When I went to Bloomingto visit Rachelle, we planned on going to Oliver Winery for wine tasting, and we invited the LB. He was to graduate in a week and a half and still hadn’t been to Oliver. I wanted to acquaint him with the place.
Because Kevin still had class, Rachelle and I planned to pick him up in front of Swain Hall at 12:30 for his first visit to the winery.
In the morning, after an evening spent in preparation for the winery (by imbibing two bottles of wine), I texted Kevin to remind him we were picking him up. An hour later, I received nothing back. I called him. His phone went straight to voicemail. I sent another texted, then called again ten minutes later. Still, just the voicemail answered.
Kevin went out the night before to Sports for Two Dollar Long Island Night. He smartly posted Facebook something about receiving $32 back for $400 worth of books and how this equaled 16 Long Islands at Sports. My mom saw this.
Anyway, knowing he was most definitely inebriated the previous night, I assumed he came home drunk and forgot to plug his phone in and the battery died. No biggie. I just needed to know if he was at class or at his apartment.
While Rachelle bought my Christmas present (620 thread count sheets!), I called my mom to get my brother’s apartment number. She didn’t know it. She asked why I needed it. Against my better judgment, I had to tell her that Kevin wasn’t answering his phone – that it was going straight to voicemail.
Ok, hold tight…
This is seriously what she said –
“Oh my god, he’s in jail!”
Yes, she equated a dead phone with Kevin in jail. No, no one in my family has dramatic tendencies.
(For the sarcasm-impaired, that was an extremely sarcastic last sentence).
So while i assumed he was drunk and didn't charge his phone, she assumed he was drunk and arrested. That has to say something about my family. Instead of throwing on assumptions on what, I'll let you decide, reader.
I talk with her, try to get her to understand that he would most definitely have called me if he really did get a room in County Lock Up, but she wasn’t swayed.
“Well, what do you want me to do?” I asked. “I have a new phone, and I don’t have anyone’s numbers. Plus, Rachelle and I are out shopping.”
“Erin, I know he’s in jail. I have a bad feeling.” The last time he had a bad feeling a tornado was in the next county and she caused me to lose my phone. But that's a story for another time.
I hang up the phone and shake my head. Rachelle and I head out of Bed Bath and Beyond for the mall and Old Navy.
While in line checking out with a pair of those cute little knit, faux Uggs, she calls me, going on about Kevin in jail again. I close my eyes and think of Key West, Rum Runners, and hot sexy pirates. Nothing good happens. She’s still ranting.
There’s only one way to end my suffering and that is by confirming whether or not Kevin landed in the clutches of the BPD who let him sleep in a cell last night. I call a friend who works for the sheriff’s office back home and get the number for the Monroe Couny jail. Nice as he is, he also tells me to call if Kevin stumbled home and landed in a cell.
Feeling like complete white trash with a meth lab chilling in my kitchen, I call the jail. When they answer, I tell them I need to see if they are holding someone and give our last name. When I was in college, I was the only one in school. Since our last name isn’t Brown, Smith, or Johnson, I’m willing to bet that no other relatives, no matter how distant are, are at IU, much less fulfilling their reservation in the Monroe jail.
She asks for a first name.
Oh my god – I think as I tell her Kevin’s name. He is in jail. He seriously is in jail. I’m in shock.
And as my brain complete’s this image of me in a sleeveless t-shirt (despite in being December), ripped jeans, and LA gear high tops complete with a mullet and a bottle of Stella Artois in hand bailing my little brother out of jail, the voice comes back over the phone and tells me that Kevin is not at the jail.
Feeling the need to reassert myself as an upstanding member of society with a college degree and a middle class background, I said “Oh thank you! His phone is going straight voicemail and my mom is convinced that means he’s in jail.”
She laughed and hung up.
I called my mother and told her that was not, I repeat NOT, in jail.
“You talked to him?” she asked me.
“No, I called the jail.””
“So you didn’t talk to him?” she asks with worry in her voice.
“Um, no,” I said wondering what in the hell could be the problem now. Kevin wasn’t in jail like she predicted so he would be in his bed sleeping off a hangover.
“Oh my god, he could be dead!”
Yes, you read that right. Kevin went from a cot, communal showering, and bartering with cigarettes to being dead.
“Ok, that’s just…a bit…much,” I said trying to control my deep desire to laugh. Kevin? Dead?
“He could be, Erin.”
“Well I think we would’ve gotten a call.”
“Things happen, Erin,” my mom said.
The laughter is welling up in my throat and seeing as how it is 12:15, I tell her we’re heading to meet up with Kevin and I’ll let her know if he is waiting for us like he’s supposed to be.
“What was that about?” Rachelle asks.
“Kevin could be dead.”
Rachelle laughs.
“Yeah, I know. I mean car crashes, things of that sort are possible, but we would be contacted,” I said. She agrees, still laughing as she drives. “And does she think someone is going to jump him and leave him for dead in an alley? He’s a guy. Yeah, that may happen to a small number of guys, but there’s a better chance of it happening to Andrea or me. Frankly, I think Kevin has a better chance of winning the lottery then catching ebola and getting ran over by a bus as he claims his priza money than getting taken out by a group of gang-banging thugs.”
At this point, we are approaching Swain Hall. Kevin is not there. We drive by three times. Kevin is not there. During the drive-bys, my mother texts me to say that my dad knows Kevin’s apartment number.
That is one phone call I do not want to make.
Why?
Because he doesn’t know I’m in Bloomington. Because if I tell him I’m looking for Kevin (to surprise him not because mom thought he was 1-in jail and now 2-dead), I have to tell him that I drove up to Bloomington. When he finds out I’m in Bloomington, I’m going to get to hear about how I should’ve called him and let him know what I was doing and then called to let him know that I made it safely (despite the broken windshield wiper, too!).
It’s not that I intentionally hide things from people. Ok, well maybe it is. But I’m between the ages of 25 and 30, I pay for my own gas, I pay for my own insurance, and frankly I believe most people are on a need to know basis about my plans. Sure, I’ll blog about them after the fact, but what’s done is done and what will be done, well, you’ll know about it once its done.
Fifteen minutes after Kevin was supposed to meet us, I cringe and call my father, prepared to be read the riot act because I like to operate on a need to know basis and frankly, no one needs to know. Luckily, he didn’t say anything. Maybe he is accepting the fact that I am and can take care of myself. He’s driving and can’t remember Kevin’s exact apartment number, but gives me directions.
Rachelle and I follow the directions. We saw Kevin’s little Jetta and walked inside the building. I call my dad to make sure we are knocking on the right door. I think we are and a moment of relief settles over me that we have finally reached the end of the yellow brick road. Emerald City, here we come!
I knock on the door.
I wait and knock again.
And again.
No answer. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Not even the Wicked Witch of the West flies by on her broom to deliver an ominous message about me
I start to cuss and of course, my mom takes the time to call me then. I tell her we still don’t know where he is, that I’m not sure if I’m at his apartment. She calls a friend of his and then gives me the number for one of Kevin’s roommates. I call the roommate. The phone rings to voicemail, and I send a text message explaining what is happening.
There is nothing else to do. We’ve made phone calls, we’ve visited the apartment, we’ve called the jail…so Rachelle and I decide to drive to the winery.
My mom calls us and asks about the roommate. I tell her that he didn’t answer, that I sent him a text. She goes on and on about how he’s dead.
“Mom,” I said, “they’d call us if he was!”
“What if he doesn’t have identification?”
“Did someone mug him then kill him because I’m pretty sure he needs ID to get into Bloomington bars.”
“I’m just saying, Erin. I’m just saying.”
Rachelle laughs. We get to winery and sample some of the Marechal Foch Nouveau and the Sangria Classic. We are having some of the brand new (and amazing) Sparkling Catawba poured for us when my mom calls.
Guess what.
Kevin is okay.
Not only is okay but he spent the night in his own bed not a county cot or a ditch!
She hangs up and Kevin calls me and apologizes.
This is apparently what happened. During the course of the evening, the battery on Kevin’s phone ran dead. When he got home, he plugged in to charge and turned the phone back on. His alarm went off in the morning, he got up, showered, and because he wasn’t feeling to hot (sinuses), he decided to stay home. He forgot that when his phone ran down, he didn’t just have to turn it on, but turn the radio on so his phone would pick up radio waves and phone calls. That is why his phone was going straight to voicemail.
I hate being right.
However, he could've saved us some pain if he had got up and answered the door when he heard someone knocking on it. That's right. Kevin heard us knocking, admitting to hear us knocking, but rolled over and went back to sleep.
Because he sounds bad, I bite my tongue to keep from castigating, and I tell him I’m going to pick some stuff up for him. Rachelle and I finish the tasting and I buy two bottles of Traminette, a bottle of the sparking Catawba, the Sangria Classic, Chardonel, Muscat Canelli, and Voignier.
When I get there I tell Kevin the story.
He gapes at me. “She thought I was in jail,” he asked incredulously.
I nod my head. “And when I proved you weren’t in jail, you were dead.”
“Wow,” he said in that loving sarcastic voice that matches mine. “Wow.”
“Yeah, dead. Seriously.”
“What? Does she think someone’s going to gangbang me and leave me for dead?”
I laughed. “I don’t know, Kevin. I don’t know.”
After we left, I apologized to Rach for having to search for my brother with me.
She laughed. “I didn’t have to work today,” she good-naturedly said. “I just wanted to spend time with my sister (we’ve adopted each other). And I can’t say that this wasn’t exactly entertaining.”
I laughed. She was right. It did make for interesting day.
She laughed again. “And I can’t read to read about this in your blog.”
Well, Rach…Enjoy!
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
The Wiper Blade of Destiny and My Young Life
My trips to IU are always eventful.
This is mainly because my beloved Indiana University is located in a town that is in BFE. Literally. It’s an hour south of Indianapolis and at least an hour off of Interstates 65 and 64. No matter where you’re coming from, you will be on a 2-lane (one lane in each direction) twisty-turny, hilly highway.
And I have no patience.
My lack of patience and lead-foot earned my little Neon the title of the “Corporate Jet.”
During my tenure at IU I was pulled over…5(?) times and received two tickets and one warning. I took online defensive driving twice and accidentally flashed an officer one time.
Yes, it was an accident. A button popped open and like a true classy college student, my hot pink bra was on display. I noticed this later when I got home and family was kind of enough to point it out. No ticket or warning was issued that time and I was about 15 miles over the speed limit.
Now, I’m fine until I get to Bloomfield. After Bloomfield, I put on Rammstein or some other angry music to get the adrenaline pumping because after Bloomfield, it’s the two-lane twisty-turny, hilly highway and I refuse to drive behind someone going less than 50 miles an hour when I can drive the highway at 65 easy.
I’ve driven the highway more times than I wanted to and while there are a total of four areas for passing in the state’s eyes, in my eyes, there are oh so many more, especially in the winter when the leaves are off the trees and you can see around curves.
Like all trips to Bloomington, my trip up this Tuesday proved eventful – and it was because I was flashing cops to get out of tickets or scoping out new passing zones. No, my trip was more than memorable because of a wiper blade.
On Tuesday, it rained and rained and rained and when I decided to leave to see my Rachelle, it decided to rain even harder. Of course, Murphy’s Law.
I have my windshield wipers on, naturally.
After about an hour driving, a notice that something funny is going on with the top of my driver-side wiper blade. I try, try, try to ignore it, but thirty minutes later, I pull over into a gas station and check out the situation.
The wiper blade is protruding about three inches out doodad and the wiper is forked. I study the blade and figure out how it fits together, than shove it back into the doodad.
I have a moment of utter ingenious wash over me at how I managed to take care of the problem so efficiently.
I drive on. The wiper is working beautifully.
However, 20 miles down the road, the wiper is back to its tricks. The problem is I’m right smack dab in the very middle of BFE. There is nowhere to stop. There isn’t even a side of the road to pull over onto. Not only that, but the sky has done from dark to pitch black.
I shake my head and drive on.
The blade gets worse. Even more of the blade is forked and falling apart.
I cuss but turn my radio up. I can see, I’m not far from Bloomington, and once I’m there will see who laughs longest, Mr. Wiper Blade.
I didn’t laugh.
No, when the wiper peel apart like a banana and flew over my windshield to land on the dark, wet pavement, I was not laughing.
I was panicking.
It was pitch black outside. There was no side of the road, no streetlights, only curves, hills, and the blurry taillights of the car in front of me.
Both of my hands grabbed at the steering wheel. I decelerated from 50 mph to 30. It was impossible to see.
This is it – that was my only thought.
This is really how I’m going to go out.
The wiper blade was my executioner and my gold Saturn was Charon navigating me across River Styxx to my final place of rest.
Dramatic, I know, but I knew I was surrounded by curving hills and had absolutely no vision…when this happens to you, come back and tell me how clearly you thought.
I wouldn’t be there to give Rachelle her wine glasses. I wouldn’t get to see my sister open her gifts. I wouldn’t get to play with the gift I got my cousin Brenton – the Lego Pirate Ship, I wouldn’t see my dog, and no, I still couldn’t fit into an Express size two (although my hair would look great, thanks Andrea!).
There was no living to old age (although the upside to that is no wrinkles or gravity taking its toll on my breasts and ass), no seeing my nieces or nephews been be born, seeing my siblings be married, no cloning my dog, and I definitely wasn’t going to find out if there was a man alive that could tolerate me for long enough to go crazy and ask me to marry him.
And I wasn’t even going out in a cool fashion. No one had killed me, no diseases had overtaken my immune system. No, I had would have to die because a wiper blade. Who dies because of a wiper blade!? Me, obviously.
Since I’m writing this blog, I am obviously still alive.
I was finally able to slow to a speed where I could ascertain some shapes. And one of the shapes I made out was an abandoned gas station about 8-10 miles from Bloomington.
I stopped and called Bill, Rachelle’s husband. No answer. I called Rachelle who was on her way home from work. She answered and I told her the situation.
I was beginning to calm down. I had survived and at the very least, I would wait in the car until Rachelle got to me, the worst of my fears would be pissing my pants (suddenly, I had a bladder the size of a walnut and I had to go).
We talked more. And then I got the bright idea to drive leaning across my console and looking out the passenger window to drive. And drive I did to Rachelle’s house, keeping the car on the road and my pants dry when I finally pulled into her drive.
The next morning, freezing and snowing in Bloomington, Rachelle and I went to get my Christmas present (620 thread count sheets that are smooth like butter and I love them, girl!) and we stopped at a body shop by the mall. We were looking up the wiper blade size and worker offered to help us.
“What kind of car do you have?” he asked.
“A 2001 Saturn,” I said.
“What kind?”
“I have no idea,” I replied. “My uncle owns a body shop and told me it was a good car to buy.”
He laughed. “Yeah, you’re not the first Saturn owner to not know what her car is.”
He looked up the different Saturn’s. I don’t own the big luxury car, so there were only two choices left. Both had used a 22-inch wiper blade on the driver side.
After shopping (and searching for the brother which is ANOTHER story), we came home for Bill to change the wiper blade. Not only was the blade frozen, but we noticed it was the wrong size.
I packed up my stuff and went over to the body shop to return the blade. Another guy was working and he went out with me pulled the make and model of the car and looked it up. Yep, the 22-inch blade was right. Which meant that someone had put the wrong blade on my car the last time I had the blade changed.
Why am I not surprised.
But, at least I’d lived to get the blade changed!
This is mainly because my beloved Indiana University is located in a town that is in BFE. Literally. It’s an hour south of Indianapolis and at least an hour off of Interstates 65 and 64. No matter where you’re coming from, you will be on a 2-lane (one lane in each direction) twisty-turny, hilly highway.
And I have no patience.
My lack of patience and lead-foot earned my little Neon the title of the “Corporate Jet.”
During my tenure at IU I was pulled over…5(?) times and received two tickets and one warning. I took online defensive driving twice and accidentally flashed an officer one time.
