Monthly Archives: November 2009

Credit Card Companies Charge More and Are Meaner, to boot

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I was just on the phone FOR THE SECOND TIME questioning some stupid fee charged by a credit card company. The first time I had to endure a surly response from my customer service representative — customer service in the credit card industry being the definition of oxymoron. 

This time, I was greeted with serieuse attitude coming from the Mr. Customer Service who is not the mere definition of oxymoron but is the true personification of oxymoron.

Definitely a call center in the US because no one can fake that decidedly American accent. So, there’s a silver lining — the abusive person was a fellow American and his job was not outsourced. I don’t know if I would have remained as calm (a stretch) if an American job was lost so I could be berated in this manner.

The oxyMORON reminded me that the call was being recorded as was the call from my prior excellent customer service experience. I said that I was glad it was being recorded because I would love everyone and anyone to hear the tone and manner of the customer service representatives. We concluded our business and we ended the phone call. 

I did not break the phone, which I consider a tribute to my self control.

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Taking Candy from Your Baby

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So, here I am at 7:25pm on Thursday after Halloween and I am eating candy that my son gathered on his trick-or-treating extravaganza.  I am feeling guilty, but only a little.  My son is 7 years old so it isn’t exactly like taking candy from a baby (she writes defiantly).

Halloween was its usual hell-ish experience.  As I have written before, I don’t like the holiday because of, among other things, the ghoulish costumes and behaviors, and I didn’t know what to do with the carved pumpkin except put it in the refrigerator where one would normally put ripened or cut fruit.  Leave it out for the bugs and the vermin?  Now, that’s not a plan for an urban dweller who likes to keep both nature’s jungle and the urban jungle at bay.

A major issue was my son’s costume.  He did not want to dress up and wanted a general pass on the occasion (that’s my son!!).  POB (partner of blogger) had long ago convinced me that Halloween was important (as were scooters and other toys of potential death and dismemberment) because we should stress social inclusion (but not assimilation or group think).

As you can tell POB is the intellectual in the family because I am still trying to apply these principles to daily life and parenting.  Realizing that I was still struggling, she recently restated her position in words I can understand: having two moms will be tough enough when he is a teenager, do you want to add the deficit of Halloween?  Because we are two women, our son’s societal acceptance depends on celebrating Halloween.   Ok, I get that thinking. Sort of.  My straight parents were dismissive of some societal norms and my college friends thought I was a Soviet spy.  It was lovingly meant as weird and kooky, I think.

So, Halloween it is.  It took some cajoling for our son to agree to a costume: “why can’t I be ME?” he asked. As part of the inclusion model, I did not say that a transitive verb takes a subjective pronoun and the question is “why can’t I be I?” which, while non-sensical, is grammatically correct.  But I digress.

He loves the Natural History Museum which was founded by early 20th century President Teddy Roosevelt.  So, he decided that he would be Teddy Roosevelt in the age of the Rough Riders.  We got a rough rider hat, bandana, round spectacles and I taught him to say, “bully, bully!!” just like Roosevelt.  But it was a little — how shall I say — cerebral for a 7 year-old.

Mindful of inclusion model, I tried to get him to think more commercially — work with me on the inclusion part here — and I asked, wouldn’t you like to be a Power Ranger or an X-Man?  Nah, not so much.  Teddy Roosevelt it was.

My parents would have beamed with pride and joy if I wanted to dress up as Eleanor Roosevelt for Halloween.  One generation later, I am begging my son to be an X-Man.  There is a PhD thesis in here somewhere but not now.

Needless to say, in No-Where-istan, there is no Halloween.

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Deja Vu All Over Again

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I saw my sister in the gym tonight.  Actually, I bumped into a trainer just outside the gym who told me my sister was working out.  I looked shocked; the trainer then looked puzzled.  You see, my sister has a stress fracture in her foot and should not be on an elliptical machine (and that is all she does at the gym when I am not around to coach her about weights).  I march upstairs in my “street clothes” to confront my sister.  I go to the heart of the matter and ask her whether she did, in fact, get her medical degree through a correspondence course with an off-shore medical school. In our family, that is the sum total of trash-talking.

