The Water Heater, Lost Wallets, and a Crazed Woman on a Tricycle

Not many days that begin with a cold shower can be said to have started well. And I can verify that this is so, because yesterday, after my coffee and before the daily soul-suckage that I laughingly call my job, I took a cold shower. Not intentionally, mind you.

Mrs. Wiggy gets her shower before she comes downstairs in the morning. I like to get mine after the morning cuppa joe and the morning news, in case something they say on the news offends me to the point where I have to spew coffee out of my mouth in a sputtering rage, or one of the dogs jumps up on my lap and lands on a snarglie; these things happen often enough to make postponing a shower advisable. And so it was yesterday.

But when I got into the rain-room, I discovered that the water was cold. Not immediately - it was one of those slow cut-to-cold showers that almost fools you, as you fiddle with the handles regulating hot and cold and never twig to the fact that the water is, in fact, getting colder. Eventually you run out of 'hot', as I did in this case.

Cold showers don't particularly make me happy. Just in case you were wondering. But when you're all soapy, you kind of have to finish the deal, cold or no cold.

But I figured that I knew what the problem might be. When we moved into this 1923 Craftsman bungalow, we had it inspected, and the engineer we hired told us that the water heater was from 1991, and it might very well be on the way out. So my first thought was that yes indeed, the water heater had finally given its all. I went, dripping, out to the brick anteroom that once housed our oil furnace and boiler (the house was built with steam heat, and still has the radiators ever where) and checked the water heater. Sure enough, it was cold and silent. I figure it is time for a toe-tag, this water heater is D.O.A.

So I conferred with Mrs. Wiggy, and we agreed that we could not just get this repaired whenever. Taking a hot shower is kinda high on my list of priorities, and me taking a shower of some kind is probably pretty high on my coworker's lists as well, if they thought about it at all. And I hope they don't ever have to. We had a short discussion - is a water heater a 'plumbing' problem or a 'heating' problem? Turns out it is a plumbing problem. Well, it heats the water, its a mistake anyone could make, right? I just wish the heating and air conditioning place I called first hadn't laughed and hung up on me, it hurt my feelings. Just a little tip from your ol' Uncle Wiggy - when your water heater goes out, call a plumber.

Well, the plumber says he'll be able to stop by sometime after lunch, and will one of us be there? Sounds like a vacation day for the Wigster, so off Mrs. Wiggy goes to work, and Wiggy retires upstairs to drink coffee and websurf until noon.

The plumber finally arrives, and I show him to the boiler room, and he busts out laughing. I'm a bit nonplussed, until he explains that of course my water heater isn't working, it is turned off!

This is where the conversation started getting interesting.

Turns out that the city of Wilson, in order to save money or electrons or something, has a deal going. For citizens who volunteer to have their water heaters turned off by the city, via remote control, they give a two-dollar break on their electricity every month. There is a control box mounted on the wall next to the water heater, which is actually connected to the city. They send out a signal when they want to do load-balancing, and it turns off the power to whatever it is connected to. In this case, it is connected to one of my primary sources of pleasure.

I called the city. It seems that they started this program in 1989, long before we bought this house, so we had no idea it existed. If the city had been cutting on and off our power to the water heater, we had no knowledge of it until now.

So let me get this straight. For a whole two dollars a month, I get a cold shower whenever ya'll feel like cutting off my hot water. Well, hell. Give me a fiver, and you can come over and kick my dogs. For a sawbuck, you can drink my beer. I've got a six-hundred dollar-a-month utility bill, and you save me two bucks by making me take cold showers? As my nephews would say, "How about NOT?"

I can tell you this. If I was working for the city, I'd have my finger on the 'no hot water' button, and I'd have me a pair of binoculars and an itchy trigger finger. I'd see someone turn on the lights in their bathroom and I'd hit that switch. "Dance, monkeys, dance!" Bwahahahaha!