Yes, it was an accident. A button popped open and like a true classy college student, my hot pink bra was on display. I noticed this later when I got home and family was kind of enough to point it out. No ticket or warning was issued that time and I was about 15 miles over the speed limit.
Now, I’m fine until I get to Bloomfield. After Bloomfield, I put on Rammstein or some other angry music to get the adrenaline pumping because after Bloomfield, it’s the two-lane twisty-turny, hilly highway and I refuse to drive behind someone going less than 50 miles an hour when I can drive the highway at 65 easy.
I’ve driven the highway more times than I wanted to and while there are a total of four areas for passing in the state’s eyes, in my eyes, there are oh so many more, especially in the winter when the leaves are off the trees and you can see around curves.
Like all trips to Bloomington, my trip up this Tuesday proved eventful – and it was because I was flashing cops to get out of tickets or scoping out new passing zones. No, my trip was more than memorable because of a wiper blade.
On Tuesday, it rained and rained and rained and when I decided to leave to see my Rachelle, it decided to rain even harder. Of course, Murphy’s Law.
I have my windshield wipers on, naturally.
After about an hour driving, a notice that something funny is going on with the top of my driver-side wiper blade. I try, try, try to ignore it, but thirty minutes later, I pull over into a gas station and check out the situation.
The wiper blade is protruding about three inches out doodad and the wiper is forked. I study the blade and figure out how it fits together, than shove it back into the doodad.
I have a moment of utter ingenious wash over me at how I managed to take care of the problem so efficiently.
I drive on. The wiper is working beautifully.
However, 20 miles down the road, the wiper is back to its tricks. The problem is I’m right smack dab in the very middle of BFE. There is nowhere to stop. There isn’t even a side of the road to pull over onto. Not only that, but the sky has done from dark to pitch black.
I shake my head and drive on.
The blade gets worse. Even more of the blade is forked and falling apart.
I cuss but turn my radio up. I can see, I’m not far from Bloomington, and once I’m there will see who laughs longest, Mr. Wiper Blade.
I didn’t laugh.
No, when the wiper peel apart like a banana and flew over my windshield to land on the dark, wet pavement, I was not laughing.
I was panicking.
It was pitch black outside. There was no side of the road, no streetlights, only curves, hills, and the blurry taillights of the car in front of me.
Both of my hands grabbed at the steering wheel. I decelerated from 50 mph to 30. It was impossible to see.
This is it – that was my only thought.
This is really how I’m going to go out.
The wiper blade was my executioner and my gold Saturn was Charon navigating me across River Styxx to my final place of rest.
Dramatic, I know, but I knew I was surrounded by curving hills and had absolutely no vision…when this happens to you, come back and tell me how clearly you thought.
I wouldn’t be there to give Rachelle her wine glasses. I wouldn’t get to see my sister open her gifts. I wouldn’t get to play with the gift I got my cousin Brenton – the Lego Pirate Ship, I wouldn’t see my dog, and no, I still couldn’t fit into an Express size two (although my hair would look great, thanks Andrea!).
There was no living to old age (although the upside to that is no wrinkles or gravity taking its toll on my breasts and ass), no seeing my nieces or nephews been be born, seeing my siblings be married, no cloning my dog, and I definitely wasn’t going to find out if there was a man alive that could tolerate me for long enough to go crazy and ask me to marry him.
And I wasn’t even going out in a cool fashion. No one had killed me, no diseases had overtaken my immune system. No, I had would have to die because a wiper blade. Who dies because of a wiper blade!? Me, obviously.
Since I’m writing this blog, I am obviously still alive.
I was finally able to slow to a speed where I could ascertain some shapes. And one of the shapes I made out was an abandoned gas station about 8-10 miles from Bloomington.
I stopped and called Bill, Rachelle’s husband. No answer. I called Rachelle who was on her way home from work. She answered and I told her the situation.
I was beginning to calm down. I had survived and at the very least, I would wait in the car until Rachelle got to me, the worst of my fears would be pissing my pants (suddenly, I had a bladder the size of a walnut and I had to go).
We talked more. And then I got the bright idea to drive leaning across my console and looking out the passenger window to drive. And drive I did to Rachelle’s house, keeping the car on the road and my pants dry when I finally pulled into her drive.
The next morning, freezing and snowing in Bloomington, Rachelle and I went to get my Christmas present (620 thread count sheets that are smooth like butter and I love them, girl!) and we stopped at a body shop by the mall. We were looking up the wiper blade size and worker offered to help us.
“What kind of car do you have?” he asked.
“A 2001 Saturn,” I said.
“What kind?”
“I have no idea,” I replied. “My uncle owns a body shop and told me it was a good car to buy.”
He laughed. “Yeah, you’re not the first Saturn owner to not know what her car is.”
He looked up the different Saturn’s. I don’t own the big luxury car, so there were only two choices left. Both had used a 22-inch wiper blade on the driver side.
After shopping (and searching for the brother which is ANOTHER story), we came home for Bill to change the wiper blade. Not only was the blade frozen, but we noticed it was the wrong size.
I packed up my stuff and went over to the body shop to return the blade. Another guy was working and he went out with me pulled the make and model of the car and looked it up. Yep, the 22-inch blade was right. Which meant that someone had put the wrong blade on my car the last time I had the blade changed.
Why am I not surprised.
But, at least I’d lived to get the blade changed!
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Round 2: I'm Taking Back Control!
I will switch health insurance companies come February.
What? You’re not surprised?
Ok, given Round One in which Erin scored a small victory, it’s probably not such a big surprise.
Now, it’s on to Round Two.
It’s time to pay my quarterly premium (remember, I pay quarterly to avoid the insurance company receiving an extra $20 for processing fees, petty, but look at who I’m up against).
I go through several different menus, enter my account about five times and am redirected two times before I finally find someone who can process my payment.
“I’d like to pay by credit card,” I said (dum, da dum dum).
“We do not accept credit card, we accept check. You still have time to send us a check in,” the snotty insurance person says.
“I can’t send you a check with quarterly premiums for both me and my sister.”
“Just a minute,” she says and begins to check my account. At least that’s what I assume since I hear keys clacking. For all I know she could be typing out an email to a coworker saying “Crazy ass bitch, line 1. Watch me deal with her.”
She stops clacking. “We show that you have already paid with a credit card.”
“Yes, in September. He told me I could call back with my credit card if it got close to my due date.”
“We allow you pay only one time by credit card,” she says in a voice reeking of superiority. We’ll see how super you are if government healthcare passes (not that I think that would be a good thing, but if this chica lost her job, I sure wouldn’t cry).
“Seriously, you’re not going to process this?” I ask.
“You can mail us in a check,” she sniffs as if I’m some low-brow pleb emitting an awful odor. How dare she sniff at me. I’m from a solid middle-class family, I may have some low-brow tastes, but how many people can name the first woman entombed in the Vatican? How many people even know that there are a total of three women entombed in the Vatican? And as far as my odor goes, I did bathe today and anyway, we’re on the phone!
Peeved, I say, “If I have to mail a check in, I will find another insurance agency. It’s not exactly hard for me to get coverage.” One of the positives to being still relatively young and of a normal weight.
“Ma’am,” she says, but I’m on a roll.
“I was not told I could only pay once with a credit card, and had I known that, I would have started looking for an insurance company right then and there.”
“Ma’am,” she says again before I get a chance to toss out the word “crooks” into my monologue. “Let me send your request off for a case study.”
“How long with that take?” I ask. Funnily enough, my tone is now snotty and she is kind of simpering.
“You will hear back from someone today,” she says and then the phone clicks in my ear.
I was a bit disappointed by the conversation, and not necessarily because I didn’t get my way. Sure, that was a contributor to my overall feeling, but this chick was not near as engaging as the last fellow was. I absentmindedly let loose a chuckle as I remember our back and forth “We prefer check-I prefer card,” argument.
And the nerve of this chick. To sit up on her thrown of policies casting blame and judgment on all of us lowly plebeians, making us feel like we were in the wrong for the calling the big, bad insurance company. Still, I did get a kick out of her seeing turn such a complete 180 when I said I would be taking my policy elsewhere. She did jump to action. True, it was a chance for her to pawn me off on someone else, but had I not received a call by 3:30 p.m., I would’ve waged my phone call campaign and continued to call until I got my way.
It’s a bit ironic. I feel like there is never enough time in the day to get things done. Then someone pisses me off and I make time to bring someone war with my phone calls.
But before the phone call war begins, I must have ammunition or a leg to stand on, if you please. I call my insurance agent. He makes commission off of my policy; he needs to do something to earn that pay. I tell them that the company will not let me renew my policy because they will not accept my credit card. I then say that if I cannot pay with a credit card, I will need some new policies to see.
Apparently, he wasn’t aware that you couldn’t pay by a credit card. With my insurance agent on my side, I feel much more secure in my position.
The day goes by. I get some work done for an event this Saturday (Another reason the insurance people don’t want to mess with is that I will get up at 4 a.m. for the next two days so I can work out, shower, and get to a place an hour away by 8 a.m.). I don’t just like my sleep, I love my sleep. If I was a fifth-grader, sleep would be that best friend that I’d have to talk to every night or else I’d feel like I would die. My passion for sleep can only be matched by my passion for books (sometimes the passions clash, like when its bedtime and I’m 50 pages from the end of a book. This isn’t a good thing.).
At 1:30, I go to tan and whiten my teeth. Yes, whiten my teeth. I know, I know, I’m a fairly vain creature. But I’m 28 and single. Not that I’m looking or want to get married soon, but I need to be on top of my looks when and if my biological clock ever starts ticking. Besides, how cool is it that for $25, I can put the same stuff on my teeth that they use at the dentist’s office and whiten my teeth, literally knocking out two birds with one stone.
When I’m done, I go to the grocery store from some candy. If only the health insurance people knew…and bam! As if someone has a crystal ball and knows what I am up to, I get a call from the health insurance company.
“I was enjoying your ringback tone,” he says to me.
Yeah, I know. It’s The Office. It kicks ass. “Oh, thanks.”
“Anyway, I’ve reviewed your case and can make an exception for you this time and this time only.”
“That’s fine, I’ll pay it, but I won’t be with you guys in the future.”
“You’re switching now?” he asks me.
“No, I want you to take this payment, but this will be the last payment you take from me if you keep forcing me to pay by check.”
“I’m sorry Ma’am, that is just out policy. I can take this one payment for you by credit card, and then that’s it.”
Since I was in the grocery store buying candy, I waxed poetically about their policies and extra charges and how I didn’t trust them (the company, not the guy who was actually fairly decent), and how they were my third insurance company in three years.
“I’m not high maintenance,” I said after I realized how that statement could be misconstrued because I had to have my “case” evaluated. “I’m just cheap.”
And thus was the end of Round 2. Maybe I wasn’t a decisive winner – I am now shopping for a new insurance carrier – but Golden Rule will no longer be able to throw a party on my dime. That being said, I think I did come out ahead.
What? You’re not surprised?
Ok, given Round One in which Erin scored a small victory, it’s probably not such a big surprise.
Now, it’s on to Round Two.
It’s time to pay my quarterly premium (remember, I pay quarterly to avoid the insurance company receiving an extra $20 for processing fees, petty, but look at who I’m up against).
I go through several different menus, enter my account about five times and am redirected two times before I finally find someone who can process my payment.
“I’d like to pay by credit card,” I said (dum, da dum dum).
“We do not accept credit card, we accept check. You still have time to send us a check in,” the snotty insurance person says.
“I can’t send you a check with quarterly premiums for both me and my sister.”
“Just a minute,” she says and begins to check my account. At least that’s what I assume since I hear keys clacking. For all I know she could be typing out an email to a coworker saying “Crazy ass bitch, line 1. Watch me deal with her.”
She stops clacking. “We show that you have already paid with a credit card.”
“Yes, in September. He told me I could call back with my credit card if it got close to my due date.”
“We allow you pay only one time by credit card,” she says in a voice reeking of superiority. We’ll see how super you are if government healthcare passes (not that I think that would be a good thing, but if this chica lost her job, I sure wouldn’t cry).
“Seriously, you’re not going to process this?” I ask.
“You can mail us in a check,” she sniffs as if I’m some low-brow pleb emitting an awful odor. How dare she sniff at me. I’m from a solid middle-class family, I may have some low-brow tastes, but how many people can name the first woman entombed in the Vatican? How many people even know that there are a total of three women entombed in the Vatican? And as far as my odor goes, I did bathe today and anyway, we’re on the phone!
Peeved, I say, “If I have to mail a check in, I will find another insurance agency. It’s not exactly hard for me to get coverage.” One of the positives to being still relatively young and of a normal weight.
“Ma’am,” she says, but I’m on a roll.
“I was not told I could only pay once with a credit card, and had I known that, I would have started looking for an insurance company right then and there.”
“Ma’am,” she says again before I get a chance to toss out the word “crooks” into my monologue. “Let me send your request off for a case study.”
“How long with that take?” I ask. Funnily enough, my tone is now snotty and she is kind of simpering.
“You will hear back from someone today,” she says and then the phone clicks in my ear.
I was a bit disappointed by the conversation, and not necessarily because I didn’t get my way. Sure, that was a contributor to my overall feeling, but this chick was not near as engaging as the last fellow was. I absentmindedly let loose a chuckle as I remember our back and forth “We prefer check-I prefer card,” argument.
And the nerve of this chick. To sit up on her thrown of policies casting blame and judgment on all of us lowly plebeians, making us feel like we were in the wrong for the calling the big, bad insurance company. Still, I did get a kick out of her seeing turn such a complete 180 when I said I would be taking my policy elsewhere. She did jump to action. True, it was a chance for her to pawn me off on someone else, but had I not received a call by 3:30 p.m., I would’ve waged my phone call campaign and continued to call until I got my way.
It’s a bit ironic. I feel like there is never enough time in the day to get things done. Then someone pisses me off and I make time to bring someone war with my phone calls.
But before the phone call war begins, I must have ammunition or a leg to stand on, if you please. I call my insurance agent. He makes commission off of my policy; he needs to do something to earn that pay. I tell them that the company will not let me renew my policy because they will not accept my credit card. I then say that if I cannot pay with a credit card, I will need some new policies to see.
Apparently, he wasn’t aware that you couldn’t pay by a credit card. With my insurance agent on my side, I feel much more secure in my position.
The day goes by. I get some work done for an event this Saturday (Another reason the insurance people don’t want to mess with is that I will get up at 4 a.m. for the next two days so I can work out, shower, and get to a place an hour away by 8 a.m.). I don’t just like my sleep, I love my sleep. If I was a fifth-grader, sleep would be that best friend that I’d have to talk to every night or else I’d feel like I would die. My passion for sleep can only be matched by my passion for books (sometimes the passions clash, like when its bedtime and I’m 50 pages from the end of a book. This isn’t a good thing.).
At 1:30, I go to tan and whiten my teeth. Yes, whiten my teeth. I know, I know, I’m a fairly vain creature. But I’m 28 and single. Not that I’m looking or want to get married soon, but I need to be on top of my looks when and if my biological clock ever starts ticking. Besides, how cool is it that for $25, I can put the same stuff on my teeth that they use at the dentist’s office and whiten my teeth, literally knocking out two birds with one stone.
When I’m done, I go to the grocery store from some candy. If only the health insurance people knew…and bam! As if someone has a crystal ball and knows what I am up to, I get a call from the health insurance company.
“I was enjoying your ringback tone,” he says to me.
Yeah, I know. It’s The Office. It kicks ass. “Oh, thanks.”
“Anyway, I’ve reviewed your case and can make an exception for you this time and this time only.”
“That’s fine, I’ll pay it, but I won’t be with you guys in the future.”
“You’re switching now?” he asks me.
“No, I want you to take this payment, but this will be the last payment you take from me if you keep forcing me to pay by check.”
“I’m sorry Ma’am, that is just out policy. I can take this one payment for you by credit card, and then that’s it.”
