact, the cement surface was left deliberately rough to prevent it from becoming slippery when it was wet. It was, however, seeded with small, smooth pebble-like gravel to give the plain cement a more decorative look. It was that gravel, apparently, that encouraged my socks to attempt their getaway.

As I stepped on to the first cement platform, I could feel my socks begin to shift. The socks began to roll rapidly off of my feet in a snake-like motion. Each step felt as if I was walking on ice, or sliding on tiny ball bearings. Frantically trying to keep my balance, I managed to jump off of the walkway to the adjacent gravel bed. My socks, at this point, had traveled more than half way down on my foot, and covered only the arch of my foot and my toes.

Now, I had a problem; in order to get back up to the house, I must cross one cement step or another. Well, I thought, surely, now that I was aware of the socks’ tendency to slide, with extra care I should be able to make it safely back up the stairs. I pulled my socks back up, and planted one foot firmly on the closest step. The sock immediately rolled almost completely off of my foot and dumped me on my butt back in the gravel. At that point I gave up. Barefoot, I grabbed the newspaper and trudged back up the stairs to the house.

I do miss my wonderfully soft, pet socks that made my feet feel so toasty warm, but I have to say that they make one hell of a dust rag.

What other names did your parents consider for you?

My mother wanted to name me after my father's sister.  Her name was Rosita.  Now, my aunt was very fair, tall and blonde, and because people expected to see a sultry Latino woman, her name raised many questions throughout her life.  The reality of her exotic name was simply that my grandmother thought it was a beautiful name.  When my mother approached my aunt about naming me after her, my aunt wouldn't hear of it.  My aunt indicated that she had spent a lifetime trying to explain to curious people why her name didn't fit her face, and she didn't want me to be burdened in the same way.  She would permit, however, for me to be named after her nickname which was Terri, short for her last name of Terrill.  So, I became Terry; unfortunately, in those days, there were female and male versions of most names--unlike today where you might meet a lovely, young lady named George.  Terry with a "Y" was the accepted male spelling for Terry, and my mother had unwittingly given it to her new baby girl.  Throughout my junior high and high school years, that spelling created a paperwork nightmare for me.  Even though the "female box" was checked in all of my documentation,  that "Y" on the end of my name caused constant confusion.  Each year, I was forced to go through the tedious process of rearranging my classes, because, inevitably, I was scheduled for boys' gym.  The last straw came when I turned 18, and received a notice that I was required to register for the draft.  From that point on, Terry became Terri.  So, my aunt, in an attempt save me from problems with one name, created problems with another.

For those of you who are tired of mouse stories from me, please read no further. This is, indeed, another mouse story (OH,NO!), but also one with a surprise ending. So, at the very real risk of becoming known as that Crazy Mouse Lady, here is another mouse tale.

As you may, or may not, remember, we live in a residential area on the edge of a forest. Because of that, all kinds of “critters” live on an around our property, including the ever-present mouse. Although our previous problems with them have been satisfactorily resolved, we still find evidence of an occasional visitor in our garage or under our house. Apparently, the word hasn’t gotten around to these particular furry guys that the buffet has been closed for some time now. So, in order to avoid our previous problems with multiple generations of mice arriving in our kitchen expecting dinner--or lunch, or breakfast, or just a snack to tide them over--the Havahart humane mouse trap has become pretty much a permanent fixture under our house. I check the trap daily, and once in a while, I will find a mouse that had dined on the peanut butter-and-rolled-oats bait and had triggered the trap which prevented him from dining-and-dashing. Each trapped guest is then walked down the street to a vacant lot and released, well-fed and unharmed, in the same manner as each and every one of his predecessors. Multiple generations of mice have survived in this manner, knowing that I just don’t have the heart to kill them. It saved the mice and salved my conscience--until today.

Recently, it became necessary for me to be away from home for a little more than a week. Our oldest daughter needed urgent, but non-life-threatening surgery, and I stayed at her house to help out while she recuperated. My husband was left to man the fort, and to take care of all of the myriad of tasks that I normally handled--including checking and emptying the mousetrap when needed.