After the plumber got done laughing at me (I was detecting a trend to my day already), we made a deal so I would not get charged for the service call. We agreed that as a surprise for Mrs. Wiggy, we'd get her a new upstairs bathroom sink. I know it doesn't sound all that romantical, but believe me, that sink upstairs is in a state, and Mrs. Wiggy has been more than patient about it. So the plumber gets some bidness, and I don't have to pay for an unneeded service call. All I have to do is go buy a sink at Lowes, and he'll install it sometime next week. All is well.

It took about five hours for the water heater to get the water piping hot again. Is that normal? Anyway, it did finally do the job.

Mrs. Wiggy arrived home, and I was all set to keep my little sekrit about the impending bathroom sink thing, but she looked very upset. Turns out she had lost her wallet, discovered it when she was trying to buy groceries at the local Walmart.

Now, couple of things. First, don't be dismayed that we buy groceries at Walmart. When you live in a small town, you take what you can get. There ain't no "Whole Foods Total Free-Range Live Chicken Grainery Foo-Foo Love Happy Store" anywhere near here; that's in Raleigh, an hour's drive from here. Second, Mrs. Wiggy does all the grocery shopping in this family. Your ol' pal Wiggy ain't allowed anywhere near a grocery store, and primarly for the reason that he'd have to go purely bee-zerk and starting taking out entire aisles of numbskulls with a flame-thrower, is what. I could not be less interested in eleventy-dozen brands of grape jelly. Show me one, I'll buy it. I don't care if it is low fructose, or high glutin, or heart-healthy or kind to dolphins. Just put the jar in the cart and get the hoo-hah away from me.

So Mrs. Wiggy lost her wallet. This is obviously not good, but not the end of the world. She had already figured out that she might have left it at the doctor's office that she had visited earlier that day, but they were closed now, so she could not check on it. So we had to call the credit card companies and cancel a few cards. It all went well enough until we got to the Shell gasoline card.

Shell: Thank you for calling the Shell Hotline. To report your credit card lost or stolen, please press or say your account number now.

Wiggy: Stupid machine, the card is lost, we don't know the account number.

Shell: I'm sorry, that is an invalid selection. To report your credit card lost or stolen, please press or say your account number now.

Wiggy: [presses star (*)].

Shell: I'm sorry, that is an invalid selection. To report your credit card lost or stolen, please press or say your account number now.

Wiggy: [presses pound (#)].

Shell: I'm sorry, that is an invalid selection. To report your credit card lost or stolen, please press or say your account number now.

Wiggy: ARGH! LET ME TALK TO A HUMAN! (I'm cutting to the chase, it actually took about 8 freaking times).

Shell: Please hold for the first available operator.

[Note: Again with the music on hold. Hell's waiting room must play this stuff.]

Shell: Hello, this is Mrs. Tagyourit with Shell, thank you for calling, may I have your account number please?

Wiggy: I don't know our account number. The card is lost. How would we know the account number?

Shell: It is printed on your statement, sir.

Wiggy: We throw the statements away unopened. I pay the bill online. I have no use for more clutter in my brain, and I don't want to buy the ugly toaster ovens you keep putting in flyers for.

Shell: Sir, we haven't sold toaster ovens since 1996.

Wiggy: Yeah, that would be about the time I quit reading your bills. Now, I don't know our account number. We want to report my wife's card lost. What do we do?

Shell: May I have your zipcode please sir?

Wiggy: Fish, Google, Darknight Fatang. (I actually said the number, that's just there for comic relief. Imagine expensive sound effects instead.)

Shell: I'm sorry sir, I have no accounts listed at that zipcode.

Wiggy: Well, I know it is a small town, but you have three gas stations here, I'm guessing maybe one or two people have your cards. You have NONE listed?

Shell: Ah...can I have that zipcode again, sir?

We finally established our bonafides and got the card cancelled, what a hassle! Tip from your ol' Uncle Wiggy - if you have to call Shell Oil to cancel your card, say the word "human" when you are talking to the voice menu. That's the only way to make it connect you to a human being. Not a very smart one, but still.

