The Jackie Blog

I had originally planned to write about how I ended up describing what a furry is to my boss at a lunch meeting in front of the whole department, but I just saw an Xfinity commercial and I’m too enraged by my cable problems to talk about such silliness right now.

About a year ago, I called my cable company because I was notified that my rates would increase.   I told them I didn’t watch T.V. and so I didn’t need their stinking service anymore and they agreed to keep me at the same rate.

It’s funny how a phone call can change things.

The key to getting your hard-earned American George Washingtons back when grimy little service companies attempt to steal them is pure determination.   For the case in point, I spent almost my entire lunch break on the phone.   Waiting, explaining, being transferred, waiting, explaining, being transferred… It’s a maze of frustration and rage.  And if you make it through to the other side, you win money.

Last night, however, I failed the maze.

I got my bill in the mail and had a 5 dollar hike on it with absolutely no explanation.  Actually, what boggles the mind more is that the only explanation included is a paper explaining that there will be a price hike beginning next month.   Um.  What?  Okay, so my bill is raised 5 dollars a month and in another  month you’ll raise it 5 more.

If I have x apples and Jenny has y apples and Jenny takes all my apples and kicks me in the groin, who do I call to get my freaking apples back?

So I dialed the 800 number listed on my bill, followed the prompts to enter my phone number and zip code, and got connected to Mikey after 15 minutes.   I, like a good customer, always pleasantly begin my conversation asking if I may provide my account number for their reference.   Mikey said it would be easier to give him my phone number, which I did.  Twice.

That didn’t seem to help.

So he asked for my account number.  I was glad he just went ahead and did it my way.    Then he told me that he couldn’t help me because I was from a different city than his branch could service.   I kindly asked him to transfer me and he said he couldn’t.  So I kindly asked for a number to dial and he said he didn’t know.  Mikey said that if I followed the prompts, I should be okay.

Mikey apparently thought I was a moron.

But I’m not a moron, and I told Mikey so.  He suggested I hang up and try again.  I insisted that there was no point in reusing an automated system that I have already proven fails and I nicely reminded him that getting through to him cost me 15 minutes of my life I wouldn’t like to lose twice.  In fact, every time I attempt to call this company, this is what happens and I’d really like to just figure out what the problem is.   Mikey told me we were in a bit of a stale mate because he couldn’t help me and I wouldn’t hang up unless I was helped.

I call an 800 number, I expect help.  After all, I’m paying a 5 dollar increase and that should be reflected in the quality of my service.

So I asked Mikey if he had a supervisor or  manager who might be able to give me the correct number to dial.   He said yes and put me on hold.

Can I just take a moment to say that I really think Enya songs should be the only acceptable waiting music for service calls?  Because when I’m really on my last nerve and have managed to make dinner and eat it in the amount of time it takes to even ask just one question about my account, “The Sounds of Upbeat Jazz” is just not the ticket to pacifying me.  Every toot of the saxophone felt like a machine gun of rage in my ear.

I then proceeded to wait.  Mikey would intermittently check in with me to assure me that the supervisor was on her way. I felt like he was trying to make me go away – it’s a tactic I’ve seen attempted in customer service when I worked in it.   So I hung on for dear life.

But after Mikey checking in three times, 25 more minutes had passed and I hadn’t even gotten on the phone with the person who could get me on the phone with the person who could answer my question.    So I hung up and proceeded to hurl curses at the walls of my apartment and swear that I would try again tomorrow.    And so I shall.

I want my apples back. ♣

My cable company's mascot.

Tags: 365 Project, Humor, life, musings, postaday2011

Happy Lollipop Tuesday, ya’ll.

I decided that after the last two weeks of heathenistic lollipop events, I should do something with a warm, gooey core of wholesomeness.    And that’s how I came to find myself in strange, new, but all-too-familiar hicktown playing a good old-fashioned game of Bingo.

It’s an atrocity that I grew up in Central PA and never waddled my way over to a Bingo game.    And so waddle I finally did, past tiny little shanty houses and what seemed to be a nuclear power plant a la Simpsons.    At the end of that beautiful hick-laden road was a rec hall with plastic tables, an enthusiastic and under-funded theater club, and a whole lot of old ladies.