The first five days that I was gone, one of the multiple DID-YOU? questions that I asked was always, “Did you check the trap?” The answer was always, “Yes, I did,” and “No, the trap wasn’t sprung.” One the fifth day, my daughter’s three-year-old returned home. From that point, I was up to my very real ass in proverbial alligators--or one might say, “Addie-gators,” since our granddaughter, Addison, is a high energy child with enough intelligence to figure out all kinds of creative ways to drive her Nana crazy. I didn’t have time to think about mice, or the dogs, our house, my husband, or anything else except keeping things calm and organized at my daughter’s house. So, for three days, when I spoke to my husband, I didn’t ask any questions at all.

After having spent eight days at my daughters’, I came home to catch my breath for one night, pick up some clean clothes, wash two of our three dogs, water plants, catch up on my email, and, yes, check the mousetrap, among the gazillion little daily chores that had become my routine.

I could see from the crawl space door that the trap had been sprung, so I crawled under the house to retrieve it and release its furry contents. Once out in the light, I could easily tell that all was not well with mousie. Although he was breathing, he wasn’t moving. I called upstairs to ask my husband how long it had been since he’d last checked the trap. He reluctantly informed me that it had been two or three days; he’d simply been busy trying to keep up with all of his newly acquired duties and hadn’t thought about the trap under the house.

Poor, little mousie had been trapped without water and food for a very long time in mouse minutes. The thought of it broke my heart, and I ran upstairs and grabbed the peanut butter jar and some water. I smeared the peanut butter around his mouth and tried to dribble water in there, as well. No response whatsoever. I was too late; the mouse, though still alive, literally didn’t have the strength to eat or drink. He just lay there breathing slowly. I had briefly considered a mercy killing to end his suffering, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. My conscience stricken to the core, I took him to the grassy lot adjacent to our house, made a little nest in the grass in a warm, protected area, and left him there to die.

About an hour later, I checked to see if the mouse had gone to mousie heaven. I found the little nest I had made, but there was no mouse in it. Confused, I looked around and spotted the little fur-ball waddling aimlessly along the side of our house, his face and whiskers licked clean of the peanut butter and water droplets. When he saw me, he made a beeline straight back under our house--right back to the area where the trap had been located, and where I must now catch him all over again!

For those of you who don’t think God has a sense of humor, here’s a tiny example to prove otherwise. In one fell swoop, I received absolution and a GOTCHA! As the mouse disappeared under our house, I could have sworn that I heard a soft chuckle in the breeze sifting through the branches of the pine trees.

I like to give our animals, uh..uncommon names. We’ve never had a dog named Spot or a cat named Fluffy. No offense to those of you who have animals with these names, but names of that ilk just seem boring. Plus, when you call your dog, Spot, away from a romp in the park, you’re likely to end up with a half dozen or so furry strangers that have also responded.

All of my family, and my extended family, know that if they can’t come up with a name, I can usually figure out something that will fit, or, at least, make them smile. I usually go for “groaners“; you know, the kind of name that makes our daughters drop their heads, cover their ears, and groan, “Ooooooh, MOM!” I don’t feel that the name is successful until I get that response.  I get a lot of grief where these names are concerned, but, I notice that family members continue to ask me to name their pets.

Here are a few of mine that got my daughters’ attention :

Catalac: our black Persian Cat

Mewneece and Mewsette: self-explanatory, but two other cats

Furfle: also self-explanatory, our half-Persian cat

Grrkin: Grrkin arrived when we also had a dog named Pickles, so it had some skewed logic to it.

Skinny-ass-cat: we called her “Skat” for short

Tahlula: an abandoned Persian female cat with a very low, gravelly yowl (Tahlula Bankhead, for those of you too young to know, was a famous actress with a similar voice; I’M actually too young to know this, too, but I did watch a lot of old, black-and-white movies as a kid).

Purrrcy: another cat

Wotzit: our recently adopted mixed-breed dog (as in what-kind-of-dog-is-it)

Peeping Beauty and Finch Charming: a pair of--what else--tuxedo finches

I had a two names all ready in case someone needed a catchy moniker for a male and female cat, but no one ever seemed to have a pair to use them on--or, perhaps, they'd heard about these names, and just decided it was best not to ask.  I thought Romeow and Mewliette were perfect, but that's just me.

