Susan M. Boyer

USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Agatha Award Winner

Susan M. Boyer

USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Agatha Award Winner

What A Nickle’s Worth

in Crazy Happens

On Monday, the parts for my space age washing machine did not arrive, as scheduled, from NEW ZELAND, in time for the TEAM to make it out to fix the d&%n thing. The new control panel and pump arrived late Monday afternoon, and the TEAM showed up bright and early yesterday to restore order in the Boyer laundry room. Mission accomplished!

The brave repairman came upstairs with the ticket, which had already been paid, because parts must be paid for upfront as UPS only runs in one direction–FROM–on the New Zealand route. Along with the ticket, which I had to sign for reasons unclear, the brave repairman held a nickle, and the old washing machine pump motor.

I bet you can see where this is going. He spun the rotor on the motor. It made a hellacious noise. He grinned. “The nickle got in the motor and made it go out. That’s what shorted out the control panel.

“How did the nickle get into the insides of the washing machine?” I asked. I mean, even if it was in the tub, how could it get to the motor?

He shrugged. “I’ve seen all kinds of stuff get in there. Underwear, rocks, sticks…”

A month, without a washing machine, because one of us missed a nickle when emptying the change from our pockets into the jar which holds lottery money. (Not money we’ve won, but spare change with which we allow ourselves to purchase tickets, in hopes that we will one day win Giraffe Money. If you don’t know what Giraffe Money is, here’s a clue: Michael Jackson owns a Giraffe, or used to, on his Neverland… err, Ranch.

Talk to y’all later. I’ve got to go search a load for stowaway coins. That nickle cost me $396.65.

Peace, out…

Susan

Yet Another Reason to Buy Stuff Made in the USA

in Crazy Happens, Evidence of Rampant Insanity

On April 29th, my washing machine died peacefully in mid-cycle. One minute it was spinning my delicates, and the next, it had departed this world. As it was only four years old, and had died long before its time, I pulled out my manuals, located the customer service number, and called New Zealand.

You see, when we purchased this state-of-the-art-high-efficiency-eco-friendly appliance and its brother, the dryer, we were totally sold on how efficient and eco-friendly it was. It was a high-end set, one that we normally would have avoided due to the price tag. But it was ON SALE!

The folks at Jeff Lynch saw me coming. They’d likely had this blue-blooded marvel of modern machinery for months with no takers, because the suckers were made in NEW ZEALAND, and most folks in Greenville have better sense. Regrettably, I do not. I was quite impressed with the salesman’s assurance that THIS washer and dryer only had two moving parts each which would naturally cut down on repairs…

The nice lady in New Zealand informed me that, of course their washers will last longer than four years. It simply needed to be repaired. She gave me the phone number of the lone authorized repair shop in the area. I called. They come to Greenville on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, they said, but they were all booked up that week. They could come out the NEXT Monday.

Because my husband loves me, and knows that if I had to go inside a laundry mat my therapy sessions would increase to three times a week (which would be very expensive), he went.

On Monday, the repair team (yes, it takes two repairmen to look at appliances made in New Zealand) were here exactly four minutes before the brave one informed me that all they could do that day was collect the $65 for the service call because the control panel had gone out, and a new one would have to be ordered. They don’t stock repair parts on this brand.

I said something my mamma probably wouldn’t approve of, then wrote him a check. He told me that I’d have to call the office and order the part because the computer was down. He wasn’t sure what it would cost, but I’d have to pay for it in advance because parts ordered from NEW ZEALAND are non-returnable.

I called. I said some more things my mother wouldn’t approve of to the poor lady who answered the phone. She ordered my control board ($245) and scheduled the team to come back out the following Monday. Poor Jim went back to the laundry mat.

But, the part didn’t arrive on time from NEW ZEALAND, and she called me the next Monday morning to let me know that they’d have to reschedule for Wednesday. On Wednesday, I was going to be out of town, so we rescheduled for the next Monday.

Poor Jim went back to the laundry mat. But this time, sure that the washer would finally be fixed on Monday, he only did what we absolutely had to have to get through the weekend.

On Monday morning (of this week) the repair team came in with the control panel. “This shouldn’t take long,” the brave one said. I came upstairs and went about my day. Ten minutes later, the brave one called upstairs, “Ah, Ma’am?”