Since I was in the grocery store buying candy, I waxed poetically about their policies and extra charges and how I didn’t trust them (the company, not the guy who was actually fairly decent), and how they were my third insurance company in three years.
“I’m not high maintenance,” I said after I realized how that statement could be misconstrued because I had to have my “case” evaluated. “I’m just cheap.”
And thus was the end of Round 2. Maybe I wasn’t a decisive winner – I am now shopping for a new insurance carrier – but Golden Rule will no longer be able to throw a party on my dime. That being said, I think I did come out ahead.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
The Decay and Demoralization of Civilization and Humanity.
I’ll be the first to admit that I have a George Contanza-like ability to obsess over the littlest, most trivial of things.
I’m going to apologize for that right up front.
With that out of the way, I’ll admit to this – I operate on the idea of basic principles and manners befitting a human being when out in public.
Some of these rules are (with examples or further expostulating in parenthesis)
1. There should be at least a one-stall cushion in the bathroom (This gives women enough privacy to conclude their business and if you’re a guy, well, unless you want to check out someone’s junk, go as far away from the other male as possible.
2. Do not hover over a person at the ATM (Straight from the George Costanza handbook. If I wanted you to know my secret code – Bosco – I would take out a billboard and sell my identity to the highest bidder).
3. Do not bring more items than stated to the speedy check out (Really, mom of four who is shopping for the week when all I have is hamburger buns, turkey burgers, and potatoes).
4. Do not give blood at the plasma center (There is nothing wrong with giving blood, but if you want a sterilized needle, you should go to a place that doesn’t give away checks to the unkempt masses. Before you castigate me, you should see the lines I pass at the plasma center on my way to work. Or ask my sister about her co-workers “girlfriend” who had a stripper friend that went to the plasma center every week for $35. Still need proof? I’ll take a picture).
5. At any big event there should be a chicken option (Not everyone eats fish, not everyone eats beef, but unless you’re a vegetarian, no one will turn down chicken).
6. Assume everyone around you cannot read and does not speak English (I’m guilty of this one too, my sister will talk and I’ll find the TV way more interesting than her. That is why you should always explain everything in detail to someone).
7. Do not take up two parking spaces (This is especially important when you are at the mall and even more important if you are at the mall at Christmas time. Don’t want your Jag beat up? Then I suggest you call a cab because if you’re taking up a space that could be mine, you might find a surprise when you leave).
8. Always be nice to your waiter. Even if they suck (Really, do I need to elaborate? They are carrying your food out to you and unless you want to kiss your waiter or waitress, I suggest acting as pleasant as punch and getting your revenge by leaving two pennies face down as the tip).
9. The left lane is for passing ANY TIME there is a left lane (This is the biggest pet peeve of mine, people who get in the left lane and barely drive. Or drive just fast enough to keep pace with the guy in the right lane, ensuring that everyone else behind them gets to drive at their slow pace).
10. If you are rude enough to take kids on a plane, keep them occupied, quiet, and in their seat (If I’m stuck on a cramped, two-hour flight with your screaming child, there is a very good chance someone will get hurt and someone will get arrested).
11. When standing in a line, once you have been waited on, move out of the way (Seems easy enough, but you’d be surprised).
Those are a few of my rules for everyone to get along in a civilized society. Seems as easy as pie, right? Wrong. Oh so very wrong, you are.
Whatever it is that has caused this blatant disregard for some of these basic rules, I have come to blame both the government and the economy.
To start blaming the government, I’m going to start with a very important document we all know named The Declaration of Independence. The declaration states: …that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights that among them are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness…
It then goes on to say that governments are set up by the people to make sure these rights are given to all.
Did anyone notice though that little tiny word in front of Happiness? Yes, that word, pursuit. Like, I am pursuing a goal of making a million dollars, of having book published sometime. Does the word pursuit guarantee that either of these things will happen?
No.
It doesn’t.
Which is good because if the government is supposed to make sure I am happy then they need to get cracking on helping. My hair is frizzy, my ass is too big, my dad is an exploitative ass bag, I drive a gold Saturn, and my dog is getting old. And I’m going to stop right there before I say way too much.
However, I know the government doesn’t give a damn about my situation (could be because my family is middle class though…). I know that at the moment, things are unhappy for me. I’ve come to terms with that.
I just don’t believe some people have. Some people feel entitled to happiness, even when their happiness infringes upon those few basic rules of a civilized society.
Now, onto the other topic of blame – the economy. Thomas Hobbs said human beings were self-serving brutes. Ok, maybe not all of us, maybe not all of the time, but let’s think about this in terms of Darwinism. Darwin preached about survival of the fittest. Well, in an economic downturn the “fittest” are the wealthiest.
Those who are unfit go into survival mode and survival mode causes them to forget about the world around them. They become so programmed into themselves they forget there are other people around and ignore those unspoken tenets of a civilized society.
Ok, I’m done preaching; I’ll get off my soapbox and tell my story now.
Penn Station is one of my all-time favorite restaurants. Their fries are just all kinds of scrumptious. Sunday night, Andrea and I decided to get Penn Station. We had some coupons for a free meal with a small sandwich, small fry, and a regular drink. Now, all of that works, except for the fry part. I devour those fries like an island castaway that’s just been rescued. So I ordered two extra small fries, one for each of us.
On the drive there, we both decided that a small wouldn’t be enough, so we arrive there and decide to get two mediums. We enter the building and find two older women (50-ish) hanging around by the register. We want to pay and aren’t sure what is going on. One pulls out a baby photo.
The two oblivious bitches who clearly think they are above everyone, do not move. Finally the squealing stops, one of the old bitches leaves and the other one stays there. We think she needs to pay. However, we find out that is not the case. The woman is standing there waiting for her food.
For those of you unfamiliar with Penn Station, I’ll tell you this – their food is cooked fresh when you order. Therefore, you will have a small wait until your food is ready. This is how the process works, you go in, you order, you slide down the food banquet and pay. After that I had always assumed you took a seat until you food was ready. It was what I did. I mean, it would be cool if Penn Station was only open to serve me, but it’s not.
So the old woman, she pays and stands there. The employee looks at us and we tell her our name. I naively think this woman will at least get out of the way so we can pay. Nope, she doesn’t. I thought wrong. She makes Andrea reach over her to pay.
So we fill up our drinks and sit at the small bar directly behind the woman where I begin to berate her behavior with my sister.
Andrea was a little shocked at how pissed I was.
“I mean, it’s the basic rules of humanity. You get out of the way for other people. Who does she think she is? She’s old, has bad hair, and a fat ass. I hope we get our food before her. Not so much because I want to leave, but because I want to get served before her. Seriously, what does she think she is gaining from standing up there? Does she think they’ll cook her food faster? I mean, I want my chicken done. No salmonella here. Honestly, Andrea, what the hell. Is she worried someone would spit in her food? I’d spit in her food if I was an employee here. If she can’t sit down and get out of my face, I would so spit in her food. It would be so funny if we got our food first because we’re all chill and relaxed and she’s like right there. ”
Okay, maybe saying we were chilled and relaxed was a bit much because I was clearly worked up.
Anyway, I could explain her slight to us by saying that despite being in our mid- to late-twenties, we look young. With our dirty Sunday clothes on and unkempt hair, she probably thought we were some high school kids and figured that since we were high school kids we scum (I have a tendency to generalize about high school kids which makes me feel old).
However, when a family of four, parents in their thirties and their two young children, came through the line, the stupid ass bitch still didn’t move! She made the family reach over her to pay!
RUDE!
RUDE, RUDE, RUDE!!!
And then she got her food first.
Two minutes later, Andrea and I got our food. We take it and walk out the door to the gold Saturn. Parked next to our car, just sitting in her car is the stupid ass bitch that wouldn’t move to save her soul despite the unspoken rules of society. She was smoking a cigarette. Go figure.
“What the hell,” I said. “Go home! You stand in front of the cashier to ensure you get your food as fast as possible and then don’t want to go home to your family…”
“Who just sits in their car and smokes a cigarette!” Andrea says. “At least light it and drive on! If you can’t smoke and drive then you shouldn’t smoke! Oh, her window’s open,” Andrea says a little quieter.
“I don’t care. Who can’t move out of the way? Seriously.”
I know I have been stressing about this more than I should be. I know I have practically told everyone I have come into contact with this story (Now I’m blogging about it). But I can’t get over it. This woman was old enough to know better. That’s the real kicker. But some self-righteous, all consuming demand for superiority flew up her ass causing her to think that she took precedence to everyone around her. Well, honey, you’re forgetting one thing. Pursuing happiness isn’t the only thing the declaration mentions. In fact, this other little phrase I’m thinking of is mentioned in the declaration and The Gettysburg Address.
“All people are created equal.”
So next time…
STEP ASIDE!
I’m going to apologize for that right up front.
With that out of the way, I’ll admit to this – I operate on the idea of basic principles and manners befitting a human being when out in public.
Some of these rules are (with examples or further expostulating in parenthesis)
1. There should be at least a one-stall cushion in the bathroom (This gives women enough privacy to conclude their business and if you’re a guy, well, unless you want to check out someone’s junk, go as far away from the other male as possible.
2. Do not hover over a person at the ATM (Straight from the George Costanza handbook. If I wanted you to know my secret code – Bosco – I would take out a billboard and sell my identity to the highest bidder).
3. Do not bring more items than stated to the speedy check out (Really, mom of four who is shopping for the week when all I have is hamburger buns, turkey burgers, and potatoes).
4. Do not give blood at the plasma center (There is nothing wrong with giving blood, but if you want a sterilized needle, you should go to a place that doesn’t give away checks to the unkempt masses. Before you castigate me, you should see the lines I pass at the plasma center on my way to work. Or ask my sister about her co-workers “girlfriend” who had a stripper friend that went to the plasma center every week for $35. Still need proof? I’ll take a picture).
5. At any big event there should be a chicken option (Not everyone eats fish, not everyone eats beef, but unless you’re a vegetarian, no one will turn down chicken).
6. Assume everyone around you cannot read and does not speak English (I’m guilty of this one too, my sister will talk and I’ll find the TV way more interesting than her. That is why you should always explain everything in detail to someone).
7. Do not take up two parking spaces (This is especially important when you are at the mall and even more important if you are at the mall at Christmas time. Don’t want your Jag beat up? Then I suggest you call a cab because if you’re taking up a space that could be mine, you might find a surprise when you leave).
8. Always be nice to your waiter. Even if they suck (Really, do I need to elaborate? They are carrying your food out to you and unless you want to kiss your waiter or waitress, I suggest acting as pleasant as punch and getting your revenge by leaving two pennies face down as the tip).
9. The left lane is for passing ANY TIME there is a left lane (This is the biggest pet peeve of mine, people who get in the left lane and barely drive. Or drive just fast enough to keep pace with the guy in the right lane, ensuring that everyone else behind them gets to drive at their slow pace).
10. If you are rude enough to take kids on a plane, keep them occupied, quiet, and in their seat (If I’m stuck on a cramped, two-hour flight with your screaming child, there is a very good chance someone will get hurt and someone will get arrested).
11. When standing in a line, once you have been waited on, move out of the way (Seems easy enough, but you’d be surprised).
Those are a few of my rules for everyone to get along in a civilized society. Seems as easy as pie, right? Wrong. Oh so very wrong, you are.
Whatever it is that has caused this blatant disregard for some of these basic rules, I have come to blame both the government and the economy.
To start blaming the government, I’m going to start with a very important document we all know named The Declaration of Independence. The declaration states: …that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights that among them are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness…
It then goes on to say that governments are set up by the people to make sure these rights are given to all.
Did anyone notice though that little tiny word in front of Happiness? Yes, that word, pursuit. Like, I am pursuing a goal of making a million dollars, of having book published sometime. Does the word pursuit guarantee that either of these things will happen?
No.
It doesn’t.
Which is good because if the government is supposed to make sure I am happy then they need to get cracking on helping. My hair is frizzy, my ass is too big, my dad is an exploitative ass bag, I drive a gold Saturn, and my dog is getting old. And I’m going to stop right there before I say way too much.
However, I know the government doesn’t give a damn about my situation (could be because my family is middle class though…). I know that at the moment, things are unhappy for me. I’ve come to terms with that.
I just don’t believe some people have. Some people feel entitled to happiness, even when their happiness infringes upon those few basic rules of a civilized society.
Now, onto the other topic of blame – the economy. Thomas Hobbs said human beings were self-serving brutes. Ok, maybe not all of us, maybe not all of the time, but let’s think about this in terms of Darwinism. Darwin preached about survival of the fittest. Well, in an economic downturn the “fittest” are the wealthiest.
Those who are unfit go into survival mode and survival mode causes them to forget about the world around them. They become so programmed into themselves they forget there are other people around and ignore those unspoken tenets of a civilized society.
Ok, I’m done preaching; I’ll get off my soapbox and tell my story now.
Penn Station is one of my all-time favorite restaurants. Their fries are just all kinds of scrumptious. Sunday night, Andrea and I decided to get Penn Station. We had some coupons for a free meal with a small sandwich, small fry, and a regular drink. Now, all of that works, except for the fry part. I devour those fries like an island castaway that’s just been rescued. So I ordered two extra small fries, one for each of us.
On the drive there, we both decided that a small wouldn’t be enough, so we arrive there and decide to get two mediums. We enter the building and find two older women (50-ish) hanging around by the register. We want to pay and aren’t sure what is going on. One pulls out a baby photo.
The two oblivious bitches who clearly think they are above everyone, do not move. Finally the squealing stops, one of the old bitches leaves and the other one stays there. We think she needs to pay. However, we find out that is not the case. The woman is standing there waiting for her food.
For those of you unfamiliar with Penn Station, I’ll tell you this – their food is cooked fresh when you order. Therefore, you will have a small wait until your food is ready. This is how the process works, you go in, you order, you slide down the food banquet and pay. After that I had always assumed you took a seat until you food was ready. It was what I did. I mean, it would be cool if Penn Station was only open to serve me, but it’s not.
So the old woman, she pays and stands there. The employee looks at us and we tell her our name. I naively think this woman will at least get out of the way so we can pay. Nope, she doesn’t. I thought wrong. She makes Andrea reach over her to pay.
So we fill up our drinks and sit at the small bar directly behind the woman where I begin to berate her behavior with my sister.
Andrea was a little shocked at how pissed I was.
“I mean, it’s the basic rules of humanity. You get out of the way for other people. Who does she think she is? She’s old, has bad hair, and a fat ass. I hope we get our food before her. Not so much because I want to leave, but because I want to get served before her. Seriously, what does she think she is gaining from standing up there? Does she think they’ll cook her food faster? I mean, I want my chicken done. No salmonella here. Honestly, Andrea, what the hell. Is she worried someone would spit in her food? I’d spit in her food if I was an employee here. If she can’t sit down and get out of my face, I would so spit in her food. It would be so funny if we got our food first because we’re all chill and relaxed and she’s like right there. ”
Okay, maybe saying we were chilled and relaxed was a bit much because I was clearly worked up.
Anyway, I could explain her slight to us by saying that despite being in our mid- to late-twenties, we look young. With our dirty Sunday clothes on and unkempt hair, she probably thought we were some high school kids and figured that since we were high school kids we scum (I have a tendency to generalize about high school kids which makes me feel old).
However, when a family of four, parents in their thirties and their two young children, came through the line, the stupid ass bitch still didn’t move! She made the family reach over her to pay!
RUDE!
RUDE, RUDE, RUDE!!!
And then she got her food first.
Two minutes later, Andrea and I got our food. We take it and walk out the door to the gold Saturn. Parked next to our car, just sitting in her car is the stupid ass bitch that wouldn’t move to save her soul despite the unspoken rules of society. She was smoking a cigarette. Go figure.
“What the hell,” I said. “Go home! You stand in front of the cashier to ensure you get your food as fast as possible and then don’t want to go home to your family…”
“Who just sits in their car and smokes a cigarette!” Andrea says. “At least light it and drive on! If you can’t smoke and drive then you shouldn’t smoke! Oh, her window’s open,” Andrea says a little quieter.
