For awhile now (months and months) we’ve been planning our vacation. To that end, we’ve been saving up in our own special way. What seems to work for us is that every time we need to purchase something, we use bills and not change. The change ends up in a jar, and by the time vacation comes around we have some significant spending money. We leave tomorrow, so today we need to cash in all that change.
Now, we know that some places charge to count your change, and while I am not a skinflint, I am morally opposed for someone charging me to take my money and turn it into my money. I have a similar feeling for those green change machines you see at the supermarket. And since I’m not opposed to rolling my own rolls of change, we decided to see how to go about cashing them in. First step: call the bank.
Knowing that we have a better chance at a bank where we have an account, we called them first. We have a branch of this bank within a 5 minute walk of our house, so Chris called there. They said they didn’t have a change machine, but the branch in Wayne does. Fine, we’ll call there.
Except that we can’t. The phone book didn’t list a number for the Wayne branch, it only listed a nationwide toll-free 800 number. So Chris calls that…..and someone in India picks up. That’s right, my bank’s information line has been outsourced.
Now, I only hear my wife’s half of the conversation, but it was pretty easy to put the rest of it together. See if you can do the same. (Sorta like Mad Libs, only crazier and true.)
Chris: I want to cash in some change for bills and wanted to get in touch with the Wayne branch to see if I can come in anytime to do that.
Pause.
Chris: About $200.
Pause.
Chris: Quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies.
(At this point I started taking great interest.)
Pause.
Chris: Christine (spells last name).
Pause.
I have a few questions for Chris, such as a) why does the amount matter? b) why does her name matter? and c) what types of coins did the bank expect us to be cashing in? But at this point Chris has put her hand over the phone to explain to me what’s happening. It seems the operator in India is calling the Wayne branch of our bank, the people we wanted to talk to in the first place, to get the answer to our question.
One more time. We had to call India so they could call Wayne, a town a mere 6 miles away, to get the answer to a question we wanted to pose to the folks in Wayne in the first place.
This is the reason that banks charge you to use ATMs. They probably have people come all the way from India to refill them.
So, a moment later my wife says “Thank you very much” and hangs up. It seems we can just bring in the loose change, anytime, and have it counted, for free. Just the way it ought to be in the first place.
Friday, June 24, 2005
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Another one of those days
I don’t know how to type officially, but I do pretty well. I use two fingers on each hand, plus a thumb. For those keeping count, that’s five digits.
I’m only typing this with four.
Today started out okay, but a little weird. There were no problems around the house, but the weather couldn’t decide what to do. For a few minutes there were some nice, big fat drops of rain coming down, but then the sun arrived. Later on, it rained again, then more sunshine. About 2 hours before going to work at the restaurant tonight I felt a migraine coming on. The Tylenol I took didn’t help much, so I laid down for about an hour. That didn’t help either, so I took some migraine medication just before I left for work. For a little while I considered not going to work, since the migraine was causing me dizziness and nausea, but I decided to override myself. I guess I should have listened to my instincts, because half an hour into my shift I sliced part of my finger off.
I was chopping lettuce with a chef’s knife and zigged when I should have zagged. I knew immediately it wasn’t just a knick, cause it hurt like….well, I don’t usually use language like this, but it hurt like a motherfucker. I got it under running water almost immediately, cursing the whole time. I knew it was bad when I looked over at my co-worker. He was staring down at the cutting board, and I distinctly heard him say “Oh, shit.” I remember saying “If there’s a piece over there, could someone please put it on ice?”, but they must not have heard me, or there wasn’t enough to ice down (or they were just too grossed out). The owner did an expert job of wrapping it (so the ER nurse told me later), and I kept it elevated and pressurized all the way to the hospital, just like my Boy Scout manual says. (All my first aid classes over the years prepare you to perform aid on someone else, but every time I’ve used it I’ve had to use it on myself.)
The hospital staff was great. They had it unwrapped and rewrapped before I was even admitted. A half hour wait in the waiting room, and I was shown into one of those curtained-off areas. I move for the chair, but the guy says, “Here please,” and motions to the bed. Then he says, “Lay back,” and so I spent the next 45 minutes feeling ridiculous, lying in bed with a bandaged finger. Unwrap, rewrap (not just the finger. Apparently, hospital protocol requires that they wrap approximately 18 times the area of the wound. So I look like the mummy about now.) And then home again, and here I am, awkwardly typing up the account. I am attending a black tie wedding this weekend (my first! (black tie, not wedding), and dancing should be interesting. Also, I have a (mostly) unwarranted reputation among my friends for being a klutz, and this isn’t going to help any. I’m prepared for the jokes.
