Frankenscooter

I'm not exactly losing all hope of ever taking posession of my new scooter, but I'm definately losing faith that I'll get it before the season is over.

I stopped in last night to see how things were progressing, curious to hear what the new "excuse du jour" might be. I see the scooter in the store, side panels removed. The mechanics come out and tell me they're actually in the process (pad in hand) of putting together a parts list of everything they'll need to rebuild the engine.

Hold on, what? I ask what happened to my "brand new engine".

Turns out, since it's not a Vespa engine, it's not necessarily going to fit into the frame nice and easy like they thought. As a matter of fact, despite being advertised as "needing no extra parts", they'd need to order a frame, and unhook all kinds of gizmos, and frankenstein the thing back together. Not necessarily a good idea, and something they'd never done before. Ok, I don't like being a guinea pig, and rebuilding the Vespa engine means finding parts and getting repairs done will be much easier, and it also means that I'll get to keep the electric starter (something I'd lose in the Frankenscooter, which didn't thrill me). Plus, isn't it always nicer to keep something as true to the original as possible? I think so. I'm actually more comfortable with the idea of a Vespa engine, frankly I think it'll keep the value of the scooter up.

I look for the silver lining. Hey, they've actually touched my scooter. They've looked at it, so technically they really are working on it. Things are looking up!

So they have to order parts. Supposedly the order was placed last night (doubtful) or this morning (hopefully, although I still have doubts). The parts will arrive, they'll check them to make sure they have what they need/ordered, and then they'll get to work on my scooter. The engine rebuild won't take too long once the parts arrive. I wearily accept the lie, and rub the belly of one of the mechanic's dog.

The owner scurries away while I talk to the mechanics. I don't think he's thrilled that he has to order and pay for parts. Tough balls.

While he's futzing in the basement, the mechanics ask why I chose the particular frame that I did, and I tell them that it looked ok at the time. They suggest that there are better frames, with better suspension and tires that I should consider. I tell the to just pick whichever one they think is best, and I'll take it instead.

This whole thing is exhausting. My friends still think I'm nuts for holding out for the scooter. I can't help but think, though, that I have a better chance of getting the scooter than I do of getting my money back.

Which ain't saying much.

Camping in Michigan

Things I learned while camping with our mother in Michigan:

1) If you tell the guy at the border that you're going to visit your mother, they'll pretty much just wave you through.

2) A firing range in the same state park where you're camping makes for a rattling first few hours. (Michiganders sure love their guns!)

3) Mothers will always try to feed you.

4) My mother has bought the Mother Of All RVs.

The drive down was un-eventful, we stopped for Road Coffee (aka Tim Horton's) and timbits, purchased from the slowest, but most persuasive coffee jockey I've ever encountered. I order our coffees and am finished talking before she even punches the first button. So I go back.

"Two... medium... co...fees..."

"Ok"

"One with milk"

"Medium... coffees"

"One with milk... and... one... sugar..."

"Ok"

"One with double cream..."

"One with milk..."

Oh god.

We finally get through the coffees, and I bravely forge ahead and order a ten-pack of timbits.

"What kind do you want?"

"Oh, whatever. Just assorted, but no triple berry ones."

The world stops.

"You don't like the triple berry?"

"Um. I don't know. I just don't like things with goo in them."

"Goo?"

"Yeah, aren't they filled with jelly or something?"

"I don't know. Goo? Blerp blerp triple berry defense mechanisms ON!"

I have no idea how it happened, but she dissected a triple berry timbit to show me that they did not contain "goo". Now I'm feeling guilty for a) holding up the line with my goo-phobia and b) for her wasting a timbit to assuage my fears.

"Ok, I'll take two of the triple berry timbits as well".

I really didn't want them, but at this point, if I didn't take them I was afraid it would break her heart. She seemed so horrified that perhaps I didn't like their precious triple berry timbits, and I offended her when I mistakenly called a honey glazed timbit just a "regular glazed". I could not win.

We peeled out of the Stepford Tim Horton's and didn't look back.

We pulled up to the campsite at about twelve thirty - my mom had parked her little electric scooter out front of her RV with a flourescent lantern so that we could find her spot. We hadn't seen my mom for over a year, so it took a while to notice that there was an RV behind her in the dark. But when we took it in... we knew... it was the Mother Of All RVs.

The A/C was blowing cold enough to store meat. The entertainment system included what appeared to be a 27" TV and VCR and DVD player. While in the living room area, you can relax on either of the two front seats, or the couch. Or the swivel rocking chair.

Take a few steps to the kitchen/dining room, and you're on a hardwood floor. There is an oven a stovetop AND a microwave. A large fridge and freezer, and a pull out pantry...

The bedroom has a full sized queen bed, which you can walk around. And a desk. And there's a dressing area just outside the bathroom - which has a nice big shower with a skylight.