I was on the phone, but quickly finished my call and scurried downstairs, alarmed by his now not-so-confident tone. The team was huddled over the patient, which had been disassembled like one of those bodies being autopsied on CSI. I will tell you right now that there are way more than two moving parts.

The brave one shook his head. “It was your motor that shorted out the control panel. Soon as we got the new one on, it took it right out. We’re going to have to order a new motor,” he said. From–you guessed it–NEW ZEALAND. All they could do was collect the money for the motor. The computer was up, so they knew they needed a check for another $86.43. “You won’t have to pay for another circuit board,” the one that never would look me in the eye assured me.

They’re coming back next Monday.

Poor Jim will go back to the laundry mat this weekend…

But because LAST weekend he only did what we thought we’d need until Monday, I am slap out of workout clothes. Which is why I did not make it to Jazzercise yesterday, nor will I make it today or tomorrow. I am not happy about this at all, because I was finally back into my routine, but, let’s face it, I can’t dance without my motion-control workout bras and lycra capris.

I bet you those New Zealand washing machine manufacturers are all are part of the Vast Fat-Wing Conspiracy.

Peace, out…

Susan

There is Order in The Universe

in Uncategorized

So we were driving home from Jasper, AL, last Thursday afternoon. We timed our departure so as not to hit Atlanta rush hour traffic, congratulated ourselves for planning ahead and put a John Hiatt cd in. We were tooling across I-20, passing an 18-wheeler, when an old beat up pickup truck (complete with all the accessories–gun rack, fresh coat of mud, et cetera–came hurtling up behind us. As soon as we cleared the 18-wheeler, the pickup darted at a dangerous angle in front of the tuck, passed us on the right, and swerved in front of us.

Jim had not finished spitting expletives and muttering something about suicidal morons–this particular one turned out to be a female in a tank top with a ponytail and a cell phone–when a guy that looked like he just stepped out of the board room driving a souped-up hot rod of undetermined lineage passed Miss Armed and Dangerous. Then two more cars and an SUV pulled up even with Hot Rod and Dirty Truck.

Jim scooted back into the right lane and backed off from these maniacs–or tried–but we were on the Interstate, and being passed doing 80 miles an hour. Before we knew it, we were in the middle of about twenty cars that were changing lanes back and forth, passing each other and jockeying for position with maybe 6 inches clearance between them. Something bright yellow that I couldn’t identify–but Jim said was a Chevrolet Nomad–was riding our bumper. As best I could tell, Minnie Pearl was at the wheel. There was nothing we could do but hang out and try not to get run over.

“What are they doing?” It was me that hollered that out…Jim was busy yelling out stuff I can’t post on the Internet–my mamma sometimes reads this blog. “Bunch of morons,” he yelled. Moron is Jim’s pet name for other drivers. He’s kinda stuck on it.

Anyway, cars were zooming by, weaving in and out, and back and forth. Expeditions, Cadillacs, Pickups, an El Camino…cars that looked like they’d been built from parts of 5 or 6 different makes. Toyotas, Volkswagens–every kind of car you can think of. And a camper! Minnie Pearl passed us and waved–not her parade wave, either, but the kind that doesn’t require the use of all your fingers.

Then, I saw the sign.

Talladega County.

As in, Talladega Superspeedway, the “biggest, fastest the biggest, fastest, most competitive motorsports facility in the world.” According to their website–which I have no reason to doubt–“Records for both speed and competition have been established at Talladega.”

Suddenly, everything was clear. Everyone in the county was training for a NASCAR tryout. Sure enough, before long we passed the shrine of speed, oddly painted cars and spectacular crashes. The further we got away from it, the more normal people started driving. After a while, traffic thinned out, and slowed back down to 75.

I guess it’s a kind of salute the locals give the race track when they drive by after work. They get within a couple miles of the place, they all start driving like Richard Petty–or whoever. I don’t speak NASCAR.

But I still get it. Next time though, I think we’ll take rush hour in Atlanta over rush hour in Talladega County.