A couple of years ago, My cousin was trying to come up with names for her four, cappy canaries. Cappy canaries are mostly yellow or orange, and have dark-colored feathers on top of their heads that look like caps or hair. For me, it was a no-brainer. I told my cousin to call them, John, Paul, George and Singo: The Tweetles

Actually, my cousin’s ferret also ended up with one of my favorite names. I named her Ferret Fawcett.

Are you groaning yet?

This isn’t new information: Best Buy customer service sucks. I know it; you know it. EVERYONE knows it. So, being aware of this, I can’t believe that we found ourselves wandering around Best Buy a couple of weeks ago. In our defense, we needed to buy a smaller, standard, basic television set for my mother-in-law, and most of the places that we prefer to shop--Costco, Sam’s Club, etc.--now sell only LCD and plasma televisions. The digital, techno-world continues to change almost daily, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to find a set without all of the doo-dads, and one with the old-fashioned picture tube.

In any case, my mother-in-law needed a new television, so there we were. We picked out a set close to the screen size of her old one, arranged for delivery, and because we live 300 miles away from her, added a three-year extended warrantee package. The salesman indicated that they would call her to confirm delivery in a couple of days. The total was about $375.

So far, so good.

Two days later, Best Buy did, indeed, call to confirm delivery that afternoon. The television arrived about three p.m., and, then, the trouble began.

My mother-in-law called while the “technician” was still in her apartment. She was not at all satisfied with the quality of the television’s reception. My husband asked to speak with the tech to determine the nature of the problem. Just then, we realized that we had another problem. The “tech” had great difficulty understanding English or speaking it. Each time my husband asked a question, the reply that he received was, “Huh?” followed by lots of silence.

Meanwhile, my mother-in-law had decided that, in addition to being displeased with the picture quality, she also didn’t like the price, size, or weight of the new television. So, she said that she was going to refuse to accept the television, and instructed the Best Buy person to take it back. We called the Best Buy customer service department and informed them that delivery had been refused, because of the poor quality of the reception and our inability to effectively communicate with their tech to see if the problem could be resolved. Since the charge had been put on our account, we asked to receive a credit.

Problem number 3: Best Buy insisted that the paperwork must be presented IN PERSON to a Best Buy customer service desk. What they needed, they said, was to see the original sales receipt, so that they could confirm that the television had been returned to their warehouse. They wouldn’t accept the invoice number, or any of the other information on the receipt specific to this particular sale over the phone.

Problem number 4: Since Best Buy required to see the original sales receipt when delivery was made, the receipt was at my mother-in-laws---300 miles away. We asked her to make a copy--just in case--and mail the original to us.

Problem number 5: When the original receipt arrived, we piled into our car, drove forty minutes to the nearest Best Buy, and presented it to the customer service rep. The rep looked at the receipt, and said, “I’m sorry; you need to take this receipt to the Best Buy store from which the television was purchased in order to receive a credit.”

My normally laid-back husband had had enough. He leaned forward, and placed his hands on the top of the counter. In the voice typically reserved to greet teenaged boys arriving to date our, then, teenaged daughters--you, know, a couple of octaves lower than normal--he increased the decibels a couple of notches just to make sure that he had the woman’s attention.

“You mean to tell me, in this the age of computers, that you expect me to drive a SIX-HUNDRED-MILE-ROUND-TRIP in order to receive credit for an item that was refused at delivery???”

Her response was, “Well, the television wasn’t returned to OUR warehouse, so we can’t confirm that it was returned at all. There‘s nothing we can do for you here.”

I guess the customer service manager must have seen my husband’s eyes bugging from his head, and I have to give the guy some credit; stepping in front of the female rep and coming face-to-face with my husband, at this point, must have felt akin to throwing your body on a live grenade.

In his best accommodating, soothing tone, the manager asked if we would be willing to let him resolve this problem by calling the original store.

Sure. Absolutely. No problem.

So, with a two-minute phone call, the brave manager, saved his store from the mayhem, chaos, and destruction that surely awaited those who would deny my husband his just reimbursement. Of course, if Best Buy had simply made this kind of minimal effort in the first place, no one would have reason to think that..

Best Buy’s customer service sucks, sucks, suckety, SUCKS!