It is the Mother Of All RVs. I can see the appeal. Later in the weekend, we compare computers, and mom shows us her GPS system. She will never get lost. This robot navigator will keep her on track, and suggest good times to gas up. We spend some time trying to figure out how Rachael and I can track her movements from home, but we never come up with the solution. Seems silly. You'd think that there'd be a way for other people to follow your movements using your GPS signal.

She's planning on driving it out west to see Mt. Rushmore and the Grand Canyon. She's always wanted to, and she's finally doing it. I'm really thrilled for her.

We take the dogs on the 1/2 mile meadow walk, and stop to smell the wildflowers. We're up to our necks in flora and fauna. Or maybe just flora. Or just fauna. I dunno, I'm no botanist. All I do know is that we saw some flowers, some beetles, some garter snake holes and some butterflies (ick).

Yes. I don't like butterflies. They're creepy cousins of moths, of which I am slightly phobic. Something my family cheerfully points out in front of others, anytime a moth comes into view. I won't run shrieking from moths, but I really don't like them near me. When we arrived at camp, the first thing to follow me into the RV towards the light was a flappy, fluttery moth. My mom was quick to point out that we needed to get it out, and she and my grandmother went to town trying to evict the bugger. I felt really brave. Grandma sent me out to the fire while she took care of it. Yup. She's 77 and she's protecting me from a moth. I'm so proud. I tell her not to kill it, and scurry out to the fire like a coward.

What can I say? I was scarred as a kid by a mental, divebombing moth "attacking" me in the dead of night at our cottage one black summer night. I shivered, tearfully hiding from the moth under my covers, and cheered for the rest of the summer anytime the bats swooped up to our big picture window eating the moths flapping agains the glass. Hooray bats.

I'd probably feel differently if it had been a bat in my room, that scary night.

Our big event while camping was a trip into "town" to get Dairy Queen. My mom treated us all to ice cream, and we ate it in the park while watching people fish. There was a sign warning swimmers that there are no lifeguards, a strong current, and "underwater objects". We tried to figure out what those underwater objects might be. I told them that when we were in Amsterdam, the locals had told us that every year when they dredge the canal, they pull up all kinds of crap, including hundreds of bicycles. Everyone rides bikes in Amsterdam, and I guess almost as many people steal them. Or just throw them in the canal for kicks. It is agreed that it is a "weird" thing to do.

We see a garbage bin in the distance that appears to be overflowing with driftwood, and both my mom and grandmother sheepishly admit that they want to go look and see if there's any "good driftwood". Ok.

We finish our ice cream, and walk to the garbage bin. I get close to it first, and burst out laughing.

What had appeared to be driftwood was in fact two mud covered bicycles. My mom takes a photo to memorialize the coincidence.

On the drive home, I lecture my sister again on the importance of her role as The Navigator. I had explained the seriousness of her job on the way down. As The Navigator, you have to know what's going to happen two steps from now, but only tell the driver what is next. If there's a turn coming up, you need to tell me whether it's going to be right or left, the name of the road, and approximately how far. We got the routine down pat after I made it clear that she should not assume that I have a CLUE how to get where I'm going.
We happen across a surprise Cracker Barrel on the way home, and I introduce my sister to the joys therein. I order an extra meal to go, a surprise "Thank You" gift for the ex-boyfriend for house and dog-sitting for the weekend. I declare it at the border, which does not necessarily impress the guard. I don't care, he's not going to catch me in his duty-pimping ways.

The waiting game

A constant suspended state. That's what my life has become.

Waiting for my scooter to be finished.

Waiting for my ebay packages to be delivered.

Waiting for my tax return cheque.

I can't get my ownership switched over on my scooter until I get my new insurance documents. I can't get my insurance paid up until I get my tax return cheque And I just want my ebay stuff.

Last night, I came home to the "we received your corrected information, and we're sending your tax return cheque" letter. It was dated July 18th, same day I called the haunted robot and was told that my return had been processed. So now it's all fingernail biting.

Will the cheque arrive before the weekend?!

My insurance payment is due immediately. I called, gave them the new VIN number and scooter information, and told them that I would probably take ownership of the scooter on Monday (wishful thinking, besides, the shop is closed on Mondays), and that I'd be sending payment immediately. But I'm waiting for the tax return cheque so I don't go into overdraft. I'm not sure if they really need the money immediately, since I don't own the scooter yet. Frankly, I'm too tired and too confused to care. I'll probably just drop the payment in the mail and hope for the best.

My sister and I are renting a car and driving to Michigan this weekend to meet up with our Mom. For the record, if you want to rent a car and drive it into the states, go with National Car Rental.

Apparently Mom's bought a motor home. Personally, I think she should sell her house and be one of those people who just lives in the motor home, travelling around the country. We moved so much growing up, that I think it's actually an involuntary action, like breathing or blinking. It must be the Viking blood in her that makes her such a transient personality. Who knows, it might be fun to fly out and meet her in Vegas, and then take a week to drive through the Grand Canyon or something. If you think you can't get along with your mom in a motor home for a whole week, there's something to be said for the distraction of one of the Natural Wonders of the World.

