I ONCE THOUGH I WAS RESILIENT
Sorry for the long interruption to my blogging. I moved recently. Not only did I move, I crossed state lines from New Jersey to Pennsylvania, and WOW. I could have climbed Mt. Everest with the energy I’ve already expended – maybe climbed twice. And I’m not through. I’ve decided to ventilate to you, dear readers, instead of sitting down and bawling.
Crossing state lines is a bureaucratic nightmare. There is a driver’s license to change which is nearly an all-day affair. If you find yourself in a similar situation, bring your lunch, snack, liquids and book of jokes so you don’t cry. I have yet to approach changing my license plates because I needed my new driver’s license first. Shockingly, to transfer my car plates, I have to find a notary. Why the license plate change can’t be done as a part of the division of motor vehicles is something I can’t understand. After I do that, I have to take the old New Jersey plates back to the DMV in person.
As for the move itself, it went something like a nightmare. Besides the onslaught of months of packing and unpacking, I was plagued by mechanical issues in the place. I can’t help thinking that some of the interminable slowness all around me was sometimes a function of being a woman alone. The apartment I bought in Center City needed lots of work. My dear contractor, who is very nice, informative and quite good at his craft, just didn’t get it done on time. I think he didn’t take me seriously or other people bugged him more so that got their work done before me. And now that I’ve moved, all the work is being done around me.
The story in short is that I didn’t want to get on my contractor’s back during the process although I saw an empty shell for a long time with little to no progress. He told me (implied that women especially don’t understand these things), he was very busy doing wiring and “stuff” in that long fallow period. Well, I didn’t exactly camp out at the apartment, but I spent days on end in that empty void, measuring and sketching layouts for furniture days and no workmen appeared.
Being a woman who didn’t understand had nothing to do with the fact he didn’t need four months for simple wiring adjustments in a moderate sized apartment that had been in usable condition by other owners for at least 40 years. But I reigned my thoughts in because I didn’t want to act too tough, didn’t want to be called a ball-breaker as has happened in the past when I disagreed with men and opened my mouth about it.
I admit I made a giant mistake by my “feminine” performance. I should have broken some balls instead of being the passive woman of the house. I finally did start to press the workmen and got some action! But I waited too long to get into the act.
When the day of reckoning arrived, I moved a month after the promised day of completion, and still, the place was no where near finished. I moved in without a working toilet and shower not to mention a non-usable kitchen. Bless my friends who offered their homes to me.My fortitude was tested, and I found myself not nearly as resilient as I thought I was. I imploded, but I got attention. I, as they say, grew a pair of brass ones and started making demands.
I found out that the most frequently used word is, “later” which translates into weeks or months. When the handymen laughed at my requests for items that needed fixing and told me things would be done later, I freaked. It worked. They returned in minutes with the proper tools. I hate myself when I do that, but I must admit it often works. Deep inside, being aggressive seems to be against my nature. It probably dates back to a time when I needed everyone to like me and women just didn’t want to appear bitchy for fear of losing their femininity. But, I have found, it’s really assertiveness that needs to be called upon in situations like this or you’re at the bottom of the pack.
“And what is your name?” “Who is the supervisor, manager, president of your company?” Those are phrases that don’t always work, but when I’m told that what I’m reporting as a problem never happened to anyone else and nothing can be done about it, those questions are my only weapons. Once in a while it gets someone’s attention.
I have a confession to make. In truly desperate times I have used, not often, drastic measures. For example, one time the state of New Jersey refused to renew my car registration because my car was reported stolen. I was driving it every day. How could it have been stolen? My township had no theft report and no one in motor vehicles would or could help me. I did something that, at one time, I would have called a despicable. I used the widow card.
It goes something like this, “Help, me. I’m a widow and all alone.” Even though it's true, and I'm at the end of my rope, I’m very reluctant to ever say this and have to be in a near life or death situation. It reminds me of the ad when the woman falls down and cries for help. I was once amused by that ad. Not anymore. Well, after stating my circumstances, someone in middle management actually took the time to check for a theft report and got back to me saying it was all a mistake. I was then, and only then, able to renew my car registration.
The time the widow card didn’t work was after my husband had a stroke and we willingly told the state he should no longer drive. They notified us of his loss of a driver’s license, and then I found out I could not get insurance. The reason was, we never turned in the actual card. In the aftermath of his serious illness, his license got lost. Not one soul at every state or department level could help me. I spent days on the phone and ran to the main Motor Vehicles Division, crying and begging for an answer. I even called politicians.
As long as I didn’t produce the actual card, I could not get insurance. I lived in the suburbs with a sick husband. How could I not drive? What about the multiple doctor appointments each week, not to mention that I needed a car to buy even a quart of milk.
Just as I was about to run out into the streets screaming, I found it. What would have happened had I not come upon the license, accidentally, underneath a dresser? I can’t tell you how that tale would have ended.
Now that I’m on a roll, in my next blog I’d like to relay some of the experiences I’ve had once I took over our finances that my husband always handled. It might help women who suddenly find themselves alone with the responsibility of running everything by themselves.
From the sexy G. (Honestly, I’m not feeling like the sexy G at the moment. We all have our moments, don’t we? Maybe next time). I think I soon need to get back to thoughts about fun things.