What’s weird, as my friend Jon will point out, is that I can juggle three of these chef’s knives, but yet can’t chop lettuce with just one of them. On the other hand, in all the years of working in restaurants, this is the most serious thing that’s ever happened. A few steam or oil burns, a knick or two, but those go with the job. This is the first that I could accurately label “occupational hazard”.
Oh, and to the customers I left behind: enjoy your salad.
I’m only typing this with four.
Today started out okay, but a little weird. There were no problems around the house, but the weather couldn’t decide what to do. For a few minutes there were some nice, big fat drops of rain coming down, but then the sun arrived. Later on, it rained again, then more sunshine. About 2 hours before going to work at the restaurant tonight I felt a migraine coming on. The Tylenol I took didn’t help much, so I laid down for about an hour. That didn’t help either, so I took some migraine medication just before I left for work. For a little while I considered not going to work, since the migraine was causing me dizziness and nausea, but I decided to override myself. I guess I should have listened to my instincts, because half an hour into my shift I sliced part of my finger off.
I was chopping lettuce with a chef’s knife and zigged when I should have zagged. I knew immediately it wasn’t just a knick, cause it hurt like….well, I don’t usually use language like this, but it hurt like a motherfucker. I got it under running water almost immediately, cursing the whole time. I knew it was bad when I looked over at my co-worker. He was staring down at the cutting board, and I distinctly heard him say “Oh, shit.” I remember saying “If there’s a piece over there, could someone please put it on ice?”, but they must not have heard me, or there wasn’t enough to ice down (or they were just too grossed out). The owner did an expert job of wrapping it (so the ER nurse told me later), and I kept it elevated and pressurized all the way to the hospital, just like my Boy Scout manual says. (All my first aid classes over the years prepare you to perform aid on someone else, but every time I’ve used it I’ve had to use it on myself.)
The hospital staff was great. They had it unwrapped and rewrapped before I was even admitted. A half hour wait in the waiting room, and I was shown into one of those curtained-off areas. I move for the chair, but the guy says, “Here please,” and motions to the bed. Then he says, “Lay back,” and so I spent the next 45 minutes feeling ridiculous, lying in bed with a bandaged finger. Unwrap, rewrap (not just the finger. Apparently, hospital protocol requires that they wrap approximately 18 times the area of the wound. So I look like the mummy about now.) And then home again, and here I am, awkwardly typing up the account. I am attending a black tie wedding this weekend (my first! (black tie, not wedding), and dancing should be interesting. Also, I have a (mostly) unwarranted reputation among my friends for being a klutz, and this isn’t going to help any. I’m prepared for the jokes.
What’s weird, as my friend Jon will point out, is that I can juggle three of these chef’s knives, but yet can’t chop lettuce with just one of them. On the other hand, in all the years of working in restaurants, this is the most serious thing that’s ever happened. A few steam or oil burns, a knick or two, but those go with the job. This is the first that I could accurately label “occupational hazard”.
Oh, and to the customers I left behind: enjoy your salad.
Monday, June 13, 2005
One of those days
Just the phrase “one of those days” tells everything a person needs to know about the tone of the story that follows. Everybody has “one of those days”, some people always look like they are having "one of those days”, and many people spend a lot of their time trying to avoid having "one of those days”.
Yesterday was one of those days.
Like all of those days, it started out innocently enough. I was privileged enough to have been invited to the graduation of a former student, and looked forward to the trip. It was a lovely drive, and I didn’t get lost once. The ceremony was outdoors and, while warm, very nice. The students were, typically, more entertaining than the head of school (who gave a fairly depressing speech, all about the dark uncertainty of the times we live in), and there was a reception of sandwiches, pasta salad, and cookies afterwards. I greeted the family, gave my hugs to the graduate, and after a while, headed out.
On the way back, I decided to be smart and listen to the traffic report. Good thing too: there was an accident at the exit I needed to take, and traffic was blocked for miles. So I got off the highway early.