“I don’t care. Who can’t move out of the way? Seriously.”
I know I have been stressing about this more than I should be. I know I have practically told everyone I have come into contact with this story (Now I’m blogging about it). But I can’t get over it. This woman was old enough to know better. That’s the real kicker. But some self-righteous, all consuming demand for superiority flew up her ass causing her to think that she took precedence to everyone around her. Well, honey, you’re forgetting one thing. Pursuing happiness isn’t the only thing the declaration mentions. In fact, this other little phrase I’m thinking of is mentioned in the declaration and The Gettysburg Address.
“All people are created equal.”
So next time…
STEP ASIDE!
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Oh, You Know...Just Been Hanging Out Beaking In To My Car...
My brother is pretty much the only HK to still talk to my dad (I’m not about to talk to him and after his wedding shenanigans, Andrea is hesitant to call).
Anyway, he has a key to my car. He has had a key to my car for about two years now.
Here’s the skinny on the extra key. I had numerous keys. But for some reason my ignition likes to die right around the 2+year mark. I don’t understand it. I bought it in 2005 and have replaced the ignition twice. Anyway, the last time it was changed, they tried to avoid changing it by recalibrating the lock. They then gave us two keys. One I used and one I gave to my dad (at the time, we were talking. This was before he through me under the bus for a SECOND time).
When the latest “bus throwing” occurred, asking for my key back wasn’t exactly at the forefront of my mind.
However, about a month ago, that key would’ve sure come in handy.
See, I left my keys in my car and locked the door after I got done at the gym.
I called my dad’s cell from our home phone (my cell was charging in the locked car). He didn’t answer. I then called his work and his secretary informed me that he was out. Well, that blew.
Work isn’t exactly my favorite place in the world to be everyday, but paychecks are nice, so I ponied up and called my uncle who owns a body shop. Thirty minutes later, my car was unlocked and my checking account was $35 lighter (that’s like three liters and a mug on a Friday).
Now, to present day.
Kevin is home this weekend for our annual Fall Festival. This is a five-block street festival complete with rides, carnies, a plethora of food ranging from waffles to crawfish ettoufee to chocolate covered crickets, and mullets-a-plenty!
He came in on Thursday and I asked him, texted him, “When you see dad, ask for my key back.”
Friday, we went to the Fall Festival. I got potato springs. They are like potato chips, kind of. The potato is sliced super thin and curls off like a spring. It is then fried. So, it’s like a cross between a French fry and a chip – which are two of my favorite ways to ingest potatoes.
Mom got potato springs and a pronto pup (which is different from a corn dog because it is made with pancake batter). Kevin got a pronto pup and a philly cheesesteak.
After our heart-attack inducing afternoon, mom and I went home (I went to the gym) and Kevin went to get his hair cut by Andrea. And he didn’t come home. In fact, Andrea got home before him. This is a little obscene considering Kevin got his hair cut at 1:15 and Andrea got off work at 4 p.m. That is when I am informed that Kevin went to see out father.
I texted him: Don’t forget my key.
I get this back: I’ve already left.
Yes. That means he did not get the key. Why am I not surprised.
Since then, I have been riding his ass about getting my key. The ass-riding culminated his afternoon.
I had some errands to run earlier in the week. Procrastination and house cleaning set me back. I woke to the phone ringing and hearing my mom ask if I needed anything at Sam’s. I was a little disappointed because mom could’ve taken me on my errands and saved me the gas. I told her this. Since Andrea and I picked up a somewhat drunk little brother last night, she said she wanted me to sleep in. Nice sentiment, but I would’ve rather have had her drive.
I then haul my ass out of bed, dress, feed the dogs (stand over the bowl and tell Mac to at because he’s having an Olsen Twin morning) then head out the door to get my running done.
I get a chocolate covered caramel apple at this amazing chocolate store and realize I don’t have my debit card. I gave it to Andrea last night to buy the Hacienda. Damn.
The cash I was going to deposit is now my money.
I then head to Andrea’s shop and buy detangler and mousse. Next is Wal-Mart. I said a prayer and headed across the street. While there were many degenerates, no one warranted a snapshot on www.peopleofwalmart.com for ridicule. Double damn.
Now its on to Borders where I buy the Charlaine Harris Sookie Stackhouse compilation and a book in the Dark Hunter series. I left the 40% off coupon at the house. Fuck (Thankfully, they had a coupon for me to use, I love you Borders people even though you’re ignorant of books!).
Lastly, I deposit my mileage check into the bank and head home. I arrive home right behind Kevin and holler at him to help me get the diet Cokes into the house (24-pack for $6.98, score!).
I unlocked the back door for him, grab my bags, go into the house, set my stuff down, and change into gym clothes.
I spin some yarns for my mom and talk about my convo with a family friend and how this country doesn’t make people accountable for their actions and a possibly another letter to write to my congressman and senators.
Finally, I leave. As soon as I exit the door, I know, I know, my car is locked and my keys are in it.
I walk to my car, hoping I didn’t lock the car, but knowing that with my OCD-locking-complex this is very unlikely. I try the door. Locked. Of course. I look in the ignition. The keys are just hanging in the ignition. Nice. Damn, damn, damn. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Of course, I run into the house, berate my brother, tell him to call our father and drive me over there to get my keys.
But mom stops him. Armed with a coat hanger, we go outside. She checks out my locks and decides she’s going to try to open my car. With the metal hanger undone, she tries to stick it in the door. It won’t get through.
“Why haven’t you just had another key made?” my mom asked me.
“Because I’m a procrastinator,” I said.
I have another hanger, and push some through, but I can’t get it to open the door. It’s too flimsy. My sticks her hanger in. Our hangers cross paths. I say something that could be misconstrued and Kevin says “That’s what she said.”
Well, this isn’t working.
I tell Kevin to call dad. Then I bitch some more about how he could’ve avoided this whole predicament had he got the key yesterday.
That’s when Kevin sees a carpenter’s triangle. He grabs the triangle and wedges it into my door. Mom works the hanger, and with the help of Kevin and me, we open the car.
HOORAY!
“Call Dad and get your key back,” Kevin said then.
“Oh right, call him and have him not answer or call me back for my key. Just ask him for it, Kevin.”
“Erin,” he said in this tone that tells me I’m acting like an idiot. Well, I may be immature, but I’m the child, not the parent!
“Kevin!”
He shakes his head and goes into the house. I hear him say “stubborn” to my mom.
Maybe I am. But I made amends once. And my father once again tried to screwed me over AGAIN.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, well, cross me off your friends’ list because I will never ever speak to you again as long as we both shall live. And if you go on Who Wants to be a Millionaire and phone me, you better be prepared to lose, or give up 75% of your winnings. Then we might be even.
Anyway, he has a key to my car. He has had a key to my car for about two years now.
Here’s the skinny on the extra key. I had numerous keys. But for some reason my ignition likes to die right around the 2+year mark. I don’t understand it. I bought it in 2005 and have replaced the ignition twice. Anyway, the last time it was changed, they tried to avoid changing it by recalibrating the lock. They then gave us two keys. One I used and one I gave to my dad (at the time, we were talking. This was before he through me under the bus for a SECOND time).
When the latest “bus throwing” occurred, asking for my key back wasn’t exactly at the forefront of my mind.
However, about a month ago, that key would’ve sure come in handy.
See, I left my keys in my car and locked the door after I got done at the gym.
I called my dad’s cell from our home phone (my cell was charging in the locked car). He didn’t answer. I then called his work and his secretary informed me that he was out. Well, that blew.
Work isn’t exactly my favorite place in the world to be everyday, but paychecks are nice, so I ponied up and called my uncle who owns a body shop. Thirty minutes later, my car was unlocked and my checking account was $35 lighter (that’s like three liters and a mug on a Friday).
Now, to present day.
Kevin is home this weekend for our annual Fall Festival. This is a five-block street festival complete with rides, carnies, a plethora of food ranging from waffles to crawfish ettoufee to chocolate covered crickets, and mullets-a-plenty!
He came in on Thursday and I asked him, texted him, “When you see dad, ask for my key back.”
Friday, we went to the Fall Festival. I got potato springs. They are like potato chips, kind of. The potato is sliced super thin and curls off like a spring. It is then fried. So, it’s like a cross between a French fry and a chip – which are two of my favorite ways to ingest potatoes.
Mom got potato springs and a pronto pup (which is different from a corn dog because it is made with pancake batter). Kevin got a pronto pup and a philly cheesesteak.
After our heart-attack inducing afternoon, mom and I went home (I went to the gym) and Kevin went to get his hair cut by Andrea. And he didn’t come home. In fact, Andrea got home before him. This is a little obscene considering Kevin got his hair cut at 1:15 and Andrea got off work at 4 p.m. That is when I am informed that Kevin went to see out father.
I texted him: Don’t forget my key.
I get this back: I’ve already left.
Yes. That means he did not get the key. Why am I not surprised.
Since then, I have been riding his ass about getting my key. The ass-riding culminated his afternoon.
I had some errands to run earlier in the week. Procrastination and house cleaning set me back. I woke to the phone ringing and hearing my mom ask if I needed anything at Sam’s. I was a little disappointed because mom could’ve taken me on my errands and saved me the gas. I told her this. Since Andrea and I picked up a somewhat drunk little brother last night, she said she wanted me to sleep in. Nice sentiment, but I would’ve rather have had her drive.
I then haul my ass out of bed, dress, feed the dogs (stand over the bowl and tell Mac to at because he’s having an Olsen Twin morning) then head out the door to get my running done.
I get a chocolate covered caramel apple at this amazing chocolate store and realize I don’t have my debit card. I gave it to Andrea last night to buy the Hacienda. Damn.
The cash I was going to deposit is now my money.
I then head to Andrea’s shop and buy detangler and mousse. Next is Wal-Mart. I said a prayer and headed across the street. While there were many degenerates, no one warranted a snapshot on www.peopleofwalmart.com for ridicule. Double damn.
Now its on to Borders where I buy the Charlaine Harris Sookie Stackhouse compilation and a book in the Dark Hunter series. I left the 40% off coupon at the house. Fuck (Thankfully, they had a coupon for me to use, I love you Borders people even though you’re ignorant of books!).
Lastly, I deposit my mileage check into the bank and head home. I arrive home right behind Kevin and holler at him to help me get the diet Cokes into the house (24-pack for $6.98, score!).
I unlocked the back door for him, grab my bags, go into the house, set my stuff down, and change into gym clothes.
I spin some yarns for my mom and talk about my convo with a family friend and how this country doesn’t make people accountable for their actions and a possibly another letter to write to my congressman and senators.
Finally, I leave. As soon as I exit the door, I know, I know, my car is locked and my keys are in it.
I walk to my car, hoping I didn’t lock the car, but knowing that with my OCD-locking-complex this is very unlikely. I try the door. Locked. Of course. I look in the ignition. The keys are just hanging in the ignition. Nice. Damn, damn, damn. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Of course, I run into the house, berate my brother, tell him to call our father and drive me over there to get my keys.
But mom stops him. Armed with a coat hanger, we go outside. She checks out my locks and decides she’s going to try to open my car. With the metal hanger undone, she tries to stick it in the door. It won’t get through.
“Why haven’t you just had another key made?” my mom asked me.
“Because I’m a procrastinator,” I said.
I have another hanger, and push some through, but I can’t get it to open the door. It’s too flimsy. My sticks her hanger in. Our hangers cross paths. I say something that could be misconstrued and Kevin says “That’s what she said.”
Well, this isn’t working.
I tell Kevin to call dad. Then I bitch some more about how he could’ve avoided this whole predicament had he got the key yesterday.
That’s when Kevin sees a carpenter’s triangle. He grabs the triangle and wedges it into my door. Mom works the hanger, and with the help of Kevin and me, we open the car.
HOORAY!
“Call Dad and get your key back,” Kevin said then.
“Oh right, call him and have him not answer or call me back for my key. Just ask him for it, Kevin.”
“Erin,” he said in this tone that tells me I’m acting like an idiot. Well, I may be immature, but I’m the child, not the parent!
“Kevin!”
He shakes his head and goes into the house. I hear him say “stubborn” to my mom.
Maybe I am. But I made amends once. And my father once again tried to screwed me over AGAIN.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, well, cross me off your friends’ list because I will never ever speak to you again as long as we both shall live. And if you go on Who Wants to be a Millionaire and phone me, you better be prepared to lose, or give up 75% of your winnings. Then we might be even.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Stoli's and Michael Jackson: Mix With Caution
Really, I don’t know what I’d do without my sibs. I’d have a lot less fodder for this blog. In fact, I probably wouldn’t be blogging at all. They are my tether to adventure and ridiculousness. Thinking about my life as an only child (while I would’ve had more toys, clothes, and not had to have fought/still fight for cookies and others sweets would be nice) would be boring. Case in point, our last night at Icon:
Andrea was all decked out because she was there for the calendar competition. Never underestimate the Hobgood Kids. We have friends. And we’re not afraid to use them. Andrea brought her work people, I brought friends and set up a Facebook event, and Kevin brought this whole posse that I think comprised of the entire 2005 Central High School soccer team plus a few other people. We were all prepared for a good time – especially with $2 you-call-its!
We got there around 10:30 and the competition didn’t start for another hour. No worries though, we were chilling and having a good time. Andrea did awesome. Made the final three, and despite having the loudest and biggest number of people cheering for her, she got second place. That was good considering she was wearing a conservative bikini.
The chick who won, I think I saw her run into the bathroom and construct her bikini out of dental floss and string. All I can say is, thank god she waxes. Being face-to-face with another female’s feminine hair isn’t something I’m exactly a fan of. Back to the story.
Andrea is sure she lost because of some ass who was booing her. He was cheering for the girl who got third, and when the competition was down to Andrea and Dental Floss, he began to cheer for Dental Floss and loudly boo for Andrea.
I didn’t hear his booing. I might have punched him. I did, however, recruit fans for Andrea. One guy in the audience tried to cut in front of me. That’s not cool when you’re vertically challenged like I am. I made him get back. And then I made sure he cheered for Andrea. When Dental Floss came out, I had to laugh because I heard him and his friends talking trash about her being a whore. And he called her a slut, yelled it loud, when it came to down between Andrea and Dental Floss.
However, once the dust had cleared and my sister was second, we started dancing. The Booer decided to mosey over and steal a dance from my sister. She turned him away and laughed at him. Note to all guys: Booing is not the correct action course of action to take if you plan on trying to mack a girl later in the evening. Even single and not your girlfriend, we remember those who have wronged us. Also, you’re lucky she didn’t have her foot say hi to your groin.
Andrea, Jada, Ryan, and I and all of those we recruited, we were all having a fun time, a high time, in fact. But no one’s evening topped my little brother’s.
I arrived at Icon with Andrea. Being in a competition with high, high, high heels, she didn’t feel much for drinking. This was fine for me because of the $2-you-call-its. Stoli’s all night baby! However, an hour after we arrived, the little brother hands his keys over to me and says “Erin, you drive my car home.” That phrase put a serious monkey-wrench in my Stoli’s Night. However, as the night unfolded, I was not ashamed or upset with my sober status.
I knew Kevin was going to have a fun night when I elbowed my way through the macabre cluster of people around the bar to take my place and flash some cleaveage at the bartender. I get a call on my cell and answer it. It’s Kevin. He wants two vodka, cranberry, and Red Bulls. I snort and let him know that mixing an upper (Red Bull) and a downer (vodka) will give him a heart attack. He doesn’t care. The bartender comes over and I order his two drinks and a vodka and cran for me. Stoli’s vodka all around!
I’m a Stoli’s girl. True, I could drink Grey Goose for $2, but really when we’re discussing vodka, are we going to trust the French or the Russians? The Russians! I deliver the drinks to my brother and Jada and I disappear to dance with Andrea and her co-workers. A little while later, Ryan appears and tells me about Kevin hitting on this skank.