After having laid down the gauntlet, my sister sputters some rationalizations, all of which I reject in an imperious way (after all I am a doctor, too — ok, a juris doctor).  I give her THE LOOK (Mom’s look of disappointment).  She doesn’t flinch.  She is not my sister.  My sister would have flinched.  I am confronted by the realization that my sister’s body is inhabited by an alien who is not scared of THE LOOK. THE LOOK proves the old adage, “if looks could kill . . . ” Well, not exactly, but THE LOOK with the eyes of my mother can really make a person plead for forgiveness. No sign of recognition by the alien inhabiting my sister.

Still, she knows about “our” Dad’s procedure tomorrow.  Clever aliens, these pod people.

So, I test this alien with other facts that my sister should know.  I mention some things I had written in my blog.  She is a little hazy about some of my latest entries.  But she does zero in on some with incredible accuracy.  I am not convinced yet but I leave to regroup and give the alien a false sense that she fooled the sister of her host body.  I come back up and flash an old picture of my parents and my sister at camp visiting day, circa 1969.  The alien looks at the picture, sighs and hugs me.

Maybe my sister is inhabited by an alien, but it is a really endearing alien.  Maybe the alien can heal her stress fracture.  Maybe the alien can help with my sagging neck.  After all, aliens have special powers that can conquer humanity, or at least that is true in the movies.

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No-Where-istan’s Gender Politics

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Friends were over Saturday night and the discussion came up about the gender of No-Where-istan’s Minister of Peace, Love and Happiness.  According to more than a few, but less than a majority, of those present (lesbians between ages 45 and 58), the Minister (see prior entries) is of indeterminate gender.   (These are blackberry camera photos, so the picture resolution and, therefore any conclusion, are necessarily fuzzy.) 

I then raised the not-so-news (to us old folks) that academic circles hold forth that there are six — count them, six — genders.  None of us could think of more than 2, and we did acknowledge that a person could identify with more than one at a time but there are still only 2.  Determined not to be out of the mainstream and matters hip and trendy, some stood fast in their knowledge and ability to discern gender.  Not that it matters.  But when you gather highly educated and accomplished people together, there is bound to be strong opinions and lines drawn on your imported Persian carpet (oh, well).

So, last night, I saw the Minister holding a conference in the Times Square subway.  I tried to get close enough, but not too close as to arouse suspicion.  But, my eye sight forced me to squint and trend closer to the Minister, so much so, that in order to continue my covert investigation I had to give her a dollar and get a small red heart-shaped Ministry-gram that said “peace is in your heart”. 

I felt the Minister’s calloused hand.  Not dispositive.  No discernible Adam’s apple.  Still not dispositive (one can have that shaved down, I understand).  Nice muscle tone but still within range of any gender. So, not dispositive. 

After my investigation, I still have no idea (although I have a guess).  But it doesn’t really matter as long as she is my Minister of Peace, Love and Happiness and still gives out Ministry-grams.  And as long as she isn’t looking for closet space in No-Where-istan (which is still in my head and a bit full, with cobwebs and all).

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A schlepic

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schlepic (n): [pron: SHLE-pic] a journey of epic proportions (from the Yiddish schlep).  A schlepic is often measured by length and grueling effort or by short distance with emotional energy expended. 

So, according to Vebster’s Dictionary of Yiddish phrases, a schlepic can be long but complicated and frustrating travel or a short subway ride full of bizarre behavior and emotional and psychic energy.  Or anywhere along the continuum between those two points.

I had a schlepic this morning:

Although I am feeling “waist creep” — that terrible feeling that you can’t suck in your stomach to close your pants from last year — I am still a small person who can fit easily in the small space between two large passengers on a subway car.