Am I the only person who wants to punch out the Nutrisystem bimbette-spokesperson? Every time I hear that bitch’s voice telling the world that, “This is a size TWO, heh, heh, heh,” my normally low blood pressure starts to skyrocket. I’m sure that “Zora” is a perfectly nice person, but there’s something about her voice and the wording of the presentation that can turn an ordinary person into a serial killer.

Maybe it’s the repetition of “size TWO,” about a hundred times that gets to me. There’s nothing like hearing size TWO, when the amount of weight you need to lose is still in the double-digits--the multiple, double-digits. Maybe it’s all of those TEETH; I don’t know.

Size TWO? Size TWO, my jiggly butt! Bony runway models are a size two; slim as she is, that is not a size two body. So, on top of having an annoying voice, she’s lying through all of those teeth. In a world where a size fourteen is the norm, I think it’s unbelievably cruel to dangle a size two, size two, size TWO as something that is even remotely attainable--or even desirable.

I know that it’s wrong of me, but I can’t help wishing that Zora would wake up tomorrow with terminal cellulite and grandma boobs. Perhaps, then, she would SHUT THE F**K UP! And Zora, sweetie. Those legs of yours that you put in your size TWO clothes are so bowlegged that you could drive a herd of cattle between them without nicking your pantyhose.

Heh, heh, heh…

If you have read my blogs in the past--or any of our family member’s blogs--you are probably aware that they usually have an obnoxious, semi-R-rated, humorous bent to them. If you’re looking for a chuckle, however, this blog isn’t for you, but it is one that I feel compelled to write.

We recently lost a wonderful man to adult-onset leukemia. My husband and I thought of him as a friend, although we really knew little about him. Fernando Delgado was the account advisor for our Morgan Stanley accounts, and all that we knew about him was learned over a period of almost five years during brief, periodic meetings, and, most lately, through the testimony of friends and family at his memorial service.

When my husband and I moved to the Central Coast, one of the first tasks we needed to complete was to find an account advisor in this area. We chose a small, Morgan Stanley branch office in Paso Robles, and set up an appointment with Fernando.

Our first meeting with Fernando was more than a little unsettling. The appearance of this smiling man with his welcoming hand extended, was startling, to say the least. The tall man who approached us was unbelievably skinny, almost cadaverous. His clothes hung on his bony frame, and the few, tiny wisps of hair left on his head were pulled into a scraggly ponytail. Every bone in his face and hands was fully visible; even his teeth seemed much too large for his mouth.

Although I’m sure that neither my husband nor my expression showed even a flicker of reaction to his disquieting appearance, Fernando’s first words to us were designed to put us at ease. As he took my husband’s hand, he smiled and said in a softly accented voice , “Hello. My name is Fernando. That’s Spanish for ‘thin‘…”

Over the next few years, Fernando continued to amaze us with his extensive knowledge and his courage in dealing with his perpetual fight against his debilitating disease. I have never met a man with a stronger work ethic, or devotion to his wife and two children. Periodically, the leukemia would knock him down--HARD. He never complained and just two weeks out of the hospital, he would return to work--looking, impossibly, even thinner than when he had left. On one occasion, the doctors were forced to remove part of his jaw and replace it with a bone harvested from another part of his body. Fernando’s only acknowledgement of the ordeal was to apologize for the fact that he was forced to constantly dab at the surgical site on his mouth with a tissue.

Last October, Fernando called expressing regret for the fact that he had to reschedule our appointment; he had become too ill with flu symptoms to come to work. Within a few days, the flu progressed to pneumonia, and Fernando was hospitalized yet again. In this weakened condition, Fernando’s leukemia ran rampant through his body, and, on December 23^rd, it took his life.

At his memorial service, the true extent of Fernando’s courage was narrated by numerous friends and family members. Fernando, who was native to Colombia, met and married his American wife in 1993. In 1994, at only 30 years of age, he was first diagnosed with adult-onset leukemia. That meant that Fernando had been battling this disease for more than twelve years! He had suffered through frequent hospitalizations, procedures, radiation and chemotherapy over that twelve-year period. After each, he fought his way back with stubborn determination. Even at the end, Fernando’s last words to his wife, which were written on a slate, because the progression of the disease had left him unable to speak, were: “Don’t cry. We’ll fight!”