Peace, out…

Susan

New Year’s Revolution

in Uncategorized

Okay, yes, I know I haven’t posted on this blog since November 1. But I have many, many reasons. Not excuses…reasons. Here are the top ten:

10. I was kidnapped by aliens–not the beautiful-but-flat-chested, Jazzercising kind, but honest to dog aliens–and their Internet does not support inter-planetary communication.
9. One of my multiple personalities, Starla, was in charge, and she refuses to use a computer because she believes that they emit radiation that causes a vitamin K deficiency, wrinkles, and the impulse to ballet dance down Main Street wearing a hat with fruit and combat fatigues, while twirling fire batons and singing Hello Dolly.
8. I’ve been on a Top Secret mission for Homeland Security.
7. My dog ate my laptop.
6. I’ve spent every spare moment exercising.
5. I’ve eaten so little that I was too light-headed to type.
4. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years and multiple family birthdays in rapid succession.
3. We finally sold our house, and downsized to a condo 1/3 the size and it is quite time consuming to rid yourself of 2/3 of your belongings, but you can only fit so much stuff into 1,400 square feet.
2. I’m in a funk because of the move I thought I wanted to a downtown condo, walking distance to everything, including all my favorite restaurants and the Starbucks where Renee Zellweger was hanging out until The Greenville News chased her off–and the hotel where George Clooney is staying during location filming for Leatherheads. Not that I’m a star-stalker–I mean, I’m sure they’re very nice people, but honestly, I get no thrill out of close encounters with celeberties.
1. I’m this year’s chairperson for the South Carolina Writers Workshop Conference, and while this is a volunteer position, it is taking more of my time than any fulltime job I have ever had in my entire life–not that I’m complaining–au contraire–most days it’s a blast.

Okay, those last four were for real.

A Little Too Real to Be Fiction

in Uncategorized

My sister sent me this story. I don’t forward emails…it’s just one of those rules that I live by that I occasionally break when I feel like it. This one smacked of reality, so I thought I’d post it. Let me state, for the record, that I do not condone drunk driving, do not personally believe that folks from Tennessee are any more prone to drinking than the rest of us, and do not consider “Hillbilly” a slur anymore than say, New Yorker. It’s all just geography.

Anyway, with apologies to any one from Paris, Tennessee, who might not see the humor…
From the county where drunk driving is considered a sport, comes this absolutely true story.

Recently a routine police patrol parked outside a bar in Paris, Tennessee. After last call the officer noticed a man leaving the bar so intoxicated that he could barely walk.

The man stumbled around the parking lot for a few minutes, with the officer quietly observing. After what seemed an eternity in which he tried his keys on five different vehicles, the man managed to find his car and fall into it. He sat there for a few minutes as a number of other patrons left the bar and drove off.

Finally, he started the car, switched the wipers on and off--it was a fine, dry summer night--, flicked the blinkers on and off a couple of times, honked the horn and then switched on the lights. He moved the vehicle forward a few inches, reversed a little and then remained still for a few more minutes as some more of the other patrons' vehicles left. At last, when his was the only car left in the parking lot, he pulled out and drove slowly down the road.

The police officer, having waited patiently all this time, now started up his patrol car, put on the flashing lights, promptly pulled the man over and administered a breathalyzer test. To his amazement, the breathalyzer indicated no evidence that the man had consumed any alcohol at all! Dumbfounded, the officer said, "I'll have to ask you to accompany me to the police station. This breathalyzer equipment must be broken."

"I doubt it," said the truly proud Hillbilly. "Tonight I'm the designated decoy."INT00077692

Utter Madness

in Uncategorized

From Wednesday, March 21: My brand new brother-in-law won $100 in the lottery, so my sister (Sabrina) suggests we focus our efforts on purchasing as many as possible in an effort to retire to an island somewhere. But today isn’t my day to buy lottery tickets. Here is how my luck has gone: the repairman is coming back tomorrow (4th trip) to fix my 6 month old Kitchen Aid (for the way it’s made) refrigerator. The compressor or condenser or combobulator or something isn’t combobulating. Until this morning, only the freezer was on the fritz (intermittently). Every so often I’d go down and clean up a puddle of water and empty the ice maker, and then it would start working again. This morning, the refrigerator quit, too.

So, I hauled everything down to the old refrigerator in the basement (thank God we kept it for overflow, parties and such). I only lost what was in the freezer. Twice.

Then Sandra (my neighbor, one of my dearest friends, hereinafter referred to as my next-door nut) called, to say that Mason (our scrambled-breed dog) was running through his electric fence. We just changed the battery in the collar, so I was sure it was a break in the wire, which would have to wait until Jim got home—this I was hoping for even though I know this is a huge problem since Mason has been known to do such socially unacceptable things as tinkle on the neighbor around the block’s BMW tire (freshly washed). But no. His collar was missing—Mason’s, not the BMW guy’s. Sandra and I searched 4 acres, and no collar.