And so we are driving to Algonac State Park in Michigan to camp with mom for two nights, and visit with the American side of the family. Note to self; pack veggie dogs, fixin's for s'mores, and music. Leave at home; critical thoughts of American foreign policy.

I'm a jerk.

He wasn't a nerd.

But I did feel a little stupid for not knowing where my cable originated from.

On the upside, he reconfigured things so that we don't have to run our internet cable across the hallway and into the office from my sister's room anymore.

Thank you, internet cowboy!

Enter the Nerd

I'm assuming the Rogers guy coming to my house today will be a nerd. As unfair as that may be, I tend to lump the techno-savvy into the "nerd" bucket of my life's flow chart.

I suppose it is my last grasp at trying to maintain some sort of status in the bold face of my own ignorance. It doesn't matter that everything they say to me about my computer and modem sounds like they're making up words to make me feel stupider. They're nerds. I have a much cooler life.

It's a tenuous grasp on dignity.

The realist in me acknowledges that these guys probably have lovely lives. Girlfriends, wives, family they see frequently and friends who they go to ball games with. They're probably not the basement dwelling nerd I imagine them to be. Instead they're running around the city like a modern day cowboy, in their Rogers van, solving the internet accessibility problems of the world one modem at a time.

Before they arrive, it is the homesteader's darkest hour. After they leave, there is hope. Information is flowing. The supply chain is restored. The cattle will grow fat.

I am waiting for that sunny day where a technician just shows up and goes to work without asking me any questions. I literally know none of the pertinent statistics about my computer. I am always asked, I always say I don't know, and they always click two buttons and find the answer they're looking for. Why not just start there? Why humiliate me? Is it fun for them? Do they get together in their nerd club house and compare "most ignorant computer owner of the day" stories? Are there prizes?

I always assume that one of my deflective shrugs will be the last straw for one of the more impatient technicians.

"What do you mean, you don't know? How can you not know? This is your computer. You don't even care, do you? You don't want to know, you just want someone to come in here and make it all better for you."

"If it helps, I have no idea what my blood type is, either."

"It doesn't help. I'm taking the computer with me. You don't deserve to have it. Luddite".

I suppose it's true. If my computer were a living thing, like an exotic bird, or a tank full of tropical fish, I would have killed it by now. There's always some fiddly, piddly little detail (vitamins, anti-algae treatments, de-fragging) that needs to be done, that I've never heard of that could bring down my delicate house of cyber-cards.

I will be home between five and eight tonight, in anticipation of the condescending treatment that is sure to arrive with the nerd. And I will bear it with strength and conviction. Because no matter how little I know about my own computer, I will not let the nerds win. Not this time, cowboy.

Don't know what you've got till it's gone

I'm suffering.

There is a painful void in my life right now, and as hard as I try, there's nothing I can do about it. I've tried every trick in my limited arsenal to "fix" the problem, but I have to acknowledge that some things just can't be fixed.

My internet access at home has been out since Thursday night.

I thought maybe I was behind in paying my bill, and we were cut off. To avoid a scare like this, I used to have auto-payment from my bank account until my sister and I discovered that by her paying the cable and me paying the internet we were paying about $40 more per month than we needed to. So after being told by the call in customer service people that we needed to go in person to a Rogers store, and then being told by the Rogers store that we needed to call the customer service people on the phone, we finally got it sorted out. After a long phone call we finally managed to combine our accounts, much to the confusion of every single person I have spoken to since.

At the time, I directed the boy genius who combined the account to continue the billing to my bank account and gave him my banking information again. A month and a half later, no funds have been taken out of my account, and I'm concerned. I call them to check and they tell me that I've bounced a payment. Huh? That's literally impossible. It turns out they've got the banking info wrong. The guy, in a grand gesture of customer service, removes the $25 NSF payment charge from my account. No shit, Einstein. He promises to send me a new "auto-pay" set-up package, which never arrives. I pay the outstanding amount with my credit card, and wait for my next bill.

Which also never arrives. I call again.

Why no bill?

"We've got you set up for electronic billing."

I never asked for that, and I'm not getting the bills via email.

"They're being sent to (sister's email address)."

That's my sister's address. She's not getting bills, either.

"Oh."

Yeah.

"I'll send you another copy of this month's bill, and cancel the e-billing."

Yeah.

"Anything else?"

How about doing something right the first time? Can you take me back in time and see to that? No? Then I guess not.

Most people I speak to at Rogers are nice enough, they just don't think. I'm not sure if they're supposed to think. I called earlier last month with a similar problem with my internet connection. I tried rebooting my computer, the modem, everything. Nothing worked. So I called Rogers.

He had me reboot my computer, the modem and it DID work. I'm all sheepish.