There are no words that can begin to fully describe a man like Fernando. Watching the grace and courage with which he endured the most grievous punishment the disease could heap upon him, has made me a better person. At a time when even a thousand deaths hardly causes a ripple in the collective consciousness of man, Fernando will be greatly missed.

The mouse tale continues...

O.K.; so, I just spent two days crawling around under my house plugging any mouse-size holes (which according to my research, is any hole larger than ¼ inch) with steel wool. Why steel wool, you ask? Because mice won’t chew it; it makes the fillings in their little, mousie teeth hurt. Anyway, I spent two solid days getting cobwebs in my hair, knots on my head from clocking myself on the floor joists, and muscle spasms in my back from being forced to scramble around on all fours, or, at best, doubled over like Quasimoto.

As I dragged myself back out through the crawl space, I thought that my efforts would, at least, slow the number of furry arrivals in my kitchen. Desperation was setting in, and the mice were becoming cocky. I began to picture them lined up with their little mousie spoons and forks, and wearing their little mousie bibs, patiently waiting their turn for a peanut-butter-and-rolled-oats dinner.

I finished stuffing the last visible opening, and started to make my way outside. Just before I reached the crawl space door, I spotted a circle of sunlight shining from the base of the cement foundation. This confused me, since there really shouldn’t be any light coming through the six-inch-thick cement wall. I pulled aside a couple of boxes that had been stored there, and could easily see the source of the light.

What I had discovered was a three-inch-diameter, plastic drain which the construction crew had thoughtfully placed at the base of the foundation--just in case, say, an artesian well springs up under our house. Actually, as I found out after further investigation, there were TWO drains about three feet apart that went from beneath our front porch, through the foundation, and back under our house. So, while I had been spending hours and hours under there plugging ¼ inch holes, the mice had been strolling in and out through their spacious mouse highway--so spacious, in fact, that the mice could easily enter and exit side-by-side in pairs, without so much as a whisker touching the walls of the drain. During the time I had been busily catching the little fur-balls one-by-one upstairs, their friends, family, neighbors and their neighbor’s neighbors had been arriving by stretch limo under the porch downstairs.

I spent another hour stuffing steel wool into the drains, all the while muttering under my breath about the questionable marital status of the construction workers’ parents. Now, I realize that it may take several days to determine if my efforts have had any effect, since there is bound to be a backlog of earlier mice arrivals queued up somewhere in the insulation between the first and second floor. Theoretically, it shouldn’t be long before I see a reduction in the number of mice that actually make it to my kitchen.

I hope so; today, one of the ungrateful little buggers tried to bite me through the trap’s wire mesh as I was walking him down the street.

..and the count is now 31.

I’m an animal lover; or, perhaps, more specifically, a “critter” lover, since my affection isn’t limited just to animals, but extends to bugs, and all other little creatures that inhabit our world. I’m the sort of person who will pick up a sow bug which was found crawling across my carpet, and take it outside to live another day. This is a courtesy that is extended to all living things with the possible exception of black widow spiders. Those creepy crawlies are sent immediately to spider heaven, or wherever spiders go when they die. Recently, I’ve found that my soft-heartedness has come with some real disadvantages, however.

About two weeks ago, I was standing in my kitchen, when a tiny mouse waddled out from beneath a cabinet. It sat up, and looked at me with whiskers and nose wiggling, and, then, casually crawled back under the cabinet once again.

Until that moment, there had been no indication that there was a mouse in the house--no chewed boxes, no debris, and no mousie poop. Plus, our kitchen is on the second floor, and it had never occurred to me that we would have a mouse visitor even though our back yard abuts the forest, and there are several vacant lots near us.

There was no way that I was going to use a traditional snap trap on this little fuzzy--especially after having watched the Green Mile at least a dozen times. So, I opted for a humane trap, made by Havaheart (my husband was greatly amused by this name).

The metal trap consists of 3” X 6” wire cage, with a drop-down door on each end. The trap is triggered, theoretically, when the mouse touches the swivel plate, that, in turn releases both doors. Two, U-shaped wires drop down and secure the doors from opening again, and the mouse is caught without harming him.

The first several tries to capture the little rodent were unsuccessful. I actually watched on one occasion as the mouse entered the trap, grabbed the piece of cracker I had left as bait, and scurried away. It appeared that, although the trap was advertised to be used for mice, their tiny bodies often didn’t carry enough weight to move the swivel plate and trigger the mechanism.