I called Jim, the man who promised to love, honor, and solve all my problems, even if he was two time zones away. He said, no problem, we have a spare in the utility closet. Great. I ventured into the giant mound of such items critical to household maintenance as a zillion batteries of undetermined age, No-sew fabric glue, and an MRE (one of those freeze-dried meals soldiers eat—don’t ask). I found the collar, and put in a new battery. Experience has taught me that these collars must be tested or they may either a) not work at all, or b) give the dog a three foot circle in which he can roam without getting zapped. I walked out to where the wire is buried, close to the edge of our yard. No beep. The collar is supposed to beep a warning, then zap. I went to Lowe’s (where we bought the system) to get a new collar, and happened to notice the ten year warranty on the package. We have only had ours for 2 years. I decided to raise a ruckus, as a new collar is sixty bucks.

The young lady at Customer Service, aka We Couldn’t Care Less, told me to call Pet Safe. I asked her, “How do I keep the dog in the fence while I’m waiting for the new collar?” “I don’t know.” She shrugged and turned her back on me. Not to assist another waiting customer, mind you, but to signify that I was dismissed. My good deed for the day is that I refrained from jumping down her twenty-something throat and stomping on her liver. Neither did I report her to the Authorities. I was way too wrapped up in my own psychotic episode to mess with her. Probably a good thing.

I appealed to the cute, nice manager guy, who made a phone call and then said he’d swap it, no problem. But I had to come back home and get the old one. Yada, yada, yada… got the new collar home, and, of course, at first, it didn’t work. Fiddled with it. Slammed it against the kitchen counter. Stomped it twice. Then, it beeped. Unfortunately, it was now in three-foot mode. I had to fiddle with the dial thingy to adjust signal, then chase down the dog who is smart enough to know he doesn’t want that collar back on. Finally, the dog is once again contained, and BMW’s everywhere are safe.

Did I mention I had another flat tire?

Maybe tomorrow will be a better day for buying lottery tickets.

You Don’t Have to Call Me Darlin’

in Uncategorized

Today was one of those days you don’t get a darn thing done that you wanted to, but a big pile of icky things you’ve been putting off shrinks a little. The three icky things I did today–and the reason I didn’t write a word or go to Jazzercise–were: 1) I took my kingsize comforter–the one that won’t fit in my washing machine–to the laundry mat. Amazingly, this was the least icky thing on the list. 2) I dug out from under the pile of mail and other debris on my desk, filing or tossing everything, and 3) I went to the doctor–the real doctor, not the dermatologist.
Remember last week when I was having trouble breathing? Well, Jim made me make a doctor’s appointment. When you tell the doctor that you feel like you can’t get enough air in your lungs, she is going to run some fun tests. The chest xray wasn’t bad, if you leave out the fact that, while she’s sure it’s nothing, there’s a spot on my right lung and it’s my body, so I have a right to know, and she doesn’t want me to come back and say, “Well, you told me it was nothing,” if it turns out to be something, but she’s sure it’s not. So now, instead of a week of blissful ignorance, after which there would have been a remote possibility I might be miffed at her, I get to spend a week with my overactive imagination running hog wild with all kinds of horrible scenarios just so she won’t look bad in the unlikely event that it is actually something. I just think this is poor manners.
But the really fun test was the EKG. It was perfectly normal, but the precious little technician who performed the test kept calling me darlin’ and sweetie and sugar the whole time she was sticking those little patches all over me. There is something undignified about lying with your bra pulled down around your waist and having a stranger lean over the top of you to attach wires to your bare chest, all the while speaking in soothing tones and calling you darlin’. I know she meant well.
Anyway, it’s probably just my allergies, which I have three brand new prescriptions for, and an appointment to go back in two weeks, after I have one more test. Meanwhile, I have a lot of catching up to do tomorrow. I’ve got to get the first three chapters of Lowcountry Boil off to a critique/contest for a conference I’m going to in May. The deadline is April 1. And, I have to get myself to Jazzercise in the morning. Maybe if I go to the 5:45 class, I can stop by and get a Mega Moo Mocha Moolatte on the way home for breakfast.

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