Better Luck Next Time, Father Time


Why is time a man?

If anything, time is a woman. I mean, do men have a “time of the month”? No, they do not.

And if anyone says that men have a time of the month because they have to put up with a woman’s time of the month, then I will unleash the demons trapped under the stay-dry weave of every used maxi pad. Then, they’ll be sorry.

Also, every 12 months a new year is born. Who gives birth and renews time? Women.

But I digress.

Anyway, some dude from an electric company was standing at my door when I got home from work tonight.

I was crabby at work because I was at work. Mike Pence was in my city today which fucked up traffic, so I was crabby in the car on my way home. I already thought I disliked Mike Pence as much as I could dislike Mike Pence until his presence fucked up my commute home.

Also, I knew that when I got home, Randy and I were going to have to figure out how to fix the washing machine.

You guys, we aren’t “fixing washing machine” people.

We are, “fuck it, we’ll go to the laundromat and then watch Netflix” people.

The electric company guy explained that we are not yet signed up on a program and that his company represented about 40% of the houses on the street. So, I clockguess he didn’t work for the electric company, but rather is running some sort of electric company protection racket or something.

That’s a lovely meter you have on the side of your house, Mrs. Combs. It would be a shame if something happened to it. 

So, I signed some things and guess I’m in a program. Randy tried super hard to be an adult and ask the guy appropriate questions, but that didn’t really matter because I was signing as he was asking.

I do know this for sure, our gas rate won’t increase for the next three years.

Our electric rate, however, is variable by month. I am going to guess that the electric portion of our utility bill will be somewhere between 3 dollars and 7 billion dollars next month.

But that isn’t the point either.

The point is, I very nearly became an old woman tonight when Josh, the electric dude, was here.

After I electronically signed his tablet, he told me that, in the future, we had to be careful how we answered calls from his competitors.

His exact words were “You’re going to get a shit ton of calls from people wanting you to switch and if you verify any account information, then they can legally switch from our service to their service.”

Shit ton? 

I can honestly say, in all my adult years, I have never had anyone representing a company use vulgar words. And oddly enough, my inner old lady clutched her pearls. Did he just say “shit ton”? Oh, my. 

I don’t have a problem with shit ton.

I regularly measure distance, time, and things with “shit ton” and “fuck ton”.

I think one must be careful and not overuse fuck ton. A shit ton handles most situations when one has to describe a large quantity of something. Fuck ton means, well, a fuck ton and should only be used as such. This is science. You can’t argue with science.

I was mildly taken aback when I heard Josh say “shit ton”.

I processed his words and quickly decided that I had prematurely clutched my pearls. Which I understand is something that happens with age and I should probably speak with my doctor. 

I didn’t care if Josh said “shit ton” and I certainly had no interest in going down the “it’s not appropriate language” or “disrespectful” roads. Or any other road people could come up with when faced with an unexpected “shit ton” from a utility worker.

The point is, I very nearly became an old woman today, but then I didn’t. So fuck you, father time.

And if time is really a woman, then I apologize for the “fuck you”. Please don’t make my wrinkles come in. I’m not completely finished with being the tiniest bit vain.

Also, Randy fixed the washing machine. Well, he very nearly did. He got the load that was in a state of limbo to complete. The smell of mildew still hangs throughout the house.

Then, the washer stopped working again. We had to call professionals. We’re still waiting for the professionals to call back.

In the meantime, we did find a place close by that will do our laundry for us for 90 cents a pound.

I literally had to argue over every t-shirt that went out the door because Randy was worried about the weight of our laundry as if the one basket weighed the same as a full grown wart hog.

I only mentioned wart hog because the normal laundry mixed with mildew laundry smelled like I imagine a warthog smells. If it’s on fire.

Randy just needs to chill. It’s not like the laundry weighs a shit ton. He also says I don’t understand the new electric bill arrangement and that we are not paying protection money.

I don’t see how he knows, though, he didn’t sign the paperwork. Plus, Josh totally looked like he was capable of taking out a kneecap.


Photo courtesy of Moose Photos

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  • Hey, he only dropped that term because he tell you were a hip couple who’d be okay with it. He wouldn’t have done the same with your neighbor, I bet.

    Or maybe The Mob sent him and you don’t have any choice but to listen to his vulgarity while he tells you about the protection money he’ll be coming around to take.