Now, mind you, this is not a highway I normally travel on. In fact, I don’t think it’s a highway I’ve ever traveled on. So, in choosing to get off early, I made what I thought was a wise decision: I picked an exit whose name sounded familiar.
Those who know me know that this is typical Michael-logic.
I picked the “Neshaminy” exit, because I had once heard of the Neshaminyville Mall. Thinking back on it, I believe the reason I’ve heard of it is from those car ads that are yelled at you from the radio. But it seemed like a good idea at the time, and as I wasn’t in any rush anyway, it turned out not to be so bad.
Keith would disagree. Keith is detail oriented, and anything that wastes time, space, or resources is an annoyance to him. So the fact that I didn’t use a map, the fact that I didn’t ask for directions, the fact that I got off the highway in an area that is totally unknown to me and decided to “wing it” probably bothers him to no end. The fact that I came from Newtown, got off at Neshaminy, and stumbled across Street Rd (a name I recognized, so why not follow it?) and took it to 309 (another route I recognized), the fact that I did all this instead of something more efficient drives him nuts and causes him to shake his head and cluck his tongue at me.
But it didn’t bother me, because I have a half-decent direction sense, and I knew basically where I wanted to go and which direction it was in, if not precisely which roads I needed to use to get there, and I was in no rush. And get there I did. I arrived at the intersection of Rt 309 and Rt 202, an intersection I knew. And behold, upon that intersection lay a gas station, and in the front of that gas station/convenience store was a banner that said, “Free soda and chips.” Well, I was hot and dehydrated, and free is a good price, so I pulled in. There were no parking spots, so I pulled into the business next door and shut off the car. That was the mistake of the day.
After getting my soda, I returned to my car to find it would not start. Nothing. Not a rev or a “grrr” or anything. Just a click and a hum. No problem, I’ve got jumper cables. So I go into the business I’m parked in front of to find someone to give me a jump. No one has a car. Back to the convenience store. Found a guy. Come back. Hook up the cables. Try the ignition: no go.
So he tells me there’s a Pep Boys about half a mile away. In yesterday’s weather (117° in the shade, 147% humidity) that wasn’t an entertaining thought, but I decided, what the hell. So I walk it. Arriving there, I describe my problem to the mechanic, and he suggests I bring the battery in to be tested first. Great. Now I have to walk back, remove the battery using nothing but my pocketknife, lug it back here, then haul it back and re-install it.
But wait! Inspiration strikes! Using the handy cell phone that I had previously sworn never to use (and now I swear, I’m getting one of my own), I call home to find that Keith and Jon are headed this way anyway. Yes, they can come this direction, yes, they can bring the toolbox, and yes, they can bring me and the battery to Pep Boys and back.
They arrive and we head back to the place where the car is parked….
Oh, haven’t I mentioned where the car is parked? No? I neglected that? Hmm, I suppose I should mention it. Ok, kids, cover your ears. Parents, turn the computer screen away from the young ones. Because yours truly chose to park (and break down) in the parking lot of Adult World. Yes, Adult World, conveniently located at the intersection of Rts 309 and 202, ready to serve all your video and pornographic toy needs. Special on DVDs, 2 for $15, all credit cards accepted, help wanted, apply within.
So we head back to Adult World. We take the battery out. Now listen carefully….three guys, one of whom is black with dreadlocks, are in the parking lot of an adult video store taking a battery from under the hood of a car and stashing it in the trunk of a second car. Fortunately, the police car didn’t do a drive-by until a moment after the trunk was closed (yes, I swear this is true).
By the way, taking the battery out wasn’t that easy. The bolts holding it in were rusted, and quite a bit of banging on them took place before even one of them moved. Jon regretted not bringing the WD-40, and I followed that up with a suggestion that we could probably purchase lubrication inside Adult World, but that was quickly overruled.