One of the girls in the competition, a girl who was merely a blip on the radar in the competition, was hitting on my brother. This girl had straight bleach blonde hair, no breasts at all, a Louis Vuitton clutch (which should’ve went to her breast fund in my opinion), and a dress that slashed down her invisible cleavage to her navel. Not to mention, she had some horrible tattoo down the side of her rib cage to her hip. I’m not one to dis tattoos, but let’s try to have some class.
Anyway, I sidle up to my brother as he sits at the bar. The Skank is all in his face. I ask Kevin a question, and Kevin ignores me. A few people perceive me as laid-back, but most identify with me as a bitch. I went into full bitch mode. I crossed my arms over my chest, tapped my foot, and glared at the skank.
She got the picture, said she wasn’t interested to my brother and toddled over to her friends, tossing a few pointed looks and gestures in my direction. Kevin seemed oblivious. This should’ve been clue number one to me. However, I overlooked it, berated him for associating with someone of that sort of caliber.
“Bear,” he said using my nickname, “Bear, it’s cool. Get me another drink.”
And that was when I learned of my little brother’s infatuation with one of the bartenders who was probably ten years my senior (so about fifteen for Kevin). It was quite the spectacle to watch. When he finally cashed out at the end of the night, he signed his name and wrote “Yeah, you’re fine,” on the receipt along with his number. As far as I know, he has received no phone calls.
Anyway, in between flirting with the bartender, Kevin was on the dance floor double-fisting. My little brother can cut a rug. He’s the youngest and has two older sisters and was often coerced into our ploys with minimal manipulation because he just wanted to be included. Yes, he did play Barbies with us. No, he did not play Barbie’s right. Still, we had to include him, mom’s orders.
Despite his flawed Barbie-playing skills, he’s a decent dancer. Not only that, but he’s a fun dancer. He’ll twirl you around, do the fish and reel, throw in a sprinkler, dust off his shoulder…he may look a little goofy, but he’s having fun. And his lack of care is probably why people consider him a decent dancer.
Anyway, one such dance move called for him to throw his hands up in the air. This doesn’t work so well when you have a vodka cocktail in your hand. Someone ended up wearing the drink, though thankfully, there wasn’t much left.
“He’s sorry,” Andrea said as Kevin obliviously continued to dance.
There was also the Seven-Foot-Tall Guy. He was dancing and Kevin decided it would be a good idea to thump the guy’s chest. Kevin isn’t a small guy at about 6’1 and around 220 pounds. He played soccer, and as a big soccer player, he’s used to having people bounce off of him. The Seven-Foot-Tall Guy didn’t bounce. In fact, he tapped Kevin back. Kevin staggered. Andrea, little 5’5 Andrea (ok, she’s not that little, she’s taller than me, but still), got in his face and said “Hey! He’s drunk!”
I also managed to snag a candid photo of Kevin and one of his friends/college roommates together. His friend Dan and Kevin had just come back from another canteen break. Dan bent over in front of Kevin and wiggled his ass in the air. Kevin stood in front of him and did the sprinkler. It was a perfect shot of those two goofballs.
That is when I looked over and saw The Skank dancing pretty much like Dan did (only difference was Dan’s was for fun). She was bent over at the waist grinding her ass all over some other dude’s crotch. I was just glad that wasn’t my brother behind her as if they were simulating doggy-style sex. Then we all laughed as some drunken dude came onto the dance floor and tripped over The Skank and knocked her off balance.
A little bit later, the obligatory tribute to Michael Jackson came on. The song, “Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough” was playing. A few people were dancing to their own rhythm, but a circle had gathered around and white boys and black boys were having a sort of dance-off, each taking turns in the circle.
Ryan handed me his camera phone to record the guys. Kevin saw me recording. “Erin, you gotta get me,” he said. “Get me!” This lasted for about half the song and finally Kevin had an opening. He slid into the circle on his knees, twirled around on his back (lost a flip flop in the process), stood on his knees and did a few pelvic thrusts before jumping to his feet (with only one flip flop on) and vacating the circle. Andrea grabbed his flip flop and somehow managed to place it back on his foot.
Meanwhile, I nearly collapsed on the dance floor from laughing so hard. I seriously popped a squat (thank you, yoga) and hugged my sides as I laughed. Ryan and Jada were bent over me also laughing. About five minutes later, I finally caught my breath. The dance was a thing of beauty. Not a whole lot could top that. To make the dance even sweeter, every moment of it was captured on Ryan’s phone in decent detail. I’m waiting for it to be uploaded onto Facebook, Ryan.
Anyway, the evening began to wind down. Kevin had planned on going out with his friends, but alcohol is a powerful manipulator and Kevin decided to stay at Icon with his sibs. We walk out. Andrea goes to her car, Ryan is behind us schmoozing some ridiculous people, and Jada is helping me get Kevin to his car.
We get him to his car and once Kevin finds out Jada is driving herself home, he insists we drive her to her car. This isn’t exactly a big parking lot, and Jada tells him she’s fine. Kevin still insists and won’t get into his car. Jada reiterates that she’ll be fine. Kevin is stubborn. Jada is crafty.
“I don’t think you can get into the car by yourself, Kevin,” she tells him.
This bit of reverse psychology works and Kevin is nearly in the car. He is sitting in his seat, but one foot is out. Jada gently persuades him to put the foot in the car, then we hurry and shut the door on him and she scoots off to her car.
I put the car in gear and drive to the road. We have to drive back in front of the club. Kevin wants me to drive slowly so he can holler at some girls.
“Erin, slow down! Hey sweetness,” he says. “Hey hot stuff, Erin, go slower,” he says until we’re passed the club and are pulling out onto the street.
There is a concrete divider in the street and all cars have to turn heading south. Our house is north. This means at some point, I’m going to have to turn around in a business’s parking lot. In his alcohol-addled state, Kevin missed the concrete divider.
“Erin, you’re going the wrong way,” he says and my phone begins to ring. It’s Andrea and she asks me where we are. I tell her. “Erin, this is the wrong way,” Kevin says. I try to pacify him and talk to Andrea simultaneously. I find a parking lot and turn the car around to get going the right way.
“There’s the Civic!” Kevin exclaims happily as we see Andrea’s car waiting for us in the parking lot to make sure things are going well.
Apparently I hit a bump as we pull into the parking lot. The bump barely registered with me, but I was not hanging my head out the window yelling at people like my brother was.
“Ow!” he yells. “Damn, Erin! That hurt! Like you hit me with a fucking bat.”
“Well, why was your head out the window?” I ask him.
“Ow,” he says still feeling the effects of the window frame. “God, I didn’t know I was in a car with Don-fucking-Mattingly. Jeez.”
Somehow, we manage to get home. Kevin pretty much passes out immediately. That is kind of sad because we don’t get to see him do his Silence of the Lambs dance. Andrea and I settle down, shaking the adrenaline of the evening off as we ready ourselves for bed. She may not have won in the judges eyes (but she certainly should have), but the evening wasn’t anything close to a loss!
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
A Bunch of Crooks - My Insurance Company
I called my health insurance company the other day because the quarter was up and I needed to pay the premium. I have nothing against paying monthly, but unless I want to give them my bank account to just pull the premium out whenever the bill comes due, I have to pay an extra $10 a month processing fee. If I pay quarterly, the insurance company gets only $10 in processing fees, not $30. That’s $20 they DO NOT need.
Sure, I could give them my checking account, no problem, and have them then deduct the money at no extra expense to me, but you’re operating on the idea that these people are not crooks. I’ll get there in a minute.
So I call the insurance company to pay the premiums for my sister’s policy and my policy. I tell the little customer service guy (If they’re charging me $10 to process something, SOMEONE is going to do some work). He tells me he’s not sure if I can pay my sister’s account.
“Ok, time out,” I say. “I don’t want access to her medical information, I don’t want to know what happened on her last pap smear, I just want to pay her bill.”
“Yes, Ms. Hobgood, I understand, but we can only let those authorized by the insured pay.”
“So, let me get this straight. If someone calls you out of the blue…a wealthy benefactor, an admirer, or my sugar daddy, you’re going to tell them that they cannot pay my premium because…why exactly?”
“They are not authorized.”
“Okay,” I say thinking this over. “So, people offer you money to pay bills and before you accept that money, they have to be an authorized person?”
Maybe I’m a little patronizing here, but honestly, when I worked at the bank and someone wanted to pay an overdraft or a loan, the bank could care less who gave them the money as long as they got the money. Sugar daddy, actual daddy, guilty married lover, boyfriend, secret admirer, pimp, friend, the bank didn’t care so long as they got paid!
“That is correct.”
“So, not everyone’s money is accepted here. Because I thought money was money, accepted everywhere.”
“Well…”
“What kind of crooks are you to say who can and can’t pay a premium?” I asked and yes, I did say crooks (Andrea loved this part of the conversation).
“Ms. Hobgood, before you get upset (Well, too late for that buddy) let me see if you are an authorized signer on the account.”
“I better be. I paid her initial premium. She doesn’t have checks or a debit card or a credit card. She strictly deals in cash.” This is due in part to an unfortunate miscalculation back during her freshman year of college that my father ended up paying (pre-divorce; pre-douche bag). “Our insurance broker will tell you.”
“Yes, but he is not authorized,” the poor unsuspecting customer service guy says to be cut off.
“I thought you were checking!”
Guess what. I am authorized to pay my sister’s health insurance.
“I’d also like to say that whoever in the world calls to pay my health insurance, I don’t care if they’re the president, Castro, my guilty married lover (I’d never do that, but I’ve got a point to make), or Carmen San Diego, if someone wants to take this ridiculous burden out of my hands for a quarter, they are authorized.”
He gets the point and takes my payment. Then he makes the mistake of saying, “You do realize that we are charging you with processing fees, processing fees that we wouldn’t have to charge you with if you had this deducted out of your account monthly.”
You know how you see a cat react to a dog? It arches its back up, the fur along its spine standing ramrod straight, to accompany the vicious hissing sound and flying spittle? This little phrase was my dog. Had I been Wolverine, my claws would’ve came out (well, regardless of my non-mutant status, claws still came out).
“And give you access to my checking account?” I ask passing patronizing and petulant. “Give a bunch of crooks who charge someone over $100, $100 that you guys just take and have a party with because the odds are good I’ll never see this money, give you access to my checking account to just deduct and deduct at will?”
“Ma’am, we wou-“
“Shush, shush, shhhh! I don’t care. I worked for a bank. Odds are good I’ll be with another insurance company next year because you’ll raise my rates more than I want to pay. When I switch, I do not want you taking my money out citing computer errors. I worked for a bank, buddy! I’ve seen this happen. And I know exactly how screwed I’d be then because you guys don’t simply return the money.”
“Then you could send in a check. We prefer a check or automatic deduct.”
“I prefer to use my credit card. They’re crooks I can handle.”
Yes, pretty much everyone got called a crook today. I don’t know what got in to me. It had been awhile since I’d uttered the word “crook,” let alone called everyone within an arm’s length of me one. Nevertheless, it was fun calling people a crook. Maybe that’s what happened. I used it once and realized how fun it was.
“Like I said, we prefer-,”
“I’m the customer, I prefer a credit card.”
This man obviously had no idea who he was messing with. I’m still holding grudges against people from sixth grade (let’s just say, that’s more than ten years ago). I don’t argue unless I know I’m right, and if the tragedy ever occurs and I happen to be wrong, well, it pretty much takes an act of God to convince me of my wrongness.
“Ma’am,” he says “It’s just what we prefer.”
I’m going to be honest here, it had been awhile since I’d had a willing participant in this kind of back-and-forth play. I was enjoying my position as the “always right” customer. Plus, there’s my fetish for taking out my frustrations on unsuspecting customer service people: the cell phone company, the Limited credit card company, and my credit card company. However, there’d been no more broken phones and no need for me to get crazy with anyone from Verizon, I ditched my Limited card because the I had to continually fax in receipts for proof of payment, and my credit card company is actually being good (I believe I’m in a small minority of people happy with their credit card company…of course this may be because I don’t use my card and when I do, I have a compulsion to keep it paid off).
But no…a new, willing even, opponent emerged. My insurance company. From it’s policy of not all money is accepted here to it snubbing my credit card (with a zero balance, for crying out loud!), to its general crooked nature.
“It’s not what I prefer. Am I going to get some receipts? Even if you didn’t, the nice thing about paying with a credit card is that we can always get my credit card company on the line and they can explain how you took my money even if you didn’t credit me with it.”
“I can email them,” he says, but makes no mention about my preferred choice and of payment. It’s rather sad, but I realize he is ending this little tête-à -tête. Right when I was having fun too!
I relay my email address and received confirmation. Then I put the confirmation in my “saved” folder. Like I’m really going to trust those guys.
I hung up the phone with a big smile plastered across my face, then snatched it back up and dialed my mother.
“I called my insurance company crooks!” I squealed a bit gleefully because I knew, come November, I’d put that ten dollars I was being charged for processing to work and wear someone’s nerves down!
As a side note: I’d like to add that the biggest crook, bigger than my insurance company, all of the mobs in this country, almost bigger than Charles Manson and that nasty kidnapper that had that Kaycee girl for nearly twenty years, is the government. They claim to have best interests at heart, but let’s examine the origins of Superman, shall we…to fight against tyranny and crooked politicians!
There’s that word again.
Furthermore, even if the people in government were as pious as the metatron (not to be confused with Megatron), the amount of excess fat and blatant in efficiency is enough to make me cringe thinking about them handling my health care. And costs? We can’t afford for the baby boomers to start claiming social security, yet we’re going to offer a public option. Right…
I think I’ll save my frustrations for my private insurance company.
Sure, I could give them my checking account, no problem, and have them then deduct the money at no extra expense to me, but you’re operating on the idea that these people are not crooks. I’ll get there in a minute.
So I call the insurance company to pay the premiums for my sister’s policy and my policy. I tell the little customer service guy (If they’re charging me $10 to process something, SOMEONE is going to do some work). He tells me he’s not sure if I can pay my sister’s account.
“Ok, time out,” I say. “I don’t want access to her medical information, I don’t want to know what happened on her last pap smear, I just want to pay her bill.”
“Yes, Ms. Hobgood, I understand, but we can only let those authorized by the insured pay.”
“So, let me get this straight. If someone calls you out of the blue…a wealthy benefactor, an admirer, or my sugar daddy, you’re going to tell them that they cannot pay my premium because…why exactly?”
“They are not authorized.”
“Okay,” I say thinking this over. “So, people offer you money to pay bills and before you accept that money, they have to be an authorized person?”
Maybe I’m a little patronizing here, but honestly, when I worked at the bank and someone wanted to pay an overdraft or a loan, the bank could care less who gave them the money as long as they got the money. Sugar daddy, actual daddy, guilty married lover, boyfriend, secret admirer, pimp, friend, the bank didn’t care so long as they got paid!
“That is correct.”
“So, not everyone’s money is accepted here. Because I thought money was money, accepted everywhere.”
“Well…”
“What kind of crooks are you to say who can and can’t pay a premium?” I asked and yes, I did say crooks (Andrea loved this part of the conversation).
“Ms. Hobgood, before you get upset (Well, too late for that buddy) let me see if you are an authorized signer on the account.”
“I better be. I paid her initial premium. She doesn’t have checks or a debit card or a credit card. She strictly deals in cash.” This is due in part to an unfortunate miscalculation back during her freshman year of college that my father ended up paying (pre-divorce; pre-douche bag). “Our insurance broker will tell you.”
“Yes, but he is not authorized,” the poor unsuspecting customer service guy says to be cut off.
“I thought you were checking!”
Guess what. I am authorized to pay my sister’s health insurance.
“I’d also like to say that whoever in the world calls to pay my health insurance, I don’t care if they’re the president, Castro, my guilty married lover (I’d never do that, but I’ve got a point to make), or Carmen San Diego, if someone wants to take this ridiculous burden out of my hands for a quarter, they are authorized.”