I seriously just tried that a minute ago, and it didn't work.

"Ok, well next time, go to our website at rogers.yahoo.dumbfuck.com to get tech support FAQ help".

Um. I couldn't connect to the internet, Bill Gates. Might be tough to download the FAQ page.

Woof.

So as it turns out, my problem is neither a billing issue, nor an issue that a simple phone call to tech support could solve. They are sending a technician to my house, sometime between 5-8pm on Wednesday. I have been duly warned to stay by my phone and not miss the call, because if I don't answer, they'll just pass me by.

I am glad that my phone service isn't also provided by Rogers. I really need this call to go through.

I miss my internet.

On the upside, the haunted robot at the Canada Revenue Agency has informed me that my tax return has been processed and I should receive my cheque no later than August 8th. I am excited about this tax return because for the first time, I have no specific plans for the money. I'll use some of it to pay myself back (borrowed some money from my U$ savings account), some to pay down my credit card, and some for a little fun. But that still leaves a nice chunk for savings. Back before this whole scooter thing went down, I was planning on using it to get my old scooter painted. No need for that now.

I'm a girl who never, ever used to have savings, so this is pretty exciting.

Canada Revenue Agency is scary

I do my own taxes. I've always done my own taxes. My theory is that the process of sending money to the government shouldn't be something that is so difficult that it requires some sort of expertise to accomplish it. It should be a simple addition/subtraction (and sometimes multiplication) process that anyone can do.

I live in a fantasy world.

This is the second time in the last three years that I've claimed my expenses on the wrong line, thus causing the CRA to send me a Notice of Preassessment requesting receipts and documents proving my legal expense with regards to child support.

Um. I don't have a child. I think I messed up.

I can't even begin to describe how scary a Notice of Preassessment is. Because I do my own taxes, I'm always assuming that somehow I've managed to do something terribly illegal, and that I'm going to be frogmarched out of my home by nebbishy accountants with no sense of humour. This is where I begin to understand that the fee you pay an accountant may be worth it - just on the basis of "peace of mind". I still resent the necessity that the government has created, but at some point I'll have to give in.

It's like when I refused to have a bank account. For a short period of time, after being disgusted with the fees I was charged by my bank, I started dealing with cash only. I cashed my paycheques at a MoneyMart, and kept the cash at home. I ended up far ahead of the game doing this, and I really enjoyed the freedom. But, getting a job a financial institution put the kibosh on that. They require you to have a bank account to auto-deposit your pay. An account at their institution. The upside is that it is fee-free, but I still don't like it.

I called to check on my Tax Return today, it's been a month since I've sent the corrected forms to them. Just the act of being on hold with the CRA is intimidating. I'm afraid of what they're going to tell me, the butterflies in my stomach are playing Aussie Rules Football, and for some reason, they've got the scariest hold music in the world. We're talking, haunted house, horror movie scary. By the time I get a person on the phone, I'm so glad to be away from the creepy music that any news will be good news. The very nice girl I talked to told me that according to my file, they've started a letter of response, and it should go out this week. Again, visions of shackles, and government auctions. I've done nothing wrong, I have receipts for all my expenses, I've claimed every last dime I've earned, but still, the guilt kicks in right away.

If I were a skunk, guilt would be my stink.

The very nice girl tells me that if I sent them a corrected form, and a letter of response, they're required to send me a letter back saying they've received my letter, and "here's what we've decided". Oh. Phew. So the letter's a good thing. My return is moving forward. After the letter, comes the cheque. Assuming there's a cheque on it's way, and not some jackbooted pencil pushers.

Nerds with power are the stuff of nightmares. Next year, I'm hiring my own nerd. Fight nerd with nerd, I always say. They can sit down with their six sided dice and duke it out, I'm done with it.

Like gifts from Santa!

Lately I've been doing some serious shopping on eBay, and I'm officially hooked.

The flirtation started off innocently enough. A couple of years ago, I just happened to be browsing (typical work avoidance technique which I have mastered) and I caught sight of a pair of Camper "twins" shoes. I didn't really know what I was doing, but I threw in a bid and, to my surprise, I won them. A snazzy pair of "Cat/Dog" shoes were waiting in New Jersey, anxious to be delivered to me. I set up a PayPal account, paid for my shoes, and waited.

When they arrived, the shipper had marked them as a "gift", so I didn't even have to pay duty. Happy day!

I went a little eBay happy after that, but I wasn't really savvy. I bought a great pair of Kenneth Cole boots only to discover that UPS charges insane Duty/Customs fees. Lesson learned.

I found lots of sellers of Benefit Cosmetics, and ordered lots of cheap makeup. Who doesn't like cheap makeup?

Later, I felt the true sting of Duty when I bought a pair of UGG knockoffs... Another lesson, don't purchase expensive items. The government is a dirty pimp.

The bloom was off the eBay rose for me. At the time, the exchange rate coupled with the dirty, dirty, moneygrubbing duty fees made me hesitant to trust online auctions again.

