The Damn Scam

First Offense:  Phoenix, Arizona - August 2008

Mamaw was watching television, most likely with the newspaper folded in such a way in front of her on the coffee table that she could glance at it and be reminded of the date. She likes to know what day it is. The phone rang. Upon answering, she heard the voice of a young man claiming to be her grandson. 

"Hi! It's your grandson!" She was naturally pleased, because it's rare that her adult grandsons call her.

"Is this Patrick?" she asked. The young man said he was. He told her he was in some trouble. Please don't tell any other family members. He was in jail and needed a few thousand dollars to post bail.

The story didn't jive for Mamaw. Not because she didn't think it was Patrick, but because she didn't think he should be calling her for money. Mamaw told Dad later in the day about the call and said she didn't think it was a good idea to send money. Dad listened to Mamaw's story and quickly concluded she hadn't been called by one of her grandsons. He explained what had likely happened to her. 

Mamaw is 91 years old. I've written about her here and here.

Second Offense:  Bellevue, Washington - March 2009

Chris' grandmother received a call from a young man claiming to be her "favorite grandson". She, like Mamaw, was delighted to hear from one of her adult grandsons. She assumed it was Chris. [He's obviously her favorite.] The young man said he was in some trouble. He also requested other family members not be alerted because he was embarrassed and would explain later. He needed $3700 wired immediately—he was in jail in Vancouver.

Chris' grandmother told his grandfather about the phone call and together they made a trip to the bank. They withdrew money and prepared to wire funds to their favorite grandson.

Chris' grandfather became suspicious while talking with the young man as they were getting specific wiring instructions. He began asking the favorite grandson questions to confirm his identity. The perp cracked when Grandpa Ross asked, "What's your dog's name?" He hung-up.

Grandma and Grandpa Ross are 84 and 85 years old.

Lessons Learned

1. Grandchildren of Mamaw - If you're in trouble, Mamaw might send you a file in a cake to spring you from the clink. Don't hold your breath for cash. Go to Plan B.


2. Grandchildren of Grandma and Grandpa Ross - Ensure you have Grandma and Grandpa's contact information on your person at all times. Specific wiring instructions for your financial institution would be helpful also.


3. Favorites - My brother Mallory Joe is NOT Mamaw's favorite grandson. Chris IS the favorite grandson of Grandma and Grandpa Ross.


4. Mary [our dog] - She gets extra treats this month for saving Grandma and Grandpa money. She really is like Lassie.

Seriously, warn the older people in your life about this scam.

Full

It was 42 degrees yesterday when I was driving home from the mall with Toddler Child, recovering from a fit, in the back seat.  I thought it looked deceptively warmer than what my car thermometer registered.  The bright sun, clear skies and calm air made it appear at least 20 degrees warmer.  The snow has mostly melted in our small town and surrounding areas, but the mountains remain snow-capped.  I find the transition from winter to spring, pretty.

The two older boys were spending the afternoon at the home of friends.  Friends that are brothers the same ages as Oldest Boy and Middle Boy, attend the same school, and have a new puppy.  They were overflowing with happy and content.

I took Toddler Child to the mall, thinking it would be nice to get out of the house, return a couple of things, and leisurely stroll with my three and a half-year-old son.  The final child in our tribe.  I assumed with another month of natural maturation under his belt, he might behave and not throw a fit.  I was wrong.  Not even close.  It was miserable.  He actually screamed shut-up a few times.  [Please no judging.  We do not say shut-up in our house.  He saw it on a Muppet video.  Toddlers can behave like belligerent drunks sometimes, and it doesn't mean he's spoiled, or I'm a bad person.  Shit happens.]

I wrested him into the car while a few people watched and wondered if I was hurting him.  I wasn't, but the ordeal was painful for both of us.  I managed to get him buckled in his car seat while trying to look calm and composed as I closed his door, resisting the urge to slam it.  I climbed in the front seat.  Once in, I sat there panting with frustration and feelings of self-pity because my experience mothering infants and toddlers has not been normal.  [I realize there is no normal and being home with small children is difficult - even for the mothers who have kids who nap.  I wouldn't know what that's like, but I can imagine, and I'm sure it's still difficult.  No sarcasm here.  Sarcasm is cheap and unattractive.]

I pleaded with him, "Honey, you have to stop throwing those fits.  What happened?  It's not appropriate.  We can't go back to Build-A-Bear - not today.  When you can be calm we'll try again another day."  He screamed and kicked and didn't hear a word I said.  I felt like I had to say something, even if it was to myself.

Fifteen minutes into the 30-minute drive home, Toddler Child found his calm.  His head resting on the car seat, his eyes pink and swollen looking out the side window, at nothing, and he was touching his ear.  [He's an ear fondler.]  He was exhausted and so was I.  We were empty.  I asked him if his fit was over and he said yes, Mom.  I told him I loved him even when I was angry - there was nothing he could do to make me stop loving him, but I didn't like his behavior.  He just looked out the window, touching his ear.