The true joy of my Bingo adventure was that it wasn’t for money.  It was for Vera Bradley bags.

Personally, I’ve never gotten the allure of Vera’s wacky color combinations, paisley-on-acid patterns, and quilt material.  It looks like a craft.   You know, like from a craft show.    Except there I can get one for a decent price.  If I want the Vera brand, I’ve gotta pony up way too many pennies for  my liking.    So I went into the rec hall with every intention of winning myself a bag and putting it on ebay.

But I severely underestimated the intensity of an average Bingo game.

These women were bingo semi-professionals.  Most of them already had Vera Bradley bags, well-worn and poised beside them as proof that they were there to take in some serious winnings.  Some brought their own Bingo markers, which were so enormous and metallic that at one point I mistook one for a light saber.

I think the Bingo marker was my favorite  part.  I spent most of my time thinking about how genius of an invention it was.  Dave spent the whole time in awe of how much fun it was to stamp things with.

Oh yeah – did I mention I took Dave?  The only thing better than the Bingo marker was the look on Dave’s face when the moderator said things like, “Come on, ladies!  Who wants to win this bag?!”   It was a genuine pleasure to see him juxtaposed against huddled-over old bitties, with their glasses pushed down to the very tips of their noses, their Bingo markers in the ready position, and a look of sheer determination.

I think I saw one of them curl up her lip and bare her teeth.

Tensions are high in a Bingo game.  If multiple winners cry out after a number is called, they go into a “Bingo Off” and the  moderator pulls another number. Whoever has it on their winning card is determined ruler of all.   One disputed card required 5 more numbers be drawn to determine the tie and the 85 seconds surrounding the event were amongst the most painfully gripping of my life.

A little over halfway through the game, I had to readjust  myself because I had somehow shlumped down and was hunched over my card.  My nose was only a few inches above the table and I was staring straight down, burning a hole through my card with my intensity.   I was going to intimidate the card into giving up the correct number.

It didn’t work.

In fact, nothing I tried worked and I went home a big, fat, penniless, Vera Bradley bagless Bingo loser.   I didn’t mind so much, because I had a really good time.

But then I realized that instead of just being a regular old crazy cat lady when I get older,  might be an old crazy cat lady who plays Bingo.

Shoot. ♣

Tags: 365 Project, Humor, life, musings, postaday2011

jasminestarblog.com

I’m tired.

Not just tired.  Old-lady-tired. 

I was up pretty late last night making wonderful and responsible decisions.  And when my head hit the pillow at about 4 in the morning, I had to come to terms with the fact that I would not be early to rise and indubitably half my Sunday would be over before I even woke to greet it.

The entire concept of a mere 2-day weekend is absurd.  I need more time.  I spend Saturday catching up on all the things I have to do but don’t have time to tend to during the week because I’m, you know, working.  And then when Saturday is over, I have to face the harsh reality that the very next day means the end of my weekend and will be entirely overshadowed by the fact that I have to work again on Monday.   And then 5 days to trudge through before my next pathetic 2-day weekend.

I demand an Adult Break.

It’s preposterous that I’m allowed 2 weeks of debauchery, exploration, and adventure in the spring and 3 months in the summer every single year of my life until I graduate from college and then it disappears when I’m ejected.  Absolutely disappears.  And short of my striking it rich, marrying into money, or finding a sack of cowboy gold on the city streets, I have no way of making my own 3-month adult adventure because while I’m off trotting around in Europe or Jamaica or even just freaking Kansas City, I’ll have to find a way to pay my rent, phone, gas, electric, water, garbage, credit cards, and student loans.

Why are we all just okay with this?

Don’t get me wrong: I’m all for hard work and all that jazz and I totally get that bills need to be paid, even though my inner hippie screams in frustration that I have to pay for things that should, in my opinion, be free to all.  That’s fine – I’ll suck it up.  But I would really like a small section of my time each year to be liberated from worry, work, and obligation.  It’s called living, and I would like some please.

So what shall we do? Organize a march on the capitol steps? Or start a movement and design marketing tactics?