Until I lost some weight.

In a frenzy of enthusiasm, I donated all my "fat clothes" to the Salvation Army. Somewhere there is a chubby poor person sporting a lot of Gap. This closet purge left me with the same distress that being fat did - "I have nothing to wear". Used to be "nothing looks good" (aka: nothing fits).

Now even my skinny clothes are starting to fall off me. I have nothing to wear. Nothing looks good. (aka: nothing fits)

If I'd been planning this properly, I'd have waited until I was rich to lose weight. Or set aside a certain amount of money every month to buy new clothes. But I didn't. I guess I thought I'd lose weight, but still stay the same size. I'm retarded.

I had already decided that when I achieved my goal, I would buy myself a ridiculously expensive pair of jeans - Seven for all Mankind. Then I saw the price tag and hiccuped. See, the thing is, I have no trouble spending "theoretical money", but when it comes to actually forking over $200 or more. Well, that's harder.

And so I turned back to my old friend/foe, eBay. But this time I was smarter. I didn't want to be shelling out for a pair of knockoffs, so I scoured the listings until I found a pair in my size from a reputable seller whose goods were authentic.
And when she shipped them, she sent me an email that she had sent them as a "gift", in the hopes that I wouldn't get stung by the duty fees.

I was back.

After that, I searched for, and found a t-shirt for the ex-boyfriend to replace the one that was stolen from a commercial shoot set... my way of saying "thanks" for driving me to Buffalo. Seller marked the value as "$5.00". Duty-free. Sweet!

I found a favourite seller, and I got hooked. Now I'm cruising the listings daily, and have been purchasing my new wardrobe in chunks. I've got designer/brand name shirts and sweaters that cost anywhere between $1.75 - $20 (for a Ben Sherman shirt that I really wanted). Most items land at about $4.00 to $6.00. Anything above that and it stops being a thrilling bargain, and turns into a "pretty good" deal. And sorry, bub, but "pretty good" ain't near good enough!

And frankly, it really is like Christmas when the package arrives. The money has already been spent and forgotten, so there is nothing left but the joy of opening the package to reveal the shiny new clothes. My most recent shipment was sent out yesterday, I should have it in a couple of weeks. By then, I'll have forgotten exactly what's in the package, and will be giddy with surprise. If a single gal can't surprise herself with pretty new things, then what's the point?

It may not be a perfect relationship, but for now eBay and I are happy together. Occasionally a piece will get away from me because I'm not home to monitor the end of an auction. But that's probably a good thing. If I turn into a person who doesn't want to leave the house, and shops online instead of going out with friends, that's only a short bus ride to being the lady with a hundred cats and a house full of bundled newspapers.

Unless it's for a really, really great piece. Then it's probably worth it.

Don't cross me. Seriously.

I dropped in to check on the "progress" on my scooter today. The minute I walk in the door, the owner waves, and says, "There's been a change to the playlist".

I look down at my iPod shuffle, confused.

He meant at the shop. My stomach sank. I hoped he wasn't about to tell me that something important came up, and they wouldn't be able to start work on my scooter until... well... ever.

Turns out, that's not what he meant. He meant that he fired the manager. I'm sure that it's not all because of my situation, but for a little while, I'd like to pretend that I got someone fired because they messed with me.

Shelby will be starting on my scooter tomorrow - we'll see - he better if he knows what's good for him, I get people fired. I asked if I could see the frame I'd be getting. The owner said I could even pick it out!

I went upstairs and looked over the two frames I had to choose from, and picked one that seemed to have a) less mileage on it, b) better overall condition, c) good play in the brake and clutch cables, d) a rack on the legshield, e) wasn't missing the piaggio badge on the leg shield. The only problem was that it was missing the buddy seat in the back. The owner said they'd put on a new seat. Cool.

I told him that'd I'd be stopping by regularly. Not to be a pest, but I'm interested in the whole process. I want to see the guts. (Ok, I also want to be a pest. A pest who gets people fired!)

I'm very excited. I've seen the scooter. It exists. It's beautiful and shiny. And it's going to be mine!

Today, no scooter talk

Today is the day that I write about something other than my scooter.

It is Fringe time again, and the posters in the Annex are in full bloom. If you step foot in the beer tent, you'll be accosted by actors furtively trying to push flyers into your hands. They won't make eye contact, however. They're too busy doing the Beer Tent Head Swivel. You know the one - the swivel that says "who else is here, and are they cooler than the person I'm currently talking to?" - it's also evident at industry parties.

I haven't done a show in the Fringe in years. I keep forgetting when the application process begins and ends. So I just go and watch the shows in the various theatres, and compare them to the anthropological shows I can see for free in the beer tent. It's usually a draw. Last year we saw a show that ended with a woman taking her clothes off in some sort of demonstration against the ravages of AIDS among our community. Alright. Wasn't crazy about the show, but it provided something the Fringe club didn't. Or at least as far as I saw.