He gets the point and takes my payment. Then he makes the mistake of saying, “You do realize that we are charging you with processing fees, processing fees that we wouldn’t have to charge you with if you had this deducted out of your account monthly.”
You know how you see a cat react to a dog? It arches its back up, the fur along its spine standing ramrod straight, to accompany the vicious hissing sound and flying spittle? This little phrase was my dog. Had I been Wolverine, my claws would’ve came out (well, regardless of my non-mutant status, claws still came out).
“And give you access to my checking account?” I ask passing patronizing and petulant. “Give a bunch of crooks who charge someone over $100, $100 that you guys just take and have a party with because the odds are good I’ll never see this money, give you access to my checking account to just deduct and deduct at will?”
“Ma’am, we wou-“
“Shush, shush, shhhh! I don’t care. I worked for a bank. Odds are good I’ll be with another insurance company next year because you’ll raise my rates more than I want to pay. When I switch, I do not want you taking my money out citing computer errors. I worked for a bank, buddy! I’ve seen this happen. And I know exactly how screwed I’d be then because you guys don’t simply return the money.”
“Then you could send in a check. We prefer a check or automatic deduct.”
“I prefer to use my credit card. They’re crooks I can handle.”
Yes, pretty much everyone got called a crook today. I don’t know what got in to me. It had been awhile since I’d uttered the word “crook,” let alone called everyone within an arm’s length of me one. Nevertheless, it was fun calling people a crook. Maybe that’s what happened. I used it once and realized how fun it was.
“Like I said, we prefer-,”
“I’m the customer, I prefer a credit card.”
This man obviously had no idea who he was messing with. I’m still holding grudges against people from sixth grade (let’s just say, that’s more than ten years ago). I don’t argue unless I know I’m right, and if the tragedy ever occurs and I happen to be wrong, well, it pretty much takes an act of God to convince me of my wrongness.
“Ma’am,” he says “It’s just what we prefer.”
I’m going to be honest here, it had been awhile since I’d had a willing participant in this kind of back-and-forth play. I was enjoying my position as the “always right” customer. Plus, there’s my fetish for taking out my frustrations on unsuspecting customer service people: the cell phone company, the Limited credit card company, and my credit card company. However, there’d been no more broken phones and no need for me to get crazy with anyone from Verizon, I ditched my Limited card because the I had to continually fax in receipts for proof of payment, and my credit card company is actually being good (I believe I’m in a small minority of people happy with their credit card company…of course this may be because I don’t use my card and when I do, I have a compulsion to keep it paid off).
But no…a new, willing even, opponent emerged. My insurance company. From it’s policy of not all money is accepted here to it snubbing my credit card (with a zero balance, for crying out loud!), to its general crooked nature.
“It’s not what I prefer. Am I going to get some receipts? Even if you didn’t, the nice thing about paying with a credit card is that we can always get my credit card company on the line and they can explain how you took my money even if you didn’t credit me with it.”
“I can email them,” he says, but makes no mention about my preferred choice and of payment. It’s rather sad, but I realize he is ending this little tête-à -tête. Right when I was having fun too!
I relay my email address and received confirmation. Then I put the confirmation in my “saved” folder. Like I’m really going to trust those guys.
I hung up the phone with a big smile plastered across my face, then snatched it back up and dialed my mother.
“I called my insurance company crooks!” I squealed a bit gleefully because I knew, come November, I’d put that ten dollars I was being charged for processing to work and wear someone’s nerves down!
As a side note: I’d like to add that the biggest crook, bigger than my insurance company, all of the mobs in this country, almost bigger than Charles Manson and that nasty kidnapper that had that Kaycee girl for nearly twenty years, is the government. They claim to have best interests at heart, but let’s examine the origins of Superman, shall we…to fight against tyranny and crooked politicians!
There’s that word again.
Furthermore, even if the people in government were as pious as the metatron (not to be confused with Megatron), the amount of excess fat and blatant in efficiency is enough to make me cringe thinking about them handling my health care. And costs? We can’t afford for the baby boomers to start claiming social security, yet we’re going to offer a public option. Right…
I think I’ll save my frustrations for my private insurance company.
Monday, September 7, 2009
When in Doubt Blame the Strippers...or the Hookers
I had a nice little Saturday evening planned for about week. Jada was to come by and we would watch True Blood on my laptop and roast marshmallows for s’mores.
Because Amazon was the cheapest, I called my mom when she was home on lunch on Monday and had her buy season one from my account. Our website usage is tracked at work, and I wanted to get it by Saturday.
It didn’t ship until Wednesday and as I write this, it still hasn’t come. Not that that’s much of a surprise with it being Labor Day and all the mail not running today (I should get it tomorrow though).
Then, Saturday afternoon around 3 p.m. as I sat reading book 8 of the Sookie Stackhouse novels (The basis for True Blood), it started to rain. Rain and fire don’t really mix. If it kept up raining the s’mores would be a mere dream.
There was one thought that I did have though. As long as it didn’t rain hard, we could sit on the back porch and still roast because we had a roof over part of the patio. So I moved the fire bowl and covered the wood.
Come 7:30, after getting out burgers ate and halfway through one of the episodes I began to get stuff ready for roasting (when Eric wasn’t in a scene, of course). Once the episode was over, we moved outside and realized that we didn‘t have any marshmallows, both assuming the other had brought them.
Marshmallows are kind of vital for s’mores.
We left for the store and nearly as soon as I got into Jada’s car, my cell rang. I glanced at the display and saw it was my sister.
My sister is seven time zones away. It was nearly 8 p.m. in the States, it was 3 a.m. Sunday in Denmark. I figured she was drunk and was a little worried. Hans had taken her to a party. His ex was going to be there; it was the first time Andrea met her.
I answered and found incoherent babble amongst the tears, but did make out that she wanted me to purchase her a plane ticket home ASAP. Well, plane tickets from Denmark to Indiana aren’t cheap at any time, and I was sure that at the last minute, they would be even more expensive. Despite my college degree, I don’t make enough money to loan anyone $1,000+ without knowing I’ll get the money back upon arrival home.
This may sound a little callous, but you have to know my sister. Had she absolutely without a doubt needed a plane ticket home, I would’ve scrounged together the funds somehow. But I was not going to get her plane ride home when she’d drank too much and had a fight with her fiancé. That was not an emergency; that did not require me doing my sisterly duty and providing her safe passage home.
Back to the phone call – I’m trying to piece together what has her upset. I make out the words that she hates it in Denmark, she wants to come home and then I hear her say, “Go away. Go away. I don’t speak Danish. No speak-o Danish.”
Honest to god she said “No speak-o Danish.”
I hung up and called my mom. I did manage to find out that she had tried calling my mom with no success. Knowing my mom keeps her cell phone in her purse, I called her boyfriend’s cell. He answered and I talked with my mom.
Jada and I got the marshmallows and got home. We were roasting and having a high time. Eric was looking uber-hot and sexy on TV. It should be criminal for a man to look that good.
Andrea calls again.
She’s still crying.
I ask her if she’s talked to mom, she says yes and that Hans is talking to mom now. She just wants to talk to me. I don’t mind, but it’s hard to talk to someone who is crying. I try to calm her down. I finally get out what sat her off. The Danish people laughed at her. The Danish people laughed at her because…
Wait for it…
Wait for it…
Wait…a bit more…
A stripper stole her jacket.
This is not a joke; she really did say that a stripper stole her jacket.
I finally get off the phone with her and Jada asks what this is about a stripper stealing stuff. I tell her. We really don’t know what to make of this piece of information. Having your jacket stolen by a stripper would be enough to set me off, but how in the hell did the stripper manage to abscond with my sister’s jacket.
My mother gets home and elaborates.
Everything was fine and they were laughing and having fun on the walk home. Andrea wanted Hans to carry her to the hotel. The hotel was a mile away and while my sister barely registers triple digits on the scale, she isn’t exactly a rag doll. Hans told her she could walk. This didn’t sit well with Andrea and she got pissed. She tried running away from Hans.
When she finally got a hold of my mom, she told her Hans left her. Then she told my mom that Hans was on the other side of the street. Hans also tried to assault her. This was because he was grabbing her so she wouldn’t run off (I presume this would be across the street). Her jacket, well no one really knows what happened to it. She noticed it was missing when they were outside and she was cold, thus, she formed the hypothesis, that a stripper stole the missing jacket.
Things settled down eventually.
Anyway, I was talking to her this morning and asked about the stripper. Seriously, that is just a classic phrase – the stripper stole (insert missing object)! That is when I found out (she as well) that the strip club wasn’t a strip club.
“We went to a strip club, but no one was stripping,” she told me. And then she told me to hold on. “Oh, it wasn’t a stripper it was a hooker…a hooker club. It really did have a red light too”
My sister ended up in a Danish Brothel. A Danish Hooker might’ve stolen her jacket….or shawl thingy (Hans said it wasn’t really a jacket, just a little thing she draped over her shoulders).
She then goes on to tell me about the walk back. Apparently, while they were fighting, some woman comes up to Hans and says…
“It’s okay, I’m a social worker.”
Ok. Stop here for a minute. “I’m a social worker?” Who says that like they’re some kind of damn super hero? Was she wearing a cape (No, she wasn’t…damn)? And now the million-dollar question…what was a social worker doing out at three in the morning handing out business cards like she was at a networking luncheon (In her defense, I do not know if a business card was handed out, but still, WTF).
All I can say is…wow…Saturday evening…despite the interrupted plans…proved to be one for the record books. Stripper/hookers, marshmallows, sexy-ass Eric Northman, and www.peopleofwalmart.com…does it get any better than that?
Oh, by the way, if you haven’t been to that website…you have to…there are several people in capes…I wonder if one of them was the Danish social worker.
And now if you excuse me…I have another fictional man to dream about!
Friday, August 21, 2009
The Big Leg Drop and the Christmas Miracle
There is a unique bond between siblings that can’t really be explained. In short, siblings know more about each other than a respective spouse might. Siblings have survived it at all. The long car rides to vacation, the fighting, the bickering, the jealousy, hating each other, but we’ve also loved each other, been fiercely loyal to each other, and have shared experiences no one else will ever understand. Thick or thin, siblings look out for each other. As the oldest, I know. People have tried to harm a hair on my sister’s head and the end result was never pretty for them. I may not have always liked my sister, but I was the only one who could beat up on that girl! Ditto for my brother.
Over the years, we’ve collected a number of stories.
There was the grape fight with the Moore’s. My sister and I had a blast at the ages of around five and three when we got the great idea to pick our neighbor’s grapes and throw them at the neighbor boys. The end result was a pissed off neighbor who had no grapes to make wine and a back patio stained from the grapes. We were in trouble.
Somehow, it seems that when siblings are getting along, the end result is not going to be pretty.
Enter the Big Leg Drop.
This incident is so vivid in the HK’s minds, that these simple words throw us into fits of laughter. Try it. Come up to one of us and “say Big. Leg. Drop,” and see the reaction. Recognition is immediate and that night comes back to us in a snap. I don’t ever think this night will be erased from our memories.
It was Christmas Eve.
Let’s back it up just a moment.
Since we were little and believed in Santa Claus (Maybe I still believe in Santa Claus), we’ve routinely slept in the same bed together. This mainly started when Andrea and I shared a room, but it’s kept going over the years. And when Kevin was old enough, we’d build a pallet on the floor of the room Andrea and I shared and we’d all three sleep down there on the pallet. Sounds like nice, loving children, right? Wrong. We were scared to death someone else would wake up and get to their treasure trove of goodies first.
As we got older, we didn’t abandon this ritual. In fact, it was just recently given up. The biggest factor for this was that instead of waking our mother up, she was now doing the waking. And everyone can get better sleep in their own beds. There’s always a battle to not be stuck in the middle.
Now, to the meat of the story.
We were in the Springhaven House, so our respective ages were: Erin 15, Andrea 13, and Kevin 10. This is the absolute youngest we could’ve been because we’d moved in that house and then Andrea relocated to the basement a couple of years later.
No matter what we thought or believed, none of us were ever able to get to sleep. We were your stereotypical middle-class children and thusly spoiled so. Never too spoiled though. Mom made sure to deny me my fair share of My Little Ponies when I was little. But Christmas was the one time we would get properly spoiled
We’re all keyed up and laying in Kevin’s bed. When we moved, we all got out own bedrooms with our own bedroom furniture. Andrea and I had twin beds. Kevin was lucky and got a full size. Yes, the three of us were a little cramped in this bed. It didn’t matter though because we were laughing and having fun.
We’d always had a big WWF/WCW fetish from the time we were children. Of course, during the reign of Ric Flair, we cut back, but with Stone Cold and Goldberg, we were watching again. Somehow Andrea and Kevin began performing wrestling moves on the bed.
He did an elbow drop.
We all laughed.
Andrea stood up and said “Big leg drop,” and proceeded to jump and fall on her butt near the bottom corner of Kevin’s bed.
Andrea landed.
As soon as she landed, a loud cracking sound was heard followed by a crash as Andrea tumbled off the bed and landed on the floor.
“What’s going on back there!” my mom hollered and proceeded to thunder down the hallway.
I moved with the speed and precision of an accomplished older sibling. Don’t ask me how I did what I did, how I knew to use what I used…I can’t even answer that question to this day. All I knew was that mom was thundering down the hallway, dad probably wouldn’t be far behind and I didn’t want to be grounded.
I spotted a hockey stick on the other side of the room. I made a leap for the hockey stick, leaped back to the bed, hoisted the mattress and shoved the hockey stick under the bed. I had assumed she had broken a mattress slat. What she did was much worse. Fortunately, the hockey stick took care of that.
Seconds later, mom opened the door. Andrea, Kevin, and I were all nestled together in the bed, our faces frozen in that quizzical look that clearly relays something was something was going.
Mom peered into the room. “What was that noise?”
“What noise?” we all three asked and yes, it was pretty much in unison.
“There were a couple of loud crashes.”
“Nope, we didn’t hear anything.”
She looked at us disbelievingly and then cast her eyes around the room suspiciously, looking for the broken object or objects. Finally satisfied, she closed the door and laughed.
A collective sigh was heard in the room. We were amazed we had gotten away with it. After we got over our initial feelings of relief, the hilarity of the situation settled over us. For years we would laugh about this night, and for years my parents would never know the truth of that night.
Several times over the years, we would all have a sibling wrestling squabble in which Kevin would inevitably say “No big leg drops.”
Still, our parents never knew what was so funny. They didn’t really have any suspicions either. There are multitude of words, sayings, lines that cause us to erupt into a fit of giggles. This annoys my mother to this day. Probably because if I call her and I find out that she is with Andrea, I’ll ask her to say something random, something that makes no sense to her, but makes plenty of sense of Andrea who’ll crack up and then give the proper response. It’s our own little HK Language
Eventually though, the Big Leg Drop was found out.
About ten years later, in the summer of 2005 our house went on the market. An after effect of divorce (Thanks, dad, it’s not like we three loved that house or anything). Sometimes I wonder if things would’ve turned out differently (like maybe the Big Leg Drop would still be a mystery) if my parents were still together.
We had a big rummage sale and mom sold all of our bedroom furniture. It was a little dated and young. I had two bedroom suits anyway, one that needed to come home from my college apartment, Kevin took my parent’s bedroom furniture and Andrea opted for something new.
It was in the preparation for this rummage sale that the true story of Christmas Eve many years ago unfolded.
Mom was in Kevin’s room putting everything to right. She was messing with his bed. The next thing we all knew, we were being summoned.
We entered Kevin’s room and she held up The Hockey Stick.
“What is this?” she asked.
“A hockey stick,” I ventured.
“Why was it under Kevin’s bed?”
We all three kind of looked around and then before anyone could say anything more, we burst out laughing. She tried to get us to stop, tried to get the story out of us, but it was no use. Sure, our ruse was up, but it lasted nearly a decade before any parent caught on. That was outside of the statute of limitations. We could not be punished for our crime.