Back to Pep Boys, check the charge on the battery, prognosis is good (and bad). Good, because I don’t have to buy a new battery. Bad, because something else is the cause of the problem. So “Dave”, the sales guy, suggests I talk to “Lou”, the mechanic guy. (I put these names in quotes because nobody really knows who they are…the nametags mean nothing. I worked at a restaurant where, when you arrived, you just took a nametag out of a drawer and wore it whether it had your name or not. For three days I was “Sally”.) So “Lou” listens to my description and says, “Oh, that might be the starter. Find the solenoid on the starter and…” and I stopped him right there. I said, “Ok, I know from physics class what a solenoid is, and I can guess what the starter does, but I haven’t a clue what they look like or where to find them.” So he pulls out a box and shows me a brand new starter. It looks like the main engine for the space shuttle, and the solenoid is a brass cylinder mounted on the side of it. But he can’t tell me where in the car it is, even knowing the make and model. Apparently it’s a trade secret or something. So then I ask him, once I’ve found the solenoid, what do I do with it? And he says (no joke, this is word for word), “Oh, just give it a whack with a hammer or something, and it should start right up.”
Give it a whack? I came to Pep Boys, the king of automotive repair, where the store is lined with boxes of things I can’t pronounce and gadgets straight from a sci-fi movie, and this guy tells me to “give it a whack”? He looked at me strange, and I probably deserved it because by now I was giggling at everything (a half-mile in the sun will do that to you).
Back to Adult World, where except for me the parking lot has emptied out. (Although while we were there, I noticed a surprising number of women visit Adult World. I’ll have to ruminate on this in a later post.) Reinstall the battery. Now it’s time to find the starter.
In the next 10 minutes, my friends heard curses come out of my mouth that they’ve never heard me say before. Needless to say, I didn’t have a clue where it was.
Then…brilliant epiphany! My friend Tim is a mechanic and owns the exact same car, just a year older. I call and ask him about this. He describes the position of the solenoid, and check this out: it looks nothing like the mechanic described it. Not one bit. Thanks a lot, Lou.
And now, finally, came the only thing I did all day that made me feel smart. I took a look at the solenoid and said, “Hey, look! A wire’s loose!”
And then I drove to my friend’s house to relax. It’s really the only thing to do when you’re having one of those days.
Yesterday was one of those days.
Like all of those days, it started out innocently enough. I was privileged enough to have been invited to the graduation of a former student, and looked forward to the trip. It was a lovely drive, and I didn’t get lost once. The ceremony was outdoors and, while warm, very nice. The students were, typically, more entertaining than the head of school (who gave a fairly depressing speech, all about the dark uncertainty of the times we live in), and there was a reception of sandwiches, pasta salad, and cookies afterwards. I greeted the family, gave my hugs to the graduate, and after a while, headed out.
On the way back, I decided to be smart and listen to the traffic report. Good thing too: there was an accident at the exit I needed to take, and traffic was blocked for miles. So I got off the highway early.
Now, mind you, this is not a highway I normally travel on. In fact, I don’t think it’s a highway I’ve ever traveled on. So, in choosing to get off early, I made what I thought was a wise decision: I picked an exit whose name sounded familiar.
Those who know me know that this is typical Michael-logic.
I picked the “Neshaminy” exit, because I had once heard of the Neshaminyville Mall. Thinking back on it, I believe the reason I’ve heard of it is from those car ads that are yelled at you from the radio. But it seemed like a good idea at the time, and as I wasn’t in any rush anyway, it turned out not to be so bad.
Keith would disagree. Keith is detail oriented, and anything that wastes time, space, or resources is an annoyance to him. So the fact that I didn’t use a map, the fact that I didn’t ask for directions, the fact that I got off the highway in an area that is totally unknown to me and decided to “wing it” probably bothers him to no end. The fact that I came from Newtown, got off at Neshaminy, and stumbled across Street Rd (a name I recognized, so why not follow it?) and took it to 309 (another route I recognized), the fact that I did all this instead of something more efficient drives him nuts and causes him to shake his head and cluck his tongue at me.
But it didn’t bother me, because I have a half-decent direction sense, and I knew basically where I wanted to go and which direction it was in, if not precisely which roads I needed to use to get there, and I was in no rush. And get there I did. I arrived at the intersection of Rt 309 and Rt 202, an intersection I knew. And behold, upon that intersection lay a gas station, and in the front of that gas station/convenience store was a banner that said, “Free soda and chips.” Well, I was hot and dehydrated, and free is a good price, so I pulled in. There were no parking spots, so I pulled into the business next door and shut off the car. That was the mistake of the day.