And there's really nothing like watching actors and artists dance. They dance really hard! They have such abandon! They are FEELING the music. They are such free spirits! They are "dancing like no-body's watching"!

Of course, they hope that someone is watching. And that they'll get to tap that someone a little later.

Ah Fringe. How romantic.

Now I leave you with a tip, and this has served me well in Fringes gone by. I hate getting flyered. I hate filling up my purse and pockets with flyers. I have a fringe program, and an idea of what I'm going to see already. Your postcard isn't going to change my mind. I've tried declining the actual flyer, but asking them to tell me the title of their play, and I'd make a note of it in my program.

Blank stares. I can see their little actor brains working

"But.. but... the flyer is in colour. On cardstock. And it's two sided. It clearly reflects the quality of the show we've produced."

Very nice. I don't want it.

So here's my most recent trick, to appease the ego of the actor involved. I take the flyer, and I give it to the next person I see.

"Check out the show, it's great".

I call it, "Flyering it forward". Give it a try, and save a tree.

The Scooter Fairy

Today is kind of a crunch day, scooter-wise. I've made this ultimatum in my head that if they haven't gotten the frame and started working on it today, that the deal crumbles and I start pushing for my money back.

So, naturally, I'm afraid to call them. Right now I'm living in this undeserved "trust bubble". Pretending that they're doing what they're supposed to be doing, what they promised they'd do. I'm pretending that if I click my heels together three times, a bright ruby scooter will appear before my very eyes, ready to take me home.

I dread stopping by on my way home. I dread the sinking feeling I'll get if they've got another excuse why they haven't started. For a cynic, I've got a whole lot of optimism tied up in this venture.

My friends think I'm nuts. Everyone's telling me to just get my money back.

But I just squeeze my eyes shut really tight, hold my breath, and clap my hands.

I do believe in the scooter fairy! I do! I do, I do, I do!

They won't let me down again, will they? Of course not. There is a finite amount of sucky service that your conscience allows you to provide to a patient customer, and I believe in the power of guilt. I must. It's all I have.

Well, that and fact that the law is on my side. Whatever that's worth.

The moment of truth approaches.

I stopped by the store on my way home. The owner is there alone. He starts apologizing immediately for the manager not calling me back. I tell him that's just part of it, and explain my story to him. This is his first time hearing it from me. He is sorry. He asks what he can do to make it right. And we get into the replacement scooter. He asks if getting a blue frame is important to me. I tell him I don't care about the colour, I just want a large frame. He says, "great, we'll give you this black one we have".

Perfect. I don't have to look like I'm biting Bates' style.

He shows me a catalogue with the engine they're going to put in. It's a 150cc engine, not a Vespa engine, though - I don't care. It's new and it's big and it'll go up to 60mph.

I had him write it all up on an work order, and he added "no additional cost, pk to be returned to inventory". Sweet! The owner's signed off on my new scooter. Frankly, with all the drama at the shop, I was afraid that if I got an agreement from the manager, I'd be stuck if he got fired.

We had a friendly chat, he promised to make things right - for what that's worth. They're meeting tomorrow to set up a game plan, and he'll call me to let me know what the timeline is. Better to check with the staff tomorrow than promise me something he can't deliver on. I made sure to repeat "So, you'll call me tomorrow." Yup. He'll call as soon as they're done meeting. The Scapegoat will be working on my scooter.

Perfect.

He wants me to be happy. He wants me to tell all my friends that They Who Cannot Be Named has done right by me. I tell him that's what I want too, and we're getting closer to me being happy. We'll see what the next week or so brings.

He looked at the invoice and said, yeah, this is going to be about a $3500 ride when all's said and done.

That's what I'm talking about.

I do believe in the scooter fairy. I really, really do.

Doing my homework

Spent some time today browsing the Consumer Protection Act. Tell you what, it's some good reading. I don't understand all the legalese, but what I'm getting from it is that I definately have a right to my money back.

But I'm going to give the replacement scooter idea a chance to fly. I called today, and the manager ran the new scooter proposal by the owner, who grumbled at it. Seems that the owner blames the manager for dropping the ball, and not calling me back. That's some of it, but seriously. An unreturned phone call is the least of my complaints right now. So there's this internal struggle that isn't helping my case.

The Girl Mechanic is off sick today (in quotation marks, according to the manager - what? Nice, badmouth your staff.), and The Scapegoat's not due in till tomorrow, but apparently The Scapegoat thinks putting the new engine in the PX frame won't be a problem. The manager was anticipating going to pick up my frame today with The Girl Mechanic, but she's not in. So I guess they'll get the frame tomorrow and get started. I hope. He's going to call me tomorrow and let me know. Again, holding my breath.

In the meantime, I've drafted a letter to make sure that if this manager gets his ass canned, I've got something in my hand that says what they're giving me.