How could I modify this trap so that it would do what it was supposed to do? I tried tying a string to the piece of cracker and also to the triggering mechanism. I was left with an open trap, a piece of string--and no mouse. I tried using double-stick tape, taping the cracker piece to the swivel plate. The mouse simply ate the cracker off of the tape, washed his whiskers and went home. All of my attempts were unsuccessful, and the mouse was getting fat.

My husband, hearing my exasperation at the last failed attempt, looked up from his newspaper and asked, “Have you tried peanut butter?” Now, my husband knows nothing about animals, but by this time, I was willing to try anything. I buttered the swivel plate with peanut butter, set the mechanism, and crossed my fingers. Within minutes, I heard the metal “clang” of the trap doors slamming shut.

I gently lifted the trap and peered through the wire mesh, and there he was. Success, at last! The mouse sat inside, carefully cleaning the peanut butter off of his whiskers and paws, totally unconcerned about my face hovering about two inches away. In fact, as I found out when I tried to release him on a vacant lot about a block away, he wasn’t willing to LEAVE the trap until all of the peanut butter was gone.

When I returned with the empty trap, I cautioned my husband to be aware that where there was one mouse, there were probably at least a couple more. With that in mind, I re-baited the trap--with peanut butter--and sat it out once more, just in case.

Last night, I released mouse number twenty-two.

Twenty-five years ago, when the university at which I was working, introduced me to my first computer–a 16k computerized typewriter–I was less than thrilled.  Computer logic was a completely alien format when compared to the simple mechanics of my electric typewriter.  When it took more than two hours for me to type less than two pages of information, I called the vendor of that nefarious piece of equipment, and told him that he would find his typewriter out in front of my office on the lawn.  Since it was about to rain, I suggested–in quite colorful adjectives–that he might want to remove his equipment before it got wet, although I doubted that a couple of buckets of water would make it function less poorly than it already had for me.

Now, however, my computer and I have reached what could be called an uneasy truce.  In fact, I have come to rely on its use as a daily part of my life.  So, one morning, when I turned my computer on and settled in with a cup of tea to read my emails, view toys selling on Ebay, and generally ease myself into my day, I was horrified to discover that my computer wasn’t working.

Instead of the “Welcome” screen and the pretty starfish on my desktop, I got nothing.  The computer simply began to turn itself off and on every five seconds or so.  I tried everything. I checked to see if the surge suppressor was functioning properly.  I plugged the power cord into several different outlets; I checked all of the cables to make sure that they were properly connected.  Everything appeared to be as it should–except the computer continued to click off and on like a very slow metronome.

I gritted my teeth, knowing what I had to do.  I have to call the Dreaded Dell Service Line.  Everyone is aware that computer vendors want to be contacted by email and actively work to discourage phone calls, but, since my computer wasn’t working, I had no choice.  I dialed the service number, punched in my security access code, and waited for forty–count ‘em–forty minutes while Dell commercials looped endlessly in my ear.

Finally, a technician answered.  For those of you who do not know, Dell out-sources its repairs to India, so, now, I not only have a computer problem, but I also had a problem understanding the technician’s accent, and he, mine.  Larry (which he pronounced Lah-ree) asked if he could have my permission to call me Terri (Teh-ree), and took some personal information to verify my identity.  From that point, the conversation went something like this:

Larry: Terri, how can I help you today?
Me: Well, my computer turns itself off and on whenever it’s connected to any power source.
Larry: Oh, how long does it take to do that?
Me: Do what?  Turn itself off and on?
Larry: Yes, how long does that take?
Me: Well, every five seconds or so, it turns itself on, and, then in about five seconds, shuts itself off.
Larry: Oh, well, have you checked your power sources?
Me: Yes.  I’ve tried different surge suppressors and several different electrical outlets, and the result is the same.
Larry: O.K., Terri.  Please turn your computer off, and turn it on again while repeatedly pressing the F2 key.
Me: O.K. (I press the F2 key as instructed).  It’s still turning itself off and on.
Larry: Oh, well, please, Terri, disconnect everything from your computer except the power cord and the keyboard cable.
Me: I have a wireless keyboard.  Do you want me to disconnect the wireless keyboard router?
Larry: Yes, that is correct.  Terri, do you have access to another keyboard?
Me: Yes, but it’s upstairs; it will take me a few minutes to get it.
(I go upstairs and disconnect the keyboard from my husband’s computer).
Me: O.K.; I have the keyboard.
Larry: Please connect the keyboard to your computer.
(I’m looking around for a way to connect it to my computer)
Me: There’s no port to connect the keyboard.
Larry: Terri, just plug it in to any USB port.
Me: The keyboard doesn’t have a USB connector; it’s purple with a standard jack plug.
Larry: Oh, you don’t have a USB keyboard?
Me: No, just the standard plug-and-play.
Larry: Well, Terri; this must be a really old computer to use that connector.
Me: Well, it’s a Dell computer that’s about three years old.
Larry: Can you get a USB keyboard.
Me: No, I don’t know anyone that has a USB keyboard.  Can you send me a USB keyboard, and I’ll send it back when we’re done?
Larry: I’m sorry, Terri, but Dell will not allow me to do that.  There’s no way that you can obtain a USB keyboard?
Me: No, if you’re not going to send me one, and I’m certainly not going to buy another one when this one is working perfectly well with the other computer, I guess I won’t be able to get a USB keyboard.
Larry: Well, Terri, if we don’t have the USB keyboard, I can’t troubleshoot your problem, but let’s try one more thing.  Terri, please exchange the power cord from the monitor with the power cord from the computer.
(It takes me a few minutes to make the exchange)
Me: O.K.; the cords have been exchanged.  Now what?
Larry: Please, Terri, turn the computer on..
(I turn it on and it immediately shuts itself off again..and on again..and off again..and...)
Me: That didn’t work.  What now?
Larry: O.K., Terri.  Please do this: remove the case from the computer.  Just press the button on the top, and the case will release, and you can just lift it off.
Me: You want me to crack the case?
Larry: Yes, it’s easy to do; just press the button.
Me: I’m sorry, but there’s no way that I intend to crack the case on this computer.  That’s a technician's job, and I won’t do it.
Larry: But, Terri, let me explain.  You see; it’s very easy.  Just press the button, and I will walk you though the troubleshooting.
Me: No, I will not crack the case on this computer.  I’m more than willing to spend hours on the phone troubleshooting the problem.  I had a problem with the video card on this computer several months ago, and it took DAYS to troubleshoot it.  I’m willing to take the time to troubleshoot this problem, but I WON’T CRACK THE CASE.
Larry: But, Terri; we do this all of the time.  I will walk you through it, and it will be easy.
Me: For some people it may be easy, but I’m not comfortable with it.  I’m telling you that under no circumstances will I crack the case.  You can send a technician out here, and let him do it.
Larry: Well, Terri, we can’t send a technician, because he won’t know what part to bring, since he doesn’t know what the problem is with your computer.  I need to continue to investigate the problem before I send a technician.  To do that, I need for you to open the case.
Me: Nope!  I told you that I won’t crack the case, and I just won’t do it.  I understand that you are following procedure, but not everyone has enough expertise to deal with the electrical components.  Send a tech, and he can deal with it.
Larry: But, Terri; let me explain.  I cannot send a tech.  Please understand; it is a simple procedure, and I will walk you through it step-by-step.
Me: How many times must I say it!  I won’t do it.  I don’t want to be rude, but I won’t do something that makes me uncomfortable.  This computer is still under warrantee.  It’s not my responsibility to fix it.  You said that I need a USB keyboard to continue to explore the problem.  I don’t have one, nor do I know anyone that has one, nor should I be forced to buy one.  Dell is unwilling to send me one on loan.  You want me to crack the case, and I’m telling you that I categorically REFUSE to do that.  You won’t send a tech until you know exactly what is wrong with the computer, and we can go no further with the troubleshooting.  Under these circumstances, my only option is to pack this computer up, and return it to Dell.  Since you won’t honor your own warrantee, I guess I have no choice.  I will, of course, expect a full refund from Dell.
