As I do almost all of my banking online or via debit card, I use, at the very most, 3 or 4 checks per month. This means that an order of checks lasts me a very long time. After writing the check for my rent (the only check I write every month, I discovered/remembered that I’m almost out of checks. I had noticed this some weeks ago, but since I was still using the freebies from when I opened the account (literally 3+ years ago!) I couldn’t just re-order online and would have to talk to a “customer service represenative”.
So, I call the 800 number and navigate through the menus until I get “Troy” on the line. Troy was quite personable, making chit-chat as he gathers the necessary information (evidently, the weather in Manila, Philippines is quite nice now). Troy asks me if I want the same checks as before, “sure, that’s fine” says I. Then Troy dropped a bombshell; 250 of the rather ordinary-looking checks I’ve been using will cost $77!! First of all, I do not need 250 checks, it’s taken me 3 1/2 years to use 150. Secondly, $77 for checks? That’s fucking crazy!
So, I politely explain to Troy that there is absolutely no way I’m paying that much for checks. With little fanfare he hooks me up with plain-old, regular-ass checks, yellow, I believe, for a much less angina-inducing $21.50 per 150. Assuming I don’t move (or die) I should still be using these checks 5 years from now.
$77 for checks! That’s just crazy talk!
In the wee hours of Friday morning, I found myself in need of a stamp. Sadly, the Post Office half a mile from my house mysteriously removed their stamp machines some time ago, so I’ll have to turn elsewhere.
No problem, I think, the US Bank (an account I’ve kept open for no reason other than occasional fee-free ATM usage) is just as close and the ATM sells stamps. And so, off I go. After I go through the dozen or so steps necessary to purchase stamps the ATM informs me that my card has expired and asks if I want another transaction. Another transaction? WTF? No, thank you, just give me back my useless card.
So, I return home to search for the ATM card which I assume came, unnoticed, in the mail. No luck. If the card came, it apparently made its way, unnoticed, into the trash. OK, plan B. I can use the debit card for my primary account, pay a fee to everyone involved, and get my stamps. I return to the ATM, only to discover that neither of the possible PIN’s which come to mind will work so I’m thwarted once more.
Dejected, I turn for home and when I’m almost there I realize Fulmer’s (the very conveniently-located grocery store which I hate and never shop at) is open 24 hours and sells stamps. I turn around, zip over to Fulmer’s (which looks suspiciously dark) and head for the door. As I approach the doors a man inside meets me and indicates that they’re closed, they don’t open until 6. Huh, apparently they are no longer open 24 hours.
So after all of this, I head to the Kroger across town where I normally do my grocery shopping, which I know for certain was still open 24 hours as recently as last week. It is open. Victory is mine! Naturally the only cashier working is taking her break, and naturally, the guy filling in for her is unfamiliar with the stamp selling protocol, but after a few false-starts I finally have my stamps.
I place a stamp on my envelope, drive back across town to the Post Office right by my house (you know, the one where they took out the fucking stamp machines) and drop it in the mail. A mere 2 hours after I started this little adventure, I was safely back at home.
And that, friends, is how hard it is to buy stamps.
Why is it that my hobbies punish me for neglecting them? Too much time off the bike means a sore ass as I start to ride more. Playing my mandolin too infrequently means seriously painful, bordering on blistered fingertips upon picking it back up. I really need to get busy building up (and maintaining) some calluses.
Why is it that when you’re running late and in a hurry, everything possible seems to conspire to slow you down? Last night I was running a bit late, getting ready for work. I grabbed my hair brush and it immediately self-destructed. The rubber part which holds the metal bristles divorced itself from the handle and flew off. It only just avoided splashing down in the toilet (wouldn’t that have been a nice touch?).
It’s surprisingly difficult to brush your hair with a floppy piece of rubber studded with metal bristles, particularly given the wild and desperately in need of cutting condition my hair finds itself in. So of course this added more time which I didn’t have to spare to my preparations. I finally made it out the door only to be thwarted and delayed by every red-light I came to, random cops rolling with radar, and an abundance of cars driving 5 mph below the limit.
Really though, if this is all I can find to bitch about, things aren’t going too bad. You know?
Guess who got tricked into thinking he’d overslept, made a mad dash getting ready and getting to work only to discover he was 57 minutes early?
Yeah, it was me. Thanks a whole fucking bunch, George W. Bush. Thanks for turning my ‘never has to be reset CD alarm clock’ into a ‘has to be reset four fucking times a year torture device’.
Fucker.
So, the groundhog saw his shadow, which supposedly means six more weeks of winter. Bah!
At least the New York groundhog (Chuck) fulfilled a long-time wish of mine and bit someone (not just anyone, New York’s Mayor Bloomburg!)
Remember when I said that I didn’t much care about the snow and ice that was forecast for us? Well, I lied. We got it, it’s still around, and I hate it. But I am still taking some solace in my cheerful little Shamrock’s reemergence.
I have a potted shamrock that I received as a birthday/Saint Patrick’s Day gift a few years ago. It thrived in my kitchen window, producing blooms almost continuously. Back in September, though, it seemed to be becoming less vigorous and I decided that maybe it needed a rest. Being essentially a bulb (actually a rhizome, I believe), it made sense to me that it might need a dormant period, so early in November I snipped off all of its leaves and flowers, stuck it in a paper bag and tucked it away in the back of the refrigerator.