So we're off to get a bathroom sink. At this point, I've given away the sekrit, and Mrs. Wiggy is aware that's what we're doing. Well, she looked so sad when she lost her wallet, what would YOU do?

We bought our sink without incident, except for being harrassed at the checkout by a sales clerk who apparently had been coached on the finer points of pushing incidentals.

Clerk: Will that be all, sir?

Wiggy: Yep.

Clerk: You want any of our colored grout? It's 70% off.

[Note: This grout is in pressurized metal tubes, looking very much like the the bullet-shaped spray cans of hair products. They are pre-colored - 'sand' and 'mocha' and so on. I never even heard of grout in a pressurized can!]

Wiggy: No, thank you.

Clerk: It's 70% off.

Wiggy: I understand. I'll pass, but thanks just the same.

Clerk: It's a closeout. 70% off.

Wiggy: Gotcha. Well, maybe next time.

Clerk: You don't want any?

Wiggy: Yes, that's correct.

Clerk: What color?

Wiggy: No, I mean yes, I don't want any.

Clerk: Do whut?

At this point, Mrs. Wiggy intervened, before the vein that was beginning to throb in my forehead caused my head to explode. She took my hand in hers and ran our remaining credit card through the reader, while I stared straight ahead, nearly catatonic. Then she pushed me in the rough direction of the exit, and I began to stumble along behind her. My brain had been shut off like the remote control on our water heater.

By the time I had recovered, we were in the Walmart parking lot. NOOOOOOOO!!!!

Yes, insisted Mrs. Wiggy. We needed groceries, and we were in the area anyway. I could tolerate it just this once. So, still being stunned, I nodded and went in with her.

And it wasn't that bad. Until we got ready to check out.

I heard a voice:

Lady: Hey, how you doin'?

[Note: I looked around, saw no one, and didn't figure it was for me anyway, so I ignored it.]

Lady: Hey, how you doin'?

[Note: At this point, I looked around and saw an immensely fat woman on one of those electric carts that Walmart gives out to customers for whom walking has become a challenge. I say this as a fat man myself, and in any case, I'm not making fun, it's the truth. This woman was looking right at me, so I guess she was speaking to me. She had googly eyes and what for all the world looked like a purple fright-wig.]

Wiggy: Ah, hey there.

Lady: How you doin'?

Wiggy: Fine. How are you doing?

Lady: I gotta buy some chocolate bars and (shouting)A DIET SODA!

Wiggy: Um, really?

Lady: Yeah. Because (shouting) I HAVE SOME HEART DISEASE AND THE DOCTOR MAKES ME!

Wiggy: Help me, Jeebus!

Lady: What?

Wiggy: Ah, nothing.

Lady: OK, then.

At this point, she opened the throttle on that electric tricycle and the thing zoomed off at an alarming rate, all ten billion electrons cursing Thomas Edison, no doubt. All I can say is if I had looked up and had seen this woman bearing down upon me in the cookie aisle at the speed she was moving, I'd have screamed and wet myself.

Babbling incoherently, I let Mrs. Wiggy guide me through the check out and subsequent return to our home, where she let me carry the heavy stuff into the house and then put me to bed.

However, this morning, I knew it was going to be a better day. I got up, had my cuppa joe, and then a nice hot shower. Yes, hot. Piping hot.

And then, as is my wont, I paraded in my altogether through the house on my way upstairs, the more to delight Mrs. Wiggy (yes, I know the rest of you are now trying to claw your eyes out, too bad). I looked out the front door as I made the corner to the stairs, and saw the shocked look of the man out jogging with his dog - free shot! Mrs. Wiggy heard the shriek and asked me what the man had been screaming about. "C.O.H.," I replied. Of course, she asked me what C.O.H. means. From my military days - "Complete Organ Hangout." Then it was her turn to shriek. But she hit me, too. Hard.

Smooches,

Wiggy