“It was kind of holding it up,” we said.
She stared at us in awe. “Well, I can’t sell Kevin’s bed now. The frame is all twisted and I find out a hockey stick is holding it up. When did this happen, Kevin?”
We asked her if she remembered the Christmas Eve when she heard the crashes. She did. We came clean and told her were the result of the Big Leg Drop.
“But the frame,” she said. It might be believable for some people to twist a frame, but considering that Andrea was barely 85 pounds, it was a valid question.
“It wasn’t just any leg drop,” Kevin said. “It was a Big Leg Drop. She jumped up and then landed on her butt.”
And then we all three started laughing again despite mom’s dropped jaw.
Over the years, we’ve collected a number of stories.
There was the grape fight with the Moore’s. My sister and I had a blast at the ages of around five and three when we got the great idea to pick our neighbor’s grapes and throw them at the neighbor boys. The end result was a pissed off neighbor who had no grapes to make wine and a back patio stained from the grapes. We were in trouble.
Somehow, it seems that when siblings are getting along, the end result is not going to be pretty.
Enter the Big Leg Drop.
This incident is so vivid in the HK’s minds, that these simple words throw us into fits of laughter. Try it. Come up to one of us and “say Big. Leg. Drop,” and see the reaction. Recognition is immediate and that night comes back to us in a snap. I don’t ever think this night will be erased from our memories.
It was Christmas Eve.
Let’s back it up just a moment.
Since we were little and believed in Santa Claus (Maybe I still believe in Santa Claus), we’ve routinely slept in the same bed together. This mainly started when Andrea and I shared a room, but it’s kept going over the years. And when Kevin was old enough, we’d build a pallet on the floor of the room Andrea and I shared and we’d all three sleep down there on the pallet. Sounds like nice, loving children, right? Wrong. We were scared to death someone else would wake up and get to their treasure trove of goodies first.
As we got older, we didn’t abandon this ritual. In fact, it was just recently given up. The biggest factor for this was that instead of waking our mother up, she was now doing the waking. And everyone can get better sleep in their own beds. There’s always a battle to not be stuck in the middle.
Now, to the meat of the story.
We were in the Springhaven House, so our respective ages were: Erin 15, Andrea 13, and Kevin 10. This is the absolute youngest we could’ve been because we’d moved in that house and then Andrea relocated to the basement a couple of years later.
No matter what we thought or believed, none of us were ever able to get to sleep. We were your stereotypical middle-class children and thusly spoiled so. Never too spoiled though. Mom made sure to deny me my fair share of My Little Ponies when I was little. But Christmas was the one time we would get properly spoiled
We’re all keyed up and laying in Kevin’s bed. When we moved, we all got out own bedrooms with our own bedroom furniture. Andrea and I had twin beds. Kevin was lucky and got a full size. Yes, the three of us were a little cramped in this bed. It didn’t matter though because we were laughing and having fun.
We’d always had a big WWF/WCW fetish from the time we were children. Of course, during the reign of Ric Flair, we cut back, but with Stone Cold and Goldberg, we were watching again. Somehow Andrea and Kevin began performing wrestling moves on the bed.
He did an elbow drop.
We all laughed.
Andrea stood up and said “Big leg drop,” and proceeded to jump and fall on her butt near the bottom corner of Kevin’s bed.
Andrea landed.
As soon as she landed, a loud cracking sound was heard followed by a crash as Andrea tumbled off the bed and landed on the floor.
“What’s going on back there!” my mom hollered and proceeded to thunder down the hallway.
I moved with the speed and precision of an accomplished older sibling. Don’t ask me how I did what I did, how I knew to use what I used…I can’t even answer that question to this day. All I knew was that mom was thundering down the hallway, dad probably wouldn’t be far behind and I didn’t want to be grounded.
I spotted a hockey stick on the other side of the room. I made a leap for the hockey stick, leaped back to the bed, hoisted the mattress and shoved the hockey stick under the bed. I had assumed she had broken a mattress slat. What she did was much worse. Fortunately, the hockey stick took care of that.
Seconds later, mom opened the door. Andrea, Kevin, and I were all nestled together in the bed, our faces frozen in that quizzical look that clearly relays something was something was going.
Mom peered into the room. “What was that noise?”
“What noise?” we all three asked and yes, it was pretty much in unison.
“There were a couple of loud crashes.”
“Nope, we didn’t hear anything.”
She looked at us disbelievingly and then cast her eyes around the room suspiciously, looking for the broken object or objects. Finally satisfied, she closed the door and laughed.
A collective sigh was heard in the room. We were amazed we had gotten away with it. After we got over our initial feelings of relief, the hilarity of the situation settled over us. For years we would laugh about this night, and for years my parents would never know the truth of that night.
Several times over the years, we would all have a sibling wrestling squabble in which Kevin would inevitably say “No big leg drops.”
Still, our parents never knew what was so funny. They didn’t really have any suspicions either. There are multitude of words, sayings, lines that cause us to erupt into a fit of giggles. This annoys my mother to this day. Probably because if I call her and I find out that she is with Andrea, I’ll ask her to say something random, something that makes no sense to her, but makes plenty of sense of Andrea who’ll crack up and then give the proper response. It’s our own little HK Language
Eventually though, the Big Leg Drop was found out.
About ten years later, in the summer of 2005 our house went on the market. An after effect of divorce (Thanks, dad, it’s not like we three loved that house or anything). Sometimes I wonder if things would’ve turned out differently (like maybe the Big Leg Drop would still be a mystery) if my parents were still together.
We had a big rummage sale and mom sold all of our bedroom furniture. It was a little dated and young. I had two bedroom suits anyway, one that needed to come home from my college apartment, Kevin took my parent’s bedroom furniture and Andrea opted for something new.
It was in the preparation for this rummage sale that the true story of Christmas Eve many years ago unfolded.
Mom was in Kevin’s room putting everything to right. She was messing with his bed. The next thing we all knew, we were being summoned.
We entered Kevin’s room and she held up The Hockey Stick.
“What is this?” she asked.
“A hockey stick,” I ventured.
“Why was it under Kevin’s bed?”
We all three kind of looked around and then before anyone could say anything more, we burst out laughing. She tried to get us to stop, tried to get the story out of us, but it was no use. Sure, our ruse was up, but it lasted nearly a decade before any parent caught on. That was outside of the statute of limitations. We could not be punished for our crime.
“It was kind of holding it up,” we said.
She stared at us in awe. “Well, I can’t sell Kevin’s bed now. The frame is all twisted and I find out a hockey stick is holding it up. When did this happen, Kevin?”
We asked her if she remembered the Christmas Eve when she heard the crashes. She did. We came clean and told her were the result of the Big Leg Drop.
“But the frame,” she said. It might be believable for some people to twist a frame, but considering that Andrea was barely 85 pounds, it was a valid question.
“It wasn’t just any leg drop,” Kevin said. “It was a Big Leg Drop. She jumped up and then landed on her butt.”
And then we all three started laughing again despite mom’s dropped jaw.
A Really Bad Week or Why I Learn the Hard Way
It has been that kind of week again.
Had a prescription for Lithium or Prozac been chilling in my house somewhere, I would’ve downed the bottle. Not to kill myself (although, that was on my mind earlier in the week), but to calm myself. Stressed to the max!
Anyway, I should have known “something wicked this way comes” on Sunday. First of all, my Sunday didn’t unfold in its regular fashion. Instead of staying glued to the Lazy-Boy and watching movie after movie with the occasional Office/Entourage/Seinfeld episode thrown in there, my Sunday started with a committee meeting. We had teens at the office experimenting with crafts and activities for a big event in October. I went down into our basement for spare supplies. As I was walking up the stairs, I became aware that my keys were no longer with me.
This posed a problem. First, I was the only employee at the office and I wouldn’t be able to get back into the basement to retrieve the keys. Second, not only were the keys to my office on my key ring, the keys to my car were on there. Had I just locked office keys in the basement, I would’ve said screw it until Monday morning. But I kind of needed to drive back home, so screw it, I couldn’t. Anyway, I made a few calls all to no avail. Finally I got a hold of someone who was stepping out for a minute. She lives relatively close, so she had no problem coming by to unlock the basement for me. I got my keys back and everything was great.
And then Monday dawned.
I drove to the gym and noticed that my car was pulling one way. I didn’t think anything of it. I needed to have my oil changed here soon, and I chalked it up to the car being out of alignment of the tires needing to be rotated. It would get looked at when I changed the oil. I toughed it through my workout despite the ache in my tibialis anterior (the muscle that runs alongside your shin), and then went out to my car.
I pulled out of my parking space and heard *thumpa, thumpa, thumpa.* I got out and looked. I had a flat tire…front driver side. There was a gas station a mile and a half away. Never having had an actual flat tire (they have been low, but never completely flat), I thought I could make it there and air the tire up and everything would be hunky dory. That was not the case. And I should have just put the car in park and changed the tire at the gym, but, oh no…my brain does not work in that way.
Anyway, I get onto the highway that takes me from the gym to the gas station. I’m driving 15 mph and the car is shaking! Violently! I slow down to 10 mph. It’s still shaking though not as bad. After about a half a mile, I start flipping about having two flat tires. I pull over on the highway and look. No, just the one. This one tire is sure flipping me out.
I consider changing the tire on the highway and even open my trunk to do so. About the time I’m pulling the jack from the little compartment, a semi breezes past me. I get back in the car. Yes, I know how to change a tire. I have changed a tire in the dead of winter three sheets to the wind wearing my sister’s Triple X Vin Diesel jacket for warmth. But I am not changing a driver side tire on the highway between the hours of 7:30 and 8:00 a.m. when everyone and their brother seems to be on their way to work (And wondering how the unemployment rate is so high). I may be crazy, but I’m not a complete lunatic and at that moment I didn’t have a death wish.
Later in the day I did. But back to the story.
I’m stressing majorly. I’m stranded on the highway, in sweat-soaked clothes, I have to shower, I have to get to work, and I just don’t know what to do. I was Irrational Erin. During the IA (Irrational Attack) I did find a moment to think clearly. I called my sister until she answered and arranged for her to pick me up. I apologized and felt like an idiot, like I should’ve known better, and felt bad for waking her up. I know, the tire wasn’t exactly my fault, but still…
My ride was taken care of. Now I just needed to get my car off of the highway.
The lucky thing is that my uncle is a part owner in a body shop. I called and got his cell and arranged for a tow, two new tires (I’m not an airhead, I know you can’t replace one tire, you have to buy tires in even numbers), and while the car is in the garage to go ahead and change the oil.
I had to leave my car unlocked on the highway with the keys hidden under a seat for the tow.
Andrea picked me up. I left the car unlocked and took my keys. I’m a brainchild.
Anyway, I apologized still, not quite able to shake how bad I was feeling. It didn’t help that I didn’t fall asleep until almost two to wake up at six. Andrea said shit happens and shoved me into the bathroom. I didn’t make my bed. That’s not something I like to forget and that night I slept on wrinkled sheets. Another pet peeve of mine. She drove me to the body shop before work to drop my keys off, and then we went to the good Donut Bank where we ordered two tiger tails and two glazed donuts. They shorted me one of my tiger tails. I am not surprised.
Around noon, the body shop calls me. My car is done. I’m done. The bill is $168.
When I get back to the office, I look at my bill. $65 for labor! All they did was change the oil and put on two new tires. I KNOW that could not have taken more than an hour! I could’ve changed my tire in ten minutes with my dinky little jack! They just put the car on a lift! I went into the wrong field. Mechanics are making more than me and my college degree.
Bad luck comes in threes.
So I have been waiting for the third thing to happen.
This is precisely why I should have just sacrificed myself to the semi’s on Highway 41 to change my tire. At least my family would’ve benefitted. They wouldn’t be millionaires, but I’m sure they could sue the Sheriff’s Department since I saw a sheriff pass me without even blinking an eye at the poor citizen having car issues. So much for “to protect and serve.”
It’s now Thursday. So far nothing has happened. No pianos have landed on my head. No hackers have stolen my identity. No government official has labeled me a threat to society. Nope, the only thing really bad is the damn tibialis anterior that’s been hurting all week and the fact that I’ve been three pounds heavier than normal this week.
There have been some close calls though.
Tuesday I went to Wal-Mart for snacks for a committee meeting. I talked to my friend Ryan on the phone and then put my phone away. I didn’t put it in my back pocket and couldn’t find it in my purse. I assumed I left it at the checkout, so I turned around to look for it. When I got it, I realized that I had put it in my front pocket.
That same Tuesday, I listened to my Ipod at work. My meeting was from 4-5 and I got done cleaning up at 5:30. I went back to my desk to grab my purse, keys, chapstick, etc. I made a point to grab my headphones because I’ll forget them, but didn’t see my Ipod out. I assumed I had already put it in my purse.
Wednesday morning I looked for my Ipod in my purse when I got to the gym. No Ipod. I assumed the Ipod was under some papers at work. A big negative. I began thinking. I sent an email out to everyone. No one had seen my Ipod! I called the building manager who gave me the cleaner’s number. I am now flipping. I’m already $168 in the hole. Do I really want to add another $400 on top of that? Um, NO! I can’t concentrate on work. My Ipod is a big part of my workout. And I workout six days a week without missing a beat. Rain, ice, sleet, snow, sickness, swine flu, none of it will keep me from the gym. This is due largely to the fact that if I don’t work out, I chastise myself for eating. I literally begrudge every bite I take if I skip a work out. And I like eating. So missing a work out is like a triple negative. I’m mad at myself for eating, mad because I’m mad at myself for eating, and I haven’t had my normal endorphin boost.
Thankfully, I found my Ipod. The cleaners found it and stuck it on the wrong desk. Whether or not this is true, I’m not sure. All I know is the thing is password protected and thanks to my brother’s hijinks it has an engraving on the back that says: STOLEN FROM Erin Hobgood. Try that on for identifying marks!
So, I’m sitting here still wondering what bad-ness the future has in store for me. Please, god, whatever it is, do not involve my car. Give me food poisoning (which wouldn’t be so bad if I lost weight), cause me to break an arm (not a leg b/c I can still run w/ a broken arm), have me accidentally get tazed, have my phone get stolen (insurance!), just nothing happen to the car, or my Ipod!
Had a prescription for Lithium or Prozac been chilling in my house somewhere, I would’ve downed the bottle. Not to kill myself (although, that was on my mind earlier in the week), but to calm myself. Stressed to the max!
Anyway, I should have known “something wicked this way comes” on Sunday. First of all, my Sunday didn’t unfold in its regular fashion. Instead of staying glued to the Lazy-Boy and watching movie after movie with the occasional Office/Entourage/Seinfeld episode thrown in there, my Sunday started with a committee meeting. We had teens at the office experimenting with crafts and activities for a big event in October. I went down into our basement for spare supplies. As I was walking up the stairs, I became aware that my keys were no longer with me.
This posed a problem. First, I was the only employee at the office and I wouldn’t be able to get back into the basement to retrieve the keys. Second, not only were the keys to my office on my key ring, the keys to my car were on there. Had I just locked office keys in the basement, I would’ve said screw it until Monday morning. But I kind of needed to drive back home, so screw it, I couldn’t. Anyway, I made a few calls all to no avail. Finally I got a hold of someone who was stepping out for a minute. She lives relatively close, so she had no problem coming by to unlock the basement for me. I got my keys back and everything was great.
And then Monday dawned.
I drove to the gym and noticed that my car was pulling one way. I didn’t think anything of it. I needed to have my oil changed here soon, and I chalked it up to the car being out of alignment of the tires needing to be rotated. It would get looked at when I changed the oil. I toughed it through my workout despite the ache in my tibialis anterior (the muscle that runs alongside your shin), and then went out to my car.
I pulled out of my parking space and heard *thumpa, thumpa, thumpa.* I got out and looked. I had a flat tire…front driver side. There was a gas station a mile and a half away. Never having had an actual flat tire (they have been low, but never completely flat), I thought I could make it there and air the tire up and everything would be hunky dory. That was not the case. And I should have just put the car in park and changed the tire at the gym, but, oh no…my brain does not work in that way.