After I did this, I did a bit of Googling and discovered that apparently I should have withheld water until it died back on its own, then put it away for a nap. I really worried that I might have killed it with my impulsiveness, but I stuck to original plan and hoped for the best. I took it out just after Christmas and started watering it. A few weeks went by and nothing was happening, reinforcing my fear that I’d killed it. Then, last Friday, I thought I detected new growth, but feared it was just wishful thinking. Suddenly, Sunday, three leaves shot up! Hooray! I’m hopeful that this means it will begin producing blooms in time for my birthday, as per my plan.
There may be a winter storm warning in effect through Wednesday and we may get another six inches of snow, but I don’t care (much). It’s Spring in my kitchen!
Damn! What the Hell is this, Green Bay?
I was talking to my best friend earlier and he was exhorting me to get a Facebook account. I explained that I’m not a big fan of the “social networking” sites and related the story that follows to illustrate my point. He seemed to enjoy the tale and said, somewhat derisively, that I should write about it on my blog, so that’s exactly what I’m doing.
Every year my town holds a real old-fashioned ice cream social at the park by my house. Big Band music, ice cream, the whole shebangabang.
Several years ago, overcome by curiosity, I attended said event with my (at that time) girlfriend. After the music, as I was enjoying my ice cream a sweet elderly lady came up and engaged me in conversation. I played along and chatted for a bit, but the voice in my head was saying:
I don’t know you, why are you talking to me? What the fuck is wrong with you?
Apparently some of us just aren’t ice cream social material. I still chuckle at my grumpy antisocial attitude (at an ice cream social no less!) to this day. Don’t even get me started on the people at the hardware store!
Evidently I would feel right at home at the ‘Grumpy Old Bastard Days’ festival.
Today I got a mass mail piece from Time Warner. On the outside it said “Thank You”. My curiosity piqued, I opened it, thinking perhaps it had something to do with the ~$18 they’re supposed to be crediting my bill. Instead it’s a solicitation urging me to switch to their digital phone service.
Hey Time Warner,
Right after several hundred thousand of your customers were without cable service for a couple of weeks (or more) probably isn’t the time to try to sell them your digital phone service.
I mean really! My power was out for nearly a week, my cable for over 2; my phone (and DSL), on the other hand, worked the entire time.
There’s an informercial that’s been airing for a few months now for something called a Shamwow which is apparently some sort of super-absorbent towel, or something. Anyway, at one point, the pitchman - a spikey-haired douche bag with a Janet Jackson microphone tells me:
You’re gonna spend twenty dollars every month on paper towels anyway.
I am? Goddamnit! What am I, using them to dry off after I shower?
Someone needs to put a stop to me and my conspicuous paper towel consumerism!
Honestly, I don’t think I spend that much on paper towels in an entire year.
Thanks but no thanks, Vince - you can keep your rags.
Sunday, September 14 the remnants of Hurricane Ike rolled through my area. No rain to speak of, but the wind blew 60-80 mph all day long. By 3PM or so most of the area was without power as trees across the Miami Valley snapped or fell over, taking powerlines with them.
Not realizing at the time just how widespread the damage was, I wasn’t too concerned about the power, thinking it would be back on in no time. As it turned out, things were much worse than I’d realized. The Governor promptly declared my county (and several others) “Disaster Areas”. By the time I conceded that I needed to get some supplies (Tuesday), they were in short order. ‘C’ or ‘D’ batteries were no where to be found and Kroger was selling ice as fast as they could bag it up. I got ice, hoping to save my freezer full of Vermont Mystic Pies (tragically, that endeavor was doomed to failure), peanut butter and bread. I spent a week bored out of mind, reduced to eating peanut butter sandwiches and fast food and very thankful for Tim Horton’s coffee, having a gas water heater, and my XPower Powerpack 600HD
, which I used to power my laptop and DSL modem and then recharged in the car while I drove around searching (in vain) for some sign of repair crews actually repairing. I know they were out there, working hard, It just would have been reassuring to have seen them doing something other than driving to and fro.
DP&L reported that 300,000 of its 515,000 customers lost power Sunday, Sept. 14.
Here’s the breakdown of DP&L customers without power, day-by-day:
Sept. 15: 300,000
Sept. 16: 200,000
Sept. 17: 105,000
Sept. 18: 80,000
Sept. 19: 65,000
Sept. 20: 51,000
Sept. 21: 38,000
Sept 22: 28,000
Sept. 23: 13,000
Sept. 24: 8,000
My power was restored just as I was getting ready to leave for work Friday night, the 19th. It was then that I discovered that my cable was out. Does the torture never end?
Finally Tuesday night around 5PM two trucks from Time Warner Cable showed up, they spent the next several hours circling the block, working on the wires, finally getting my cable back on at 8:50PM. Supposedly they will credit my bill for the time from 24 hours after the power was restored until the cable was restored, 73+ hours. Personally, I don’t think I should have to pay for any of the time that service was interrupted, but according to the Public Utilities Commission, they are only liable for the time after power was restored. Oh well.
In summation, I would just like to say this to the Tropics:
Keep your damned storms to yourself! We don’t send you our blizzards, do we?
Seriously, there is just something terribly wrong about suffering this sort of inconvenience at the hands of a hurricane/tropical storm while not enjoying any of the benefits of a tropical climate.
That’s all I’m saying.