Larry: But, Terri, removing the case is very simple...
Me: Absolutely not!  Let me talk with your supervisor.
Larry: Of course, Terri, but he will tell you the same thing.
Me: I don’t care; I want to speak with him.
Larry: I have the supervisor ready to speak with you.
(The supervisor picks up the line)
Ronald: Hello; my name is Ronald.  Mrs–uh, may I call you Teh-ree?
Me: Sure.
Ronald: What seems to be the problem?
Me: My computer turns itself off and on.  We can’t continue the troubleshooting without a USB keyboard.  I don’t know anyone with a USB keyboard; I won’t buy a USB keyboard, and Dell will not ship one to me on loan.  Larry wants to run some more tests, but that requires cracking the computer case, and I’ve refused to do that.  He says that he can’t send a tech until he knows specifically what the problem is.
Ronald: But, Terri; removing the case is easy.  I will walk you through it.
Me: Listen, I’ve been all through this with Larry.  I won’t do it.  I’m sure that you have other customers who are quite comfortable cracking the case, but I am not.  I don’t care how easy you think that it is.  For me, cracking the case is where I draw the line. If my son-in-law were here, he would do it for me, but he’s not.
Ronald: Oh, could you get your son-in-law to do this for you?
Me: Sure; he lives in Kansas, about three hours flying time away.  Will Dell pay to have him fly out here to California?
Ronald: Terri, specifically, what is your concern with removing the case?
Me: Ronald, let me tell you something.  I am not afraid of a computer; I am not afraid of electricity.  As far as I’m concerned, cracking the case is a job for a technician, and not one for a moderately computer-literate person.  I know computer programs; I worked with computers for fifteen years at the university, and I am comfortable with computers.  In fifteen years, whenever the case needed to be cracked to fix a problem, the university always sent a tech.  It’s a tech’s job.  I like Dell computers; we buy Dell computers.  This is our third Dell computer.  I want to continue to buy Dell computers, but this one isn’t working properly, and Dell needs to fix it.  I have followed all of Larry’s instructions; it has taken over three hours to get to this point.  Larry wants me to crack the case, and I will not, under any circumstances, do that.  So, here we are.  What do we do now?
Ronald (chuckling): Well, Terri; I can see that you are uncomfortable removing the case (Ya, THINK), so let me see what else we can do for you to resolve this problem.  I must leave the phone for several minutes.  Please remain on the line.
(Approximately five minutes later)
Ronald: Terri?  Well, we are going to send you a new CPU; this isn’t done often, and it takes some time to process through to get permission.  Would this be agreeable to you?
Me: You’d rather send me a whole new CPU, instead of sending a tech to look at this one?  No problem for me.  All I want is a computer that works.
Ronald (chuckling): Well, that is what we will do.  It will take several days to process, but we will keep you informed of the progress.  When the new CPU arrives, just ship the old one back to us.  Prepaid shipping will be included.
Me: O.K., but what do I do about all of the personal information on my old CPU.  I’m not suggesting that anyone at Dell is dishonest, but my passwords, social security number, account numbers and other sensitive information are on that computer.  I know that if I simply delete it, a good computer person would be able to retrieve it.
Ronald: Well, you must take it to a qualified computer person, have them download your information to a disk, and then, erase the information from the memory card.
Me: We live in a small, rural town.  The nearest computer place is forty minutes away, and they charge a minimum of $75 per hour to work on a computer.
Ronald: Well, that is what must be done.  Dell cannot help you with that.
Me: Uh, huh.  Let me understand.  My computer is still under warrantee.  It’s not working, and I have done nothing to cause the problem.  In order to be able to safely return the old CPU to you, I must pay some other computer tech at least $75 to secure the information on the memory card.  Dell will not pay for this procedure, even though the need to do it is a direct result of my Dell computer malfunctioning–my Dell computer which is still under warrantee? So, whatever it costs me, it costs me?
Ronald: Yes, I’m afraid that is the case.  Terri, I hesitate to say this, but I must ask you one more question.
Me: All right...
Ronald (chuckling): Is there anything else I can do for you, Terri?
Me (NOT chuckling): No, Ronald.  If you send me a working computer, I’ll be a happy lady.
Ronald: Very well, Terri, and thank you for purchasing a Dell computer.

On 10/27, I received a phone message which indicated that UPS would be delivering a package from Dell Computers on 10/31.  A signature would be required...and I still need to find a tech to erase the memory cards in my old CPU.