And yet, I didn’t have to fit easily between two people in the subway car.  I was at the end of the bench next to a hand rail, a comfortable distance away from the next passenger, who had a wide berth on the other side of him as well.  Then, a large man squeezes in next to me. 

The man on the other side of him still has room to move down a little, but insists on standing (er, sitting) his ground. So the force of gravity is heading my way on the right and there is a metal handrail on my left. 

I lean over to assess the situation and see if I can ask the man on the other side to move down.  As I lean forward, I realize that I have lost the back of the seat to my fellow traveller’s shoulders.  He never looks up and he takes out a text book to read (very convenient on the subway).  The man on the other side is looking down and is wearing ear phones, so my “excuse me, sir” falls on already noise-filled ears.  I try to reach over to tap the man, because if I get up, then textbook man will slide into my already diminished space.  Of course, I had to invade textbook man’s space to tap the other passenger.  That turned out to be an affront to his G-d-given right to comfort and self-determination on the subway.   I said, “I am just trying to get a little more room here,” and his response was a sigh of disgust, as if I am the interloper.  Ok, ok, ok, how does this work?  I am being squished out of my seat and I am the interloper and troublemaker?

Many mean thoughts raced through my head.  Then rage.  Then my stop came.  No resolution.  No catharsis. No release.  Just a jackass on a train who thinks he is right.  Ok, he represents a huge demographic in our country.  Probably over 60% of the population.

Emotions and anger continue to rage as I walk up the steps and out of the subway. 

It was short, but a schlepic nevertheless.

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Funny how soon they forget . . .

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Dick Cheney is laser sharp in his criticism of the current Administration and in his trumpeting of his initiatives during his 8-year Reign of Terror.  His memory for his accomplishments is uncanny.

Oh, wait, there is that inconvenient incident in which he outed an intelligence officer because her husband was critical of Cheney’s intelligence gathering and evidence supporting the Iraq War.  What was her name again?   He couldn’t remember anything when pressed by federal prosecutors.  He couldn’t “recall” 72 times. 

Dick, let me help you. 

Her name is Valerie Plame.  She worked for the CIA defending and protecting this country. 

But, her husband doubted on your fabricated evidence for war, so you exposed a patriotic American, a defender of our safety and way of life and, by extension, you put in harm’s way ALL OF THOSE AGENTS WITH WHOM SHE WORKED.  

And, you can’t remember.  Is it because you did it so often?  

 

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By PETE YOST, Associated Press Writer Pete Yost, Associated Press Writer – Mon Nov 2, 6:34 am ET

WASHINGTON – Federal prosecutor Patrick Fitzgerald famously declared in the Valerie Plame affair that “there is a cloud over the vice president.” Last week’s release of an FBI interview summary of Dick Cheney’s answers in the criminal investigation underscores why Fitzgerald felt that way.

On 72 occasions, according to the 28-page FBI summary, Cheney equivocated to the FBI during his lengthy May 2004 interview, saying he could not be certain in his answers to questions about matters large and small in the Plame controversy.

The Cheney interview reflects a team of prosecutors and FBI agents trying to find out whether the leaks of Plame’s CIA identity were orchestrated at the highest level of the White House and carried out by, among others, I. Lewis “Scooter” Libby, Cheney’s chief of staff.

Among the most basic questions for Cheney in the Plame probe: How did Libby find out that the wife of Bush administration war critic Joseph Wilson worked at the CIA?

Libby’s own handwritten notes suggest Libby found out from Cheney. When Libby discovered Cheney’s reference to Plame and the CIA in his notes — notes that Libby knew he would soon have to turn over to the FBI — the chief of staff went to the vice president, probably in late September or early October 2003.

Sharing the information with Cheney was in itself an unusual step at the outset of a criminal investigation in which potential White House witnesses were being ordered by their superiors not to talk to each other about the Plame matter.