We continued home in silence.

The day was so beautiful.  The quiet in the car was nice. 

We were only five minutes from our house when I noticed a group of men, maybe five or six of them, sitting in the grass taking what appeared to be a lunch break.  They were construction workers.  A few were large men, a few were small, almost wiry.  They were dressed in jeans or coveralls, flannel shirts, sweatshirts and various shades of brown lace-up boots.  They all looked happy.  Happy to be employed, happy to have lunch on the grass on a beautiful day, happy to be sharing life anecdotes and laughs with one another.  Just happy.

One man, a larger person, was laying on his stomach.  He wore faded blue coveralls over a gray hooded sweatshirt.  His boots were light tan and he had the toe of one boot balancing on the heel of the other - his feet stacked like a tower behind him.  His arms were folded under his chest and his chin was resting on his arms.  He looked to be in his late 40s or early 50s and I bet when he goes to the barbershop, he simply says, "High and tight!" with a grin.

These men...so full...filled me.

Toddler Child and I sat on the couch together when we got home.  He watched television and touched my ear while I read the paper and rifled through a stack of magazines and catalogs.  He may not have been satiated, but he was on his way.

Pasta Under the Piano

The Discovery
One week ago today, Chris and Toddler Child were in the basement rolling around on the floor.  [I don't know what they were doing.]  Chris noticed some discolored moisture near the peddles of our piano—an antique upright.

Chris pulled the piano away from the wall and discovered a wet, chunky mess.  Huh, he thought.  He cleaned the big chunks with paper towels and was coming up the stairs into the kitchen just as Toddler Child was telling me, "We have a messy house."

Chris' Description
I looked at Chris curiously.  He said, "Yeah, something weird happened down there.  Someone spilled something under the piano."

I told him that was impossible, the piano's too big and heavy plus the kids don't eat or drink in the basement.  Maybe Mary [the dog] puked, I suggested.  She'd have to stick her little snout right at the base of the piano and projectile vomit to get it under the piano, but it could happen.

"I bet that's it!" he said.

Proud of our genius, I followed Chris to the basement to see what he'd found.

WTH?
Walking down the stairs, I immediately saw the messy house that Toddler Child described.  "Chris!  This is NOT a spill or dog vomit.  Look at the baseboard.  It's a frickin' leak.  Crap."

In Chris' defense, he had been focused on cleaning the big chunks and hadn't spent much time investigating the source of the problem.

Our over-inflated genius heads deflated.  Quickly.  Fear, panic and visions of money flying out the window began visibly filling us.  Like orange water being poured into a clear vessel.  We were running around, orange water sloshing and spilling out of every orifice in our heads - his contaminated water was getting on me, and mine on him.  We were a mess.

The Professionals
Where's Dwayne Schneider [One Day at a Time], Mr. Roper [Three's Company], or Tim Taylor [Home Improvement] when you need them?  We've had every inept plumber, roofer, *mold specialist, and generic repair person at our house the past week.  A professional comes in the house, shakes his head, mumbles, tries to fix something that isn't broken, then charges us at least $100.  We have few answers... and a leak.

*Mold
We don't have a nightmare-mold situation, but there was organic material growing in a small area under the piano.  Some of the staining on the carpet was paint and old mystery stuff that leeched from the piano - not mold.  But the original chunks Chris cleaned?  Most likely... mushrooms.

Because Chris had cleaned the bulk of the mess, I couldn't describe it to the mold guy.  I called Chris at work.

"Hey. The mold guy's here. What did the chunky stuff look like?"

"Pasta."

"Really?"

"It was like pieces of pasta noodles."

"Like ziti?"

"I don't know. It just looked like pasta."

I told the mold guy what Chris said. He made a few notes, said he's seen much worse and seemed to be amused by my disgust at the entire situation. Ha-ha. Here's YOUR hundred bucks. [It's like a strip club in our house, only I'm doling out hundreds and my dancers are fat guys with ungroomed mustaches, jackets that smell like gasoline, and very dirty shoes. I feel frustrated and irritated I've spent so much money. Sound familiar, fellas?]

Status
We have a water softener specialist scheduled to arrive this afternoon. We [Chris and I, NOT the professionals] think the source of the leak is the water softener. Using our crack analytical skills, we're certain we've honed in on the problem.

The damaged carpet, baseboard and drywall have been removed, and the contaminated piano has been wrapped until we can find someone to move it, and I don't know...remove the organic material from the bottom of it?

There's a HEPA air filter in the basement that's been running since Friday afternoon. I think we're pretty much defunkified.

I'm convinced there are mold spores growing in my lungs because I've developed a sudden respiratory condition. I've been the one at home dealing with all the professionals, showing them the mess, watching them touch it and stir it, and float potentially dangerous spores in my airspace. My condition is one that mimics a virus that's prevalent in our area, but I've reminded Chris if he remarries upon my death—I'll haunt him. Just in case I have the deadly mold spores in my lungs.