But who's gonna meter my rage?

            Today's post is a failed attempt at guest-blogging for a bigger site. So I'm using it here- 'cause I LIKE it, even if it met none of the previously-non-mentioned-but-yeah-it-kinda-makes-sense criteria. It's just as well- I'm horrid at following directions (baking, unplugging my laptop during a storm, that whole waiting after eating to swim...)
            I wrote it about a month ago. Ah, how simple things were back then. They were different times.


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            The water people have just left. I think they have a real name/company/title, but that’s what I’m going with.

            They’ve been here three times.

            Optimistically, we signed up for a water meter that would- ideally- cut back on our usage. Or, rather, what the city thinks we use. (For those non-Chicagoans, you don’t get your own water charges- oh no! You get what the City of Chicago- a wonderfully, refreshingly honest town- thinks you’re using based on what your neighbors are doing. Or what the city thinks they’re doing.)

            This means that, based on the fact that we live in a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood with multiple families living in the same three-flats, the great Windy City thinks our water usage equates that of eighteen related people fighting over three showers.

            A water meter seemed like a no-brainer. And of course, that’s exactly what it turned out be; a project with zero brains involved.

            The first team, having shown up late and having hung out for a good hour, couldn’t figure out how to turn off our water. (Given that our previously foreclosed rehab is less House of Dreams and more Money Pit, we believed him.) They told us about a B-box or somesuch that needed a blowout. (Look, if we’re handing out city-funded blowouts, my hair has been standing in line since last November. Also, I originally heard “beat box,” rendering me tragically excited.)

            My husband called to reschedule the water meter install and the B-box blowout- but sadly, no accompanying a capella group- and was informed that the B-box thing had already been done. Wow! Okay…

            The second team showed up a couple of weeks later. Late. (It is the city, after all.) They informed us that our water wouldn’t shut off and that the B-box needed to be blown out. Hmm.

            This morning, the third team arrived- including, as the supervisor put it, his “best guy.”

            I was prepared to be less than impressed. In fact, I was riled up to be downright snotty. My husband, who had been here for the previous attempts, offered to work from home this a.m., something that I waved away. I wanted a confrontation. Tuesday mornings are my time off from nannying with our infant gal in tow, a couple of hours that I can enjoy writing while she naps- in other words: Me Time. Now these fools were going to waste Me Time with a third vocal acknowledgement that we needed a blowout of some sort? I didn’t want my husband to temper me. I didn’t want witnesses.

            Turns out, all we needed was a “best guy.” He turned off the water indoors (“I don’t know why the other guys couldn’t get this!”) He turned off the water outdoors (“No prob.”) He installed a water meter (“You’ll be seeing a big reduction in water bills.”) And, for our troubles- a free rain barrel! Sure, people in more civilized, green and outdoorsy parts of the world already have these. But here? Cutting. Edge. Technology. (Also with a multi-month wait list. Suckers.)

            Now we’re the home with only three residents- and a water bill to match- plus the means for a slightly more sustainable backyard. (Hey kids, it’s your pal Whitey McHippie!)

            So now it’s on to dealing with the 2010 Census; folks with a razor-edged vendetta, bent on proving that our single fam home is a secret haven for multiple apartments, tenants and doorbells.

            I am only one woman.

            Regardless of what they might have in their file.