|Hey, I just found a photo from the |
team pasta dinner that we hosted and
the original, ridiculous hood that I kept
knocking into with my noggin is
included in the pic. I was kicking
myself for not snapping a photo of it.
Technically this picture should
appear in my last post, but you can now
flip back to it and get the whole picture.
No response. None. Zip. No, seriously.
I sent similar messages inquiring as to where the heck everyone was to the contractor and the daughter. Silence. I seriously began to wonder if they had gone bankrupt or something.
Then January 27th, the kitchen designing daughter texted me. She'd been sick with the flu. I mean I know the flu can take a toll, but to lose all feeling in your fingers so that you are unable to send a text communicating something along the lines of: 'I am sick' - that strain of the flu was new to me. Three weeks is a very long time to be out sick, can we agree there? Not to mention, there are other members of the staff that could've stepped in. Did every electrician in a 20 mile radius have an ill timed flu bug as well?
'I've been trying to get in touch with the contractor too,' read another freaky text from the 'self-taught' daughter that officially blew my mind. What does that mean? Why can't she communicate with the contractor and why is she sharing that with me, the customer?!
She asked me via text what I had decided about a few kitchen related decisions. The next day she stopped by to go over a few things. Again she mentioned her flu deathbed. She even said, 'We've all been so sick.' I suppose I could've asked her who she was counting in the 'we've' but I didn't bother. Was it just her boyfriend, or was everyone that worked construction in the greater Chicagoland area? It was fishy.
During her visit, she started asking me about what still needed to be done in the kitchen. I thought some of what she wanted to know was more contractor related stuff. I wondered to myself, if the contractor with the accent like the guy in Despicable Me was still employed by her father.
She pulled out a piece of paper and began to tally up a bill for me. She asked for a check.
I thought I was being a bad-ass. I told her that I wouldn't write a check until I saw a statement, because I suspected that they weren't giving me the $5,000 appliance credit that they had agreed to give me.
And that, I suspect, was when I should have held my cards closer to my chest. Why did I mention the credit? Let them produce a document without the credit and THEN call them out on the absence of the credit!
Bad-ass turned dumb-ass in a matter of minutes.