I vote movement.  ♣

Tags: 365 Project, Humor, life, musings, postaday2011

Why do people shut off their brains when they’re in grocery stores?

I try to be considerate and get the half-cart.  I could get a full-sized one, but who needs all that space and luxury? I’m into efficiency and what’s good for the grocery store environment.  So I’m a good citizen and I get the half-cart.

I appear to be the only one.

I don’t spend a lot of time piddling around at the store.  I know what I need and if I take a moment to reflect, it’s because I’m either comparing price per unit (that little treasure of a calculation listed on the upper right tab of the price that no one else reads) or because there’s been some newfangled product line introduced and I’m trying to stare it down and see if it will buckle under the pressure of my wary consumer eye.

It usually does.

Everyone else seems to arrive at the store as if visiting the museum.  Slow trodding, frequent stopping, and long gazes into the shelves.  The most common obstacle for me is old ladies.  Yes, I’m going to make that awful sweeping statement, because I’m sorry but for me  it’s true.  They have absolutely no regard for people around them, and are always positioned exactly in front of the thing I need. Not a problem – I’m a go-getter.  I simply excuse myself.  But since I do so at a polite volume for the rest of the aisle, the offender is usually unable to hear me.    And I just feel so bad getting upset because they’re so wrinkly and adorable.   Getting to the grocery store was probably the only thing on their to-do list that day and I’m just some yuppie that can’t slow down and enjoy the beauty of the cereal aisle.

Actually, you know what? It’s not just the old ladies.  Let me be fair.

There was a ridiculous couple who took up the entire freezer section today.  The entire thing, I kid you not.  The man had the first (full-size) cart and one kid inside.    He was positioned just slightly left of the aisle’s y-axis.  His wife/girlfriend/baby momma was just to the right.  With another full-size cart and another kid.   Both were strolling along at a solid half mile per hour.  I excused myself but got no response.   The female was much more concerned with making sure the male knew she wanted an ample supply of chitlins for Easter.

There’s nothing like celebrating the resurrection of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ with a feast of pig intestines.

I was trying to size up my options for frozen dinners as last minute work lunches but was unable to do so because even after she noticed me, she couldn’t pull her kid away from the section.   He appeared to be stuck to the freezer door.  As she pushed the cart down the aisle and his grip tightened on the freezer door, I stopped to stare at his incredibly stretchable midsection.   He was a genuine Stretch Armstrong.   She continued forward, physical limitations set in, and with his inevitable release came a storm of screaming.

By now, my blood had worked up to a slight simmer.

When I finally arrived to the dairy section,  I was thwarted in my attempts by a middle-aged woman who was overwhelmed by the multitude of yogurt options available to her.   She picked each one up delicately, handling its packaging as if a beautiful gift and pondering the ingredients like a Shakespearean sonnet.  And since I’d already attempted to excuse myself with both the old lady and the couple, I had basically thrown my tactics list out the window.  I tried a new game and parked my cart to observe her, as if watching an animal at the zoo.   Activia….Yoplait…Gogurt…Stonyfield…LORD HELP ME SHE’S READING THE ACTIVIA AGAIN.

Unable to maintain control over my anger, I B-lined toward the checkout line.  I don’t need yogurt.  There are little microscopic creatures inside and it’s always freaked me out anyway.

By the time I made it to the car, I had encountered nearly fifteen unique tests of my patience and use of decent language.

I can’t do this daytime shopping thing anymore.  I told myself it was normal and decided to give it a go again but I just can’t have this sort of stressor in my life.  I should have known not to willingly enter such a heavily populated closed quarter.  That’s the stuff mass murders are made out of.

So it’s back to the night shift for me.  There was a time when I longed for a friendly face behind the register instead of the zombie-like night crew.   I had visions of overflowing produce and aisles clear of stock boxes.   The idea of daytime shopping was like a world of sunshine and lollipops that had to be revisited.

But that was before 5:45 yesterday, when for a moment I entertained acts of violence toward total strangers.

You see?  This is why I stay inside. ♣

Tags: 365 Project, Humor, life, musings, postaday2011