Dear blah blah:

This letter is to clarify the terms of agreement between Tabetha Wells and “The Who Cannot Be Named” regarding replacement of a Vespa PK125S, which has had the following mechanical problems since the original date of delivery, July 21, 2004:

1) broken transmission – slips out of gear while driving
2) sticking throttle – does not roll back to low idle, remains at accelerated level unless pulled back manually.
3) rough idle – must throttle when stopped, or scooter will generally stall

Last summer, fall and this spring after repeated enquiries, I was told that I would be called when a bench became available, and that my repair was “next on the list” but I was never called to bring in my scooter for repair. Most recently, I dropped off the scooter for repairs on May 26th, 2005 after having broken down in traffic for a second time. It was left in good faith for a reasonably expedient repair and remains untouched as of the writing of this letter.

No past attempts to repair the problem have resolved the issues as outlined above, no repair has been attempted within a reasonable amount of time and I have not been able to receive any direct answers to my enquiries about when the repairs would begin or be completed.

As a result, on June 30th, 2005, I asked to exercise my legal right as described in the Consumers Protection Act, to return the goods in question within one year of purchase, still under warrantee for a refund of my original $2000 payment, plus an additional $60 for the used luggage rack which I purchased from They Who Cannot Be Named.

As discussed with the Manager on June 30th 2005, They Who Cannot Be Named has countered with an offer to build a replacement scooter at no additional cost, as detailed below, in writing, by They Who Cannot Be Named. Additionally, They Who Cannot Be Named will handle the re-registration with the Ministry of Transportation, and absorb that cost. In return, I will sign ownership of the Vespa PK125S back over to They Who Cannot Be Named.


This offer by They Who Cannot be Named will acceptable under the following conditions:

a) That work begins immediately on the replacement scooter, and that it remains a priority job until completion.
b) That the scooter is completed, re-registered, licensed and delivered in full working order before the end of July 2005.
c) The replacement scooter shall be protected under the standard “Full One Year Warrantee” from the date of delivery.
d) If, after delivery, the replacement scooter is deemed unsafe, or proved not to be roadworthy, a full refund of $2060 will be made available within 5 business days in the form of cash, certified cheque, or money order.



Hopefully that will cover my ass.

I've modified a second version of the letter to bring along as well. It includes the following notation:

THIS SETTLEMENT HAS BEEN DECLARED UNACCEPTABLE BY THEY WHO CANNOT BE NAMED.
THEY HAVE BEEN ADVISED THAT A FULL REFUND WILL BE EXPECTED BY JULY 13TH, 2005.

If they say no, into arbitration we go! I hope it doesn't come to that. I hate fighting.

Long weekend, Vesporama

Went to a rally hosted by Toronto Vintage Scooter Club this weekend. I wasn't really sure what to expect, but I thought it might end up being a room full of mods, all dressed in their 60's best, drinking martinis and Guinness.

I wasn't too far off the mark. Maybe a little more Stella than Guinness, but still, a fair number of mods. Nice people, though.

I ended up talking most of the night to a guy who had just had his new limited edition px scooter delivered that week. Jealous much, Tab? Hell yeah. But the guy was really nice, and we had a lot to talk about. I was pretty grateful. I knew I wouldn't know a soul at the party, but I figured I'd end up talking to some people, regardless. You sit a bar alone for more than 15 minutes, and someone's bound to order a drink next to you and ask what you ride. "You, if you play your cards right". Man, I wish I'd thought to say that to someone this weekend. If for no other reason than to crack myself up.

I told an abridged story of my scooter drama, no-one wants to hear a sob story about broken scooters and un-honoured warranties at a party. But I wasn't really sure what else to say when someone asked what I ride. Um, well I used to ride a... but soon I might have a... assuming that they build it... blah blah blah. What do YOU ride? Deflect!!

The guy I talked to was cool. He works in IT, but is an animator (so an artist stuck in a shit job), he just bought a condo in my neighbourhood, has a scooter, and a Jack Russell Terrier. He was the black version of me. No wonder we cracked each other up. We left at the same time, and said good bye "see you at the bbq!" at college and Bathurst. And he walked out of my life and into the mists of time. Never did show up at the BBQ, and I didn't go to the final party. I kind of like to pretend that he was my Michael Landon angel that night.

Apparently the group ride was eventful. When you showed up to register, they had you sign a waiver that a) you were insured, b) knew how to ride, and c) wouldn't hold the rally liable for any mishaps. I wasn't riding, so I didn't sign, but I found the whole think kind of odd. Talking to one of the staff members at Motoretta, she said she wasn't going to go on the ride. She just didn't feel comfortable in them. I joked around, (no, really? You cracked a joke?) asking if she was worried about "The Domino Effect". She said partly that, and also that she just didn't feel good about riding in a large group of people she didn't know. Just didn't feel safe. I thought that was odd, but what do I know. I've never been on a group ride.

