Don't Bet On Decolav

Let's play a game. C'mon, it'll be fun. Okay, here we go. Guess who won't be buying anything from what company ever again. Give up?

It's me. And Decolav.

Suz and I decided that when we finish our bathroom in our basement, it will be both very nice and very modern. With that in mind we bought a very nice and modern vanity with a vessel sink and black granite top.

I began assembling the vanity so that I could determine precisely where it would fit in the bathroom, and exactly how much clearance the door had swinging past it. These are important things that needed to be addressed before I finished the framing. Plus... ah, who am I kidding? I just like to sit 'n look at stuff.

Anyhoo, while the putting together of the vanity was taking place I ran into what I like to call a problem. This came as a surprise as I wasn't expecting anything to go awry thanks to Decolav's corporately-thunk-up-and-agreed-upon mission statement which includes the phrase "consistently offering high quality products", AND their three fundamental principals, of which the first is "to deliver the highest-quality product at unprecedented prices."

But Decolav's principals and mission statement don't match their behaviour. A piece of furniture of the highest quality would not split and bulge when the consumer tightened the machined screw into the predrilled hole only three-quarters of the way, leaving the side panel both loose and... well... split.

See where I'm going with this?

And a company that abided by its mission statement to consistently offer high quality products would certainly ensure that all four predrilled side panel holes lined up with more than just three of the predrilled base holes. Wouldn't they?

I decided to write to the Decolav company, explaining my problem and my frustration in the little box right beside the must-be-high-on-shrooms-because-nobody-in-the-world-is-that-happy-picture of the President and CEO, Robert Mayer.

I'll let you know if they live up to the 2nd of their fundamental principals, and "establish and maintain unparalleled customer service." You know where my money's riding.

This Little Piggy Cried...

Two weeks ago I got some important news. It's extra special news because something out of the ordinary happened. Not "out of the ordinary" like Chad Vader paying me a surprise visit - although before today I would've put my money on the visit rather than on what actually happened.

The last time I saw my neurologist, he said, as a last resort to find out what's wrong with my feet, we'd apply for a biopsy. This is strange because in Canada, he said, you can't get specific skin biopsies. They're done in the U.S. and since our government is footing the bill, it has to approve each and every biopsy.

We filled out the necessary paperwork, and as I left he told me not to get my hopes up because less than one percent of biopsies get approved.

Then two weeks ago happened.

My biopsy was approved and today I went to the hospital for the procedure. It started with me putting on a gown, followed by me laying on a bed.

My neurologist froze my right ankle and thigh. The needle burned, but within seconds I was numbed. He cut and snipped out the samples which he then placed in special containers packed with frozen water for their trip to the U.S. lab.

As he sewed up my surprisingly bloody wounds with the silk thread, I mentioned I had never had stitches before. Surprised, he asked me, "never?"

I proudly replied that I had never had stitches, nor broken any bones, which prompted him to explain the stitch-removification procedure I had to do on day five.

For the next few hours things were normal. I finished up at work, came home, ate dinner, and went upstairs to change. But it was more than just my clothes that got changed in that bedroom. The status of my skeletal structure also changed... as I smashed my foot so hard against the leg of the bed that I broke my first bone, one of the little piggies.

Cable Guys Are Too Rough

Last summer the phone line/cable pole in my neighbour's backyard did what every post office employee will eventually do – it cracked. And then it fell on a 45 degree angle, held in place by the very cables and wires that were secured to it.

My elderly, talkative, please-Lord-help-me-guide-this-fork-into-my-ear-neighbour complained about it for days. I couldn't help her, but she insisted on complaining to me about it, as if I were the cable-pole-utility-commissioner or something.

Eventually someone cut the pole down. But the complaining didn't stop. Nope. I listened, for days, about the workmen who totally trampled my neighbour's poor Lily of the Pansy, or Goatweed or whatever the freakin' hell it was.

I felt bad for her. I'd hate if that happened to my garden too. But I wouldn't go over to her house and start bitching about it.

Anyhoo, the doorbell rang the other morning, waking me from my nightmares. It was Cogeco Cable. The man in the hard hat told me they were taking their cables down. He asked if he could enter my backyard to take the wires off my other neighbour's pole.

"You mean the really old rotting pole?" I asked in the ultimate gravelly, groggy, early-morning voice.

"Yes, that's the one." was his reply.

"Fine with me." I said. And with that he thanked me, gave a pleasant curtsy, and trotted off into my backyard with his spiffy ladder. I ran upstairs as fast as I could and propped myself in a chair by the window, waiting for the inevitable.

Within a few seconds, he had broken the pole. Being half-asleep, I wasn't fast enough with my camera and I cursed. Now I'm facing a week-long tirade from my other elderly neighbour about her bloody broken pole. Yay.