[rest of article omitted]

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Punditry

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On the urging of my college friends, I entered the Washington Post contest for a new pundit/columnist position.  Ok, they were looking for a fresh face and mine is 45 years old, but, hey, I am younger than some people.

I submitted a short piece about the mixed legacy of Ted Kennedy (whether our nation’s ideals would have been better served if he didn’t get a free pass on his transgressions) and referred them to this blog. 

I had dreams of having a by-line on a column next to those of Pulitzer Prize winners.  My mother would have beamed from Heaven as if I had received a Nobel Peace Prize. 

So, by entering a contest, I was three degrees away from a Nobel Peace Prize.  Three degrees. 

So, I didn’t get a bronze, silver or gold.  But I was a contender. 

And that, I think, is close enough for my mother, who believed that EVERYONE is entitled MY opinions.

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Cell YELLLLLLL

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Cellphones are sometimes blessings but, most times, curses. 

When your 89 year-old father is running late because of city traffic, it is a blessing not to start calling emergency rooms around the city.  If you are on a bus and a teenager is talking about adolescent issues and her first visit to the gynecologist, well, then, it is a little like being in purgatory.

Recently, on a bus going uptown on the west side of Manhattan, a woman in her mid-to-late seventies was having a conversation on her cellphone.  To be more precise, she was YELLING into her cellphone as if she were hard-of-hearing or had never used a cellphone before (or both).  A man in his sixties turned around and told her he was very sensitive to noise and ask very politely if she would mind lowering her voice.

Her response was to tell her friend, “can you believe someone told me to quiet down? If you were next to me and we were screaming to each other, no one would say anything to us.” 

You can’t argue with that, mostly because all you would get out of it is a headache.

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Another Gym Moment

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We had had friends over for dinner Saturday night and good food and wine doesn’t not go gently on the body anymore. 

So, Sunday, at the stroke of 11:39am, I set off for a run.  I cut short the run at a mile, because, well, the chill in the air was not helping the creaks in my knees and the gym is warmer.  So I trot into the gym and, thinking about my new health regimen, I get one of those parsley, beet, cucumber, kale, blah blah blah drinks with some extra stuff for energy and focus.  It is a gross green color and therefore it must be good for me, right?

I drink it up as I am inputting my weight and my age into the machine (I pause for a moment to shake my head at the weight creep up the scale) and I notice that I have a faint after-taste of garlic.  Aaaargh.  Garlic was not listed in the ingredients to this elixir.  Luckily, I have one of those damp towels with eucalyptus in it (who knows why, but I took one), so I can breathe into it and not offend others near me.

This time I choose the recumbent bike, so that there is really no way I can fall off this machine, even if I faint from the garlic and the eucalyptus.  The woman next to me is ten years older and is going further and faster on her bike.  And she is burning more calories.  It’s ok, I rationalize because if I went faster, I would sweat more garlic, and SHE would keel over.  So my slow pace is actually altruistic.  And not only that, I am breathing through my eucalyptus towel to keep the garlic smell quotient to a minimum.

All of this altruism, eucalyptus and garlic is making me tired and I still 25 minutes to go (I have only been pedaling for five minutes, but it was a complicated and emotional five minutes).  The Marathon is on the TV and now I am psyched up to keep going.  Then I turn to another TV and see John King on CNN asking dumb questions instead of tough questions and I get agitated.  My bike starts making weird clanking noises.  They are loud enough for the people next to me to look over because they can hear the noises over their iPods.  The older woman is staring at me and I want to say, “hey, I am breathing into this stupid towel so you don’t faint from garlic, and you are running faster and further than I am, so you want to make something of my clanking bike?”  But of course I don’t.  I smile sheepishly as if I had been flatulent and everyone can smell it. 

Oh, will the degradation ever end for this schlepper at the gym?  No, I fear. 

I am destined for every gym visit to be — how shall I say? — “schl-epic”.

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