  • You’ve reminded me of that song from the cartoon of Charlotte’s Web about “Mother Earth and Father Time” and I think I’d be completely cool if it were Mother Earth and Mother Time. Or if Earth and Time are a couple of women who are just friends. Time is a lot bigger than Earth and I hope I haven’t just completely fucked up my relationship with Time, but just in case I want Time to know that, no, that clock does not make your ass look big.
    Anyway you’ve given me a shit ton to think about so I should stop now.

  • I am shocked at his language. I say this with hand placed on chest below my chin where I would be clutching my pearls as every proud old lady must!
    I would put a security cam on your meter. He seemed to threaten it.
    Father Time and Father Christmas are old farts and you don’t want to get too close to them because they are Old Farts!

  • From “Cinema Show” by Genesis:

    “Take a little trip back with father tiresias,
    Listen to the old one speak of all he has lived through.
    I have crossed between the poles, for me there’s no mystery.
    Once a man, like the sea I raged,
    Once a woman, like the earth I gave.
    But there is in fact more earth than sea.”

    From one of my songs that never got a title that stuck:

    “Don’t have time
    Still can’t see
    If time has me.”

    I could recommend a guy to fix your washing machine, but he’s in Emeryville so that probably won’t help.
    When I used to do home delivery and installation of furniture and appliances (yeah, I’ve installed several fuck-tons of washing machines) I was careful about the words I used because some folks have little kids right in their house, and cursing in front of a little kid is some sort of transgression that I don’t quite understand (I remember grade school. Little kids use a shit-ton of swear words.) but being polite when in someone’s home is just good manners, and I value good manners a lot.
    Even in, uh, “trying” circumstances I rarely let fly with a swear word.
    Like you know that smell you described? Another option for dealing with it is just buying a new machine and having the old one hauled away at the same time. I won’t list the things I’ve seen in, under, or behind the various appliances I have removed, I’ll just say that I have stopped and gone outside for fresh air to avoid vomiting a few times.
    Ranges were bad, also. I tipped one back on the dolly in a very nice kitchen in San Francisco and a stream of cockroaches came out of it and landed on the hardwood floor. The poor customer, who had just moved in, did this hilarious little dance trying to stomp them all before they could hide in her multi-thousand dollar apartment. I just got out as quickly as possible to avoid embarrassment and spill as few bugs as possible.
    Then there was the dryer that jingled when we tipped it back on the dolly. It came from a house full of Berkeley yuppies, all male, so we didn’t feel bad about taking the $26 in change that was inside of it.
    If time is male, it’s because time is a prick, although I don’t generally assign genders to things that don’t already have them.

    • OMG that is so gross. Not the lyrics, the cockroaches.

      And Randy actually fixed the washing machine a second time. I’m not sure, but I think he might be becoming handy. Handyish, maybe

  • Ah Michelle, How lovely to have discovered your blog and someone with a sense of humour who can write, likes to have a bit of a rant about this or that, and has a potty mouth to boot. Just when I was fearing all blogs by middle aged women were destined to be beige and full of self-affirmations. Good to meet you, and I look forward to your next pieces.

    • In addition to this blog post today, your comment cracked me up! How aptly put about blogs by middle-aged women! One more self-affirmation and I’ll drink myself into a stupor.

  • I’m starting to think all service companies are filled with just a bunch of grifters. I remember one time in Minneapolis when my furnace went out. The dude that came over to check on it told me it had a CRACK in it and it was dangerous to stay in the home and that I should get out immediately. Like, spend the night in a motel or at the bus station. Sheesh. I didn’t. And I survived. So, if someone tells you your thing has a crack in it, don’t just buy into that right away.

    Love, love your blog.

  • Maybe I’m just extra-paranoid after my dealings with the shadiest movers ever, but I’m side-eyeing Josh and his whole operation. Maybe humor me and call the real electric company? Find out what the deal is with this racket?

    If for no other reason than you don’t want to end up accidentally paying someone $8k to break all your furniture and take out your doors and say things like, “Hey, whaddya know? That mirror was made of GLASS!”

    • That is fucking horrible! Do you have any recourse?

      I’m good. I checked with my friend at work and she is on the same service and says it’s the best one. I’m just going with that.

  • What the fuckity fuck did I just read???
    I’m laughin’…
    I’m cryin’…
    I’m clutching pearls and shushing Josh…
    I’m cheering Randy on…
    That was a fuck ton of good reading 🙂

  • If I ever need to use the stronger one (stronger than shit ton), I also opt for British spelling: FUCK TONNE. Because why the hell not?

By Michelle

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