Turns out, this chick was savvy. There was an accident on the ride which sent at least two, possibly three riders to the hospital.
Leaving Cherry Beach, one scooter (two passengers) realizing that they were out/low on gas, was pulling over (to the left!?) and another scooter was passing them on the left (passing? In a group ride?). Bam. T-bone. People and scooters went flying. Road rash, blood, what appeared to be a broken bone (but deemed not broken by the hospital). Bad news. I question why you would engage in any of the actions that lead to the accident in the first place, much less wear clothing that would lead to the extent of the road rash described to me... But the end result was that I was very glad not to have been riding that day. A guy with a giant scooter who was a veteran motorcycle rider expressed his surprise that there had been no rules for the ride outlined at the start - he does group rides all the time, and he and the Scooterart (montreal) guys I talked to all agreed that there had been some dangerous, bad riding that day. I guess not every one takes away the same amount of information from their m2 class.

I was also a little surprised that there were no veggie options at the bbq. I was very tempted to walk over to the Dominion and buy a couple of boxes of Licks NatureBurgers so that I, and any other veggies who asked, might be able to eat something other than a bun and a spoonful of pasta salad. I filled up on a Klondike bar, and some cake instead. Lazy, very lazy.

Lots of very nice scooters present for the show and shine, including a scooter totally covered in purple velvet. I have to say, as cheesy as it sounds, and as impractical as it is, it looked pretty cool. And it won two awards, so... take that, conventional scooter restorations!

Missed the closing night party in favour of sangria at the Willow after the Starz Wars show. I ran out of what ever energy it took to face complete strangers by myself by that time. Then Sunday was spent rehearsing the Uh Oh C with some new additions to the cast, and having an impromptu brunch with Aurora and comparing breakup stories. Good girl times. Closed out the day on Christy and Paul's deck again drinking wine and taking in the cool night air.

I'm really excited to see Christy's fringe show.

Been downloading the soundtrack to Urinetown. Forgot how much that show amused me when I saw it. There were times where I was the only person laughing, and I had to cover my mouth on occasion to keep from disturbing other people. I just found it terribly funny, so I'm enjoying having "Run Freedom Run" pop up on my shuffle after, say, "99 Problems".

Word.

Extreme Makeover: Vespa Edition

The Candidate: A bedraggled, but plucky PK125S. Mottled with rust, and a broken and mangled front fender, rear fender completely missing, a transmission that is worn down flat. She's got guts, starting smoothly after a winter covered in snow, but the transmission problem that plagued her since she came into my life almost a year ago. Good heart, butterface exterior.

The goal? A total makeover.

Well, not exactly.

I talked to the manager of They Who Cannot Be Named on my way home from work on Thursday, to see if he'd told the owner that I want my money back. Yes, and the owner had been "weird" about it. He wasn't sure if it's because there's tension between them right now (manager isn't too sure how long he'll be working there). He started writing down the owner's number so that I could call him directly, and I asked him if the owner had a suggestion to solve the problem if he wasn't crazy about refunding my money (which I'll still demand, if the need arises), and the manager said that this was something he wanted to bring up on the phone but wasn't sure if I'd be receptive since I wanted my money back. But...

The Girl Mechanic has suggested that I might be happy if they put me on another bike. (That's my girl!) Specifically a larger frame, with a bigger engine. I say that the ideal solution is that I walk out of this with a bike. But that it needs to be this season. I look him right in the eye and say that I need to know that my bike is the next on the bench. Bottom line. The work on my scooter starts on Tuesday, and it doesn't stop until it's done. And I ride out with my scooter, this season. Not next year. He blinks, and brings me down to talk to The Girl Mechanic, cause she'll be doing the work. I think I intimidated him, cause I know She has other work lined up and The Scapegoat doesn't. I think he just wanted back up.

We go down and he shows me the type of frame he wants to use - it's a large frame PX125, but they're talking about putting in a 155 engine. Even better. He says he literally has a truck load of the postal frames, so I say, just find the nicest one, and set it up.

We talk to The Girl Mechanic, she says the most time consuming part of the build will be the re-wiring. It's nitpicky work. I ask if they have an suggestion about how long this will all take - they have no idea. They have to get The Scapegoat to do it, and stress that he can't work on his own scooters anymore. If he's up for it, then we're in business. I say that they can talk to The Scapegoat and The Owner and that I'll check in with them on Tuesday for a status report. If everyone agrees that this is the plan, then we move ahead immediately. I figure it can't take them more than a month to do the build - since that's how long it took them to build the two rally bikes. Ah, I love ammo.

So Monday and Tuesday, I'll spend a few minutes writing up a letter outlining that they're building me a new scooter to replace the one I'm handing over, what that entails, and how long they have to accomplish it. I'll have them sign it, and we'll both have copies. At this point, I feel like I need the agreement in writing.

I'm either closer to a resolution, or a little farther away from getting my money back.