After getting my soda, I returned to my car to find it would not start. Nothing. Not a rev or a “grrr” or anything. Just a click and a hum. No problem, I’ve got jumper cables. So I go into the business I’m parked in front of to find someone to give me a jump. No one has a car. Back to the convenience store. Found a guy. Come back. Hook up the cables. Try the ignition: no go.
So he tells me there’s a Pep Boys about half a mile away. In yesterday’s weather (117° in the shade, 147% humidity) that wasn’t an entertaining thought, but I decided, what the hell. So I walk it. Arriving there, I describe my problem to the mechanic, and he suggests I bring the battery in to be tested first. Great. Now I have to walk back, remove the battery using nothing but my pocketknife, lug it back here, then haul it back and re-install it.
But wait! Inspiration strikes! Using the handy cell phone that I had previously sworn never to use (and now I swear, I’m getting one of my own), I call home to find that Keith and Jon are headed this way anyway. Yes, they can come this direction, yes, they can bring the toolbox, and yes, they can bring me and the battery to Pep Boys and back.
They arrive and we head back to the place where the car is parked….
Oh, haven’t I mentioned where the car is parked? No? I neglected that? Hmm, I suppose I should mention it. Ok, kids, cover your ears. Parents, turn the computer screen away from the young ones. Because yours truly chose to park (and break down) in the parking lot of Adult World. Yes, Adult World, conveniently located at the intersection of Rts 309 and 202, ready to serve all your video and pornographic toy needs. Special on DVDs, 2 for $15, all credit cards accepted, help wanted, apply within.
So we head back to Adult World. We take the battery out. Now listen carefully….three guys, one of whom is black with dreadlocks, are in the parking lot of an adult video store taking a battery from under the hood of a car and stashing it in the trunk of a second car. Fortunately, the police car didn’t do a drive-by until a moment after the trunk was closed (yes, I swear this is true).
By the way, taking the battery out wasn’t that easy. The bolts holding it in were rusted, and quite a bit of banging on them took place before even one of them moved. Jon regretted not bringing the WD-40, and I followed that up with a suggestion that we could probably purchase lubrication inside Adult World, but that was quickly overruled.
Back to Pep Boys, check the charge on the battery, prognosis is good (and bad). Good, because I don’t have to buy a new battery. Bad, because something else is the cause of the problem. So “Dave”, the sales guy, suggests I talk to “Lou”, the mechanic guy. (I put these names in quotes because nobody really knows who they are…the nametags mean nothing. I worked at a restaurant where, when you arrived, you just took a nametag out of a drawer and wore it whether it had your name or not. For three days I was “Sally”.) So “Lou” listens to my description and says, “Oh, that might be the starter. Find the solenoid on the starter and…” and I stopped him right there. I said, “Ok, I know from physics class what a solenoid is, and I can guess what the starter does, but I haven’t a clue what they look like or where to find them.” So he pulls out a box and shows me a brand new starter. It looks like the main engine for the space shuttle, and the solenoid is a brass cylinder mounted on the side of it. But he can’t tell me where in the car it is, even knowing the make and model. Apparently it’s a trade secret or something. So then I ask him, once I’ve found the solenoid, what do I do with it? And he says (no joke, this is word for word), “Oh, just give it a whack with a hammer or something, and it should start right up.”
Give it a whack? I came to Pep Boys, the king of automotive repair, where the store is lined with boxes of things I can’t pronounce and gadgets straight from a sci-fi movie, and this guy tells me to “give it a whack”? He looked at me strange, and I probably deserved it because by now I was giggling at everything (a half-mile in the sun will do that to you).
Back to Adult World, where except for me the parking lot has emptied out. (Although while we were there, I noticed a surprising number of women visit Adult World. I’ll have to ruminate on this in a later post.) Reinstall the battery. Now it’s time to find the starter.
In the next 10 minutes, my friends heard curses come out of my mouth that they’ve never heard me say before. Needless to say, I didn’t have a clue where it was.
Then…brilliant epiphany! My friend Tim is a mechanic and owns the exact same car, just a year older. I call and ask him about this. He describes the position of the solenoid, and check this out: it looks nothing like the mechanic described it. Not one bit. Thanks a lot, Lou.
And now, finally, came the only thing I did all day that made me feel smart. I took a look at the solenoid and said, “Hey, look! A wire’s loose!”
And then I drove to my friend’s house to relax. It’s really the only thing to do when you’re having one of those days.
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