Anyway, I get onto the highway that takes me from the gym to the gas station. I’m driving 15 mph and the car is shaking! Violently! I slow down to 10 mph. It’s still shaking though not as bad. After about a half a mile, I start flipping about having two flat tires. I pull over on the highway and look. No, just the one. This one tire is sure flipping me out.
I consider changing the tire on the highway and even open my trunk to do so. About the time I’m pulling the jack from the little compartment, a semi breezes past me. I get back in the car. Yes, I know how to change a tire. I have changed a tire in the dead of winter three sheets to the wind wearing my sister’s Triple X Vin Diesel jacket for warmth. But I am not changing a driver side tire on the highway between the hours of 7:30 and 8:00 a.m. when everyone and their brother seems to be on their way to work (And wondering how the unemployment rate is so high). I may be crazy, but I’m not a complete lunatic and at that moment I didn’t have a death wish.
Later in the day I did. But back to the story.
I’m stressing majorly. I’m stranded on the highway, in sweat-soaked clothes, I have to shower, I have to get to work, and I just don’t know what to do. I was Irrational Erin. During the IA (Irrational Attack) I did find a moment to think clearly. I called my sister until she answered and arranged for her to pick me up. I apologized and felt like an idiot, like I should’ve known better, and felt bad for waking her up. I know, the tire wasn’t exactly my fault, but still…
My ride was taken care of. Now I just needed to get my car off of the highway.
The lucky thing is that my uncle is a part owner in a body shop. I called and got his cell and arranged for a tow, two new tires (I’m not an airhead, I know you can’t replace one tire, you have to buy tires in even numbers), and while the car is in the garage to go ahead and change the oil.
I had to leave my car unlocked on the highway with the keys hidden under a seat for the tow.
Andrea picked me up. I left the car unlocked and took my keys. I’m a brainchild.
Anyway, I apologized still, not quite able to shake how bad I was feeling. It didn’t help that I didn’t fall asleep until almost two to wake up at six. Andrea said shit happens and shoved me into the bathroom. I didn’t make my bed. That’s not something I like to forget and that night I slept on wrinkled sheets. Another pet peeve of mine. She drove me to the body shop before work to drop my keys off, and then we went to the good Donut Bank where we ordered two tiger tails and two glazed donuts. They shorted me one of my tiger tails. I am not surprised.
Around noon, the body shop calls me. My car is done. I’m done. The bill is $168.
When I get back to the office, I look at my bill. $65 for labor! All they did was change the oil and put on two new tires. I KNOW that could not have taken more than an hour! I could’ve changed my tire in ten minutes with my dinky little jack! They just put the car on a lift! I went into the wrong field. Mechanics are making more than me and my college degree.
Bad luck comes in threes.
So I have been waiting for the third thing to happen.
This is precisely why I should have just sacrificed myself to the semi’s on Highway 41 to change my tire. At least my family would’ve benefitted. They wouldn’t be millionaires, but I’m sure they could sue the Sheriff’s Department since I saw a sheriff pass me without even blinking an eye at the poor citizen having car issues. So much for “to protect and serve.”
It’s now Thursday. So far nothing has happened. No pianos have landed on my head. No hackers have stolen my identity. No government official has labeled me a threat to society. Nope, the only thing really bad is the damn tibialis anterior that’s been hurting all week and the fact that I’ve been three pounds heavier than normal this week.
There have been some close calls though.
Tuesday I went to Wal-Mart for snacks for a committee meeting. I talked to my friend Ryan on the phone and then put my phone away. I didn’t put it in my back pocket and couldn’t find it in my purse. I assumed I left it at the checkout, so I turned around to look for it. When I got it, I realized that I had put it in my front pocket.
That same Tuesday, I listened to my Ipod at work. My meeting was from 4-5 and I got done cleaning up at 5:30. I went back to my desk to grab my purse, keys, chapstick, etc. I made a point to grab my headphones because I’ll forget them, but didn’t see my Ipod out. I assumed I had already put it in my purse.
Wednesday morning I looked for my Ipod in my purse when I got to the gym. No Ipod. I assumed the Ipod was under some papers at work. A big negative. I began thinking. I sent an email out to everyone. No one had seen my Ipod! I called the building manager who gave me the cleaner’s number. I am now flipping. I’m already $168 in the hole. Do I really want to add another $400 on top of that? Um, NO! I can’t concentrate on work. My Ipod is a big part of my workout. And I workout six days a week without missing a beat. Rain, ice, sleet, snow, sickness, swine flu, none of it will keep me from the gym. This is due largely to the fact that if I don’t work out, I chastise myself for eating. I literally begrudge every bite I take if I skip a work out. And I like eating. So missing a work out is like a triple negative. I’m mad at myself for eating, mad because I’m mad at myself for eating, and I haven’t had my normal endorphin boost.
Thankfully, I found my Ipod. The cleaners found it and stuck it on the wrong desk. Whether or not this is true, I’m not sure. All I know is the thing is password protected and thanks to my brother’s hijinks it has an engraving on the back that says: STOLEN FROM Erin Hobgood. Try that on for identifying marks!
So, I’m sitting here still wondering what bad-ness the future has in store for me. Please, god, whatever it is, do not involve my car. Give me food poisoning (which wouldn’t be so bad if I lost weight), cause me to break an arm (not a leg b/c I can still run w/ a broken arm), have me accidentally get tazed, have my phone get stolen (insurance!), just nothing happen to the car, or my Ipod!
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Verizon is the DEVIL and my Scapegoat
It feels like ages since I last posted a blog. And now that things at work are at a temporary lull (because believe me, August is going to be a bit crazy, but once September hits, the insanity will not end until December), I find myself a loss for words.
See, this is how it works for me…as the stress climbs, so does the need or itch to write. It’s either that or I call Verizon and flip the script…
That’s not a bad idea…
My phone broke at camp. This is the…fourth Venus I’ve had in eighteen months. I’m averaging one Venus ever three to four months. On the bright side, that does mean that each Venus I’ve had has been under warranty. And before you start pointing fingers, no Venus has had water damage. Knock on wood. I have one more month until I upgrade and I’ll probably screw up the whole “no water damage” thing now. Thank god I purchased insurance.
Venus 1 – I got it in January 2008. In June, the phone turned off and would not turn back on. I took the battery out, and nothing. I plugged it into the charger and saw the screen light up and say charge complete. I tried to turn it on plugged into the charger. No dice. The thing wanted to die and who was I to deny it that simple pleasure. Especially since it was still under warranty.
Venus 2 – Despite me accidentally sitting it on a stove burner that was turned on high, the phone kept working. Although, the battery had to be replaced. Apparently, those high of temperatures kill the mechanism that allows the battery to hold a charge. My phone would work as long as it was plugged in at all times. The battery needed to be replaced. No worries though because the battery was under warranty.
Anyway, March 2009 rolls around. After an invigorating run with the spoiled child, I called mom to tell her how well the baby (11-year-old) puppy did. As I was talking to her, I assumed she got bad service because I heard her saying, “Erin, Erin, hello. Erin, hello.” And then she hung up. I called her back. Same result. I called my brother. He couldn’t hear me. I called my friend Jada and Andrea at work. No one could hear me.
Venus 2 was nine months old (the one with the longest life expectancy) and the speaker went out. I could text, but come on…texting everything? Yes, I’d rather text because I can multitask and text at the same time – also, I can watch my junk TV shows without actually concentrating on a conversation – but a few things warrant a phone call.
Venus 3 – This one might have been my fault…It was June and I was at my day camp. On Monday, I dropped my phone an inordinate amount of times and found that if I talked to someone on the phone and then slid my phone close, it would turn off. I tried taking the battery out, all my usual tricks and nothing worked. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. I don’t like talking all that much, but I was at USI for our day camp, it was extraordinarily hot (temps around 95 degrees with heat indexes over 100 degrees easily) and parents were calling concerned about their children, asking how things were, and calling them in absent.
When I woke up Tuesday morning and found this was still a problem, I was concerned. I was also at camp during everyone’s business hours, so getting a replacement phone was not going to be easy. Then someone tried to text me. I had no idea who sent the text. No number popped up. Very peculiar.
Once I arrived at camp (early to get the day rolling), I called Verizon and reported the problem. Since we had no phone at camp, they had to call me back on someone else’s phone as they took me through the trouble-shooting tips. They got my texts working, but my phone wouldn’t stop shutting off after a phone call. They ordered me a new phone. This was Tuesday morning. I didn’t get the phone until Thursday night. On Tuesday, the girls asked why I wasn’t shutting my phone. I explained. Over the next couple of days, the little girls had no problem reminding me not to close my phone. On Friday, I shut my phone (Venus 4) and they flipped on me until I explained I had the new one.
The best part of the entire camp was when one of the middle school girls asked me if she could have my old phone, the one that turned off after phone conversations. She made sure to tell me she didn’t mind if it didn’t work, she just liked and it thought it was way cooler than her phone (Yes, I did catch on that as a middle schooler, she had a cell phone, something I didn’t have until right before my sophomore year OF COLLEGE!).
So know I am on Venus 4 and it simply has to limp through another month so I can get my upgrade. What’s sad is that I didn’t get around to getting my address book transferred until this weekend (Yes, it had been five-six weeks since camp had let out, I am aware). And this is why I’m upset with the Verizon people.
The Verizon store is on North Green River Road on the east side of town. However, it is a good five to ten minutes from the Lloyd Expressway and Green depending on the traffic. If it was at the Lloyd, this wouldn’t be a problem because I could shoot over on my lunch break (ten minutes tops to get there) and get everything all taken care of. However, that extra ten minutes means a driving time of 40 minutes round trip. That translates to only 20 minutes spent at Verizon.
I went over there a couple of times on my lunch break to find ONE PERSON working the service desk after 1:30. The place was BUSY. I had two people in front of me. One of the people was a little old woman. I don’t have anything against old people, but I do see a correlation between age and understanding technology. The old you are, the less you understand. I am not blessed with patience. When I saw that old woman there, my mood quickly turned to bad. Five minutes later when I heard the sales guy EXPLAINING HOW TO USE HER PHONE; my bad mood quickly went nuclear. Another five minutes passed and the old woman still HAD NO CLUE WHAT THE SALESPERSON WAS TALKING ABOUT. Nuclear wasn’t the word to describe the level my anger quickly jumped to. It spiked off the chart. I’m pretty sure that if you would’ve harvest my anger and funneled into a weapon, you could’ve taken all of Asia off the map! Doomsday machine times 30! That was the level my anger was at.
I huffed through another five minutes of babble that allowed me to think about a couple of things.
1. If Verizon boasts the nation’s biggest wireless network (numbers wise, not size), why did they only have one person in tech support? Was the economy that bad? Ok, the answer to that might be yes, but I think a couple of jobs are safe. Like grocery stores. People may start buying the cheaper brands, but everyone needs food and grocery stores are going to stay in business. Based on the number of people that have cell phones, contractual and pay-as-you-go plans, I don’t think I could believe these companies are actually losing revenue.
2. If the economy is that bad, stop shelling out money on ads that are the very EPITOME of stupid! I don’t shell out money to you every month because of some little jackass saying “Can you hear me.” In fact, I don’t even like you as company. I only have you because everyone I know has Verizon and those that don’t are in my Fab Five. So I pick the plan with the lowest minutes and never go over. I also add unlimited text because that’s VERY important.
3. One tech person at a time is a stupid idea. People get backed up. When I STORMED OUT (And I made sure to let them EXACTLY how put out I was with them and how their store was in the worst place ever and how someone shouldn’t have a phone if they need a 30-minute tutorial on how to simply make a call (Setting up address book is an additional 30-minute tutorial with text…oh…that would probably be an hour for someone technologically incompetent to even begin to grasp the basic principles of texting) and how I would get back there when I got there. I’d go back once I could work them into my schedule and if they wanted my old useless Venus 3 back, they were just going to have to wait because they clearly aren’t trying to accommodate me, so why should I be a good customer and accommodate them and their cheapness of only ONE TECH PERSON! Note: This one tech person is really driving me a bit insane. Even the slowest banks that I worked at had a minimum of two people EVEN AT LUNCH TIME.
4. If cell phone companies insist on making a quick buck off of these inept people, they must have a tech person SOLELY for the inept. This is the equivalent of a regular check-out lane and an express lane at any other store. Seriously, because when I’m simply buying my Granny Smith apples or picking up some potatoes and turkey burgers for dinner, I DO NOT WANT TO BE BEHIND THE MOTHER OF SIX WHO IS SHOPPING FOR THE ENTIRE MONTH. Likewise, when I’m at the cell phone store and want a simple address book transfer, I do not want to wait on the old woman who doesn’t understand that the send button is the button she needs to push to make a call or the clueless sorority girl who dropped her phone in water and can’t seem to understand how warranty doesn’t cover that kind of stuff. I have work to do because unlike those who are lazy, I don’t receive a government handout.
*Verizon, I’d take heed. These are GOOD suggestions. And unless you convince my friends and family to change networks, I’m not going anywhere. That means, you’ll have to continue to deal with me (evil, maniacal laugh)!
Anyway, back on track, I can’t go over there during my working hours, but since I’m at work when they open and at yoga/committee meeting when they close, I pretty much only have lunch. I could go on Saturday, but the store isn’t close to my house. And the section of Green River Road I would have to travel is under construction and I really can’t deal with that traffic (As if my notorious lack of patience would have anyone think any differently). Not to mention gas. The price of gas just…enflames me. Every time I see it rise, I lose a piece of my mind.
Note to Pres: Thought you were going to handle this. Sure, prices are down, but the past two weeks, they’ve climbed twenty cents each week to only come down ten cents a couple of days later. This is exactly how it started when gas got to $4/gallon last year – TAKE CONTROL, DOUCHE!
Back to the Verizon store. Anyway, because I don’t like to drive to the east side for JUST ONE THING, I tend to wait. However, the problem is that my Vitamins and books can easily be bought on a lunch break, and I don’t want to wait until the weekend to do this stuff in order to take care of my cell phone drama. Also, Borders has the annoying habit of having coupons only good for Tuesday and Wednesday or Wednesday and Thursday.
The other thing about going over there on a Saturday is that I like to relax, possibly take a nap. And I can’t do that if I get nuclear angry at a little old woman. It takes way too much to calm me down. That means a nap is out of the picture and I really like my naps. And I like doing absolutely nothing until noon when I can go to the gym because it has been cleared out of most of the people (I know, I have antisocial tendencies). And then I come home, maybe eat some cinnamon toast and then possibly take a shower if the sister and I are going to go to dinner. If I’m not working, laziness is my middle name…but before you start casting stones, you should see how much I do work. And to be 27, single, and childless…it almost feels wrong to be this busy. It’s one thing to not have a life once you’re married and have kids, but it’s another to be single and childless and have no life. Plus, if I had kids, I’d probably have little heathen monsters and work would be my escape!
But, I finally got my address book updated this weekend and the old broken Venus 3 mailed back to Verizon. All it took was me flipping out because I left my wallet at work on Friday. Because it was 8:30 a.m. and I was at work on Saturday, I decided, what the hell, and swung by the OUT-OF-THE-WAY Verizon store. Miracle of miracles, they had just opened. Some guy transferred my address book lickity-split as soon I as walked inside.
But then…he got a little snide.
I gave him the stuff to send the phone back. And he said they didn’t do that at the store…
Oh…you know…
I said: Fine, Verizon will get this phone as soon as I find time to get to a Cellular Connection because I PREFER to do my business there. They are always helpful and have mailed my phones off for me. I’m only here because I have VIP status and get free transfers.” Yes, cheapness oftentimes is my middle name.
To which he then replied: There is a shipping place a few stores down.
It’s a shame I had to get prickly in order for him to get helpful. I’ll mark another one down in the column for reasons to hate Verizon.
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