As most of you dear readers know, I'm a licensed EMT...Emergency Medical Technician. You know, one of those Empty Minded Twits, which is how some of the high falutin' paramedics think of us. I've worked for several private ambulance companies and have seen more than my fair share of folks dealing with disabilities. These are truly handicapped people. They range from those with obvious handicaps such as missing or paralyzed limbs to the not so obvious cardiac conditions and COPD. For those who don't know, that stands for Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, like emphysema. Some of these individuals still drive. Those who are wheel chair dependant drive specially modified vehicles, those who are not often have the same vehicles you and I drive. What sets them apart is the license plate or placard hanging from the rear view mirror, denoting them as handicapped drivers.
If you've ever seen a wheel chair bound person trying to navigate from their vehicle, up onto the sidewalk, through doors that don't automatically open and into a store to do some shopping, then you should realize that their life is a series of complications of the likes we, more fortunate, will hopefully never have to endure. I take their well being seriously. I've never complained about traffic due to construction of sidewalk ramps or the fact they have closer parking spaces. If I see a van with the wheel chair lift at the double side doors, I park elsewhere rather than right next to their passenger side. This allows room for the lift and for the individual to maneuver the wheel chair to access the lift. I never, ever park in a handicapped spot and I absolutely abhor those of sound body who do. And this brings me to my rant.
Yesterday we stopped at Wegman's (grocery store) and I parked in a non-handicap stall right next to the first handicap stall. There was a car parked there, the handicap placard suspended from the mirror in silent proclamation of the driver's right to be there. I stepped out of my truck just as the "handicapped" driver approached her vehicle. She was walking at quite a brisk clip with no noticeable limp or infirmity. Apparently she didn't fall into the "obviously handicapped" category. I saw no shortness of breath either. I stopped, stared at her, then pointed to the handicapped posting on the parking stall. She stopped as she fished out her keys and stared right back. Pointing to the placard above her dashboard she informed me that she'd already proven her need to the State and didn't have to explain herself to me. That said, she added a rather unladylike finale to her speech to which, I'm ashamed to say, I retorted in equal fashion. At the end of her mini rant she still showed no shortness of breath so I think the "not so obviously handicapped" category didn't fit her either.
I've made up a category for her and her kind. I call it "The dregs of humanity who know someone truly handicapped, have the plate/placard for them but use it to their own advantage even when driving solo" category. I saw a couple pull into the handicapped stall at a local Wawa. They were in a big Suburban. The female passenger got out and trotted into the store while the man driving got out, did a deep squat and looked under the vehicle! Clearly neither qualified for the handicapped plate on their car, but they were sure taking advantage of it. That kind of misuse really rankles me. I'd never have the gall to do something like that as I know those parking stalls are a Godsend to the people who really need them. If I was driving someone who had a handicap and I had the plate/placard granting me permission to use the handicapped stall, I'd still drop the person off (if they could be safely left alone), park elsewhere and walk to escort them through the store. I'd leave that parking spot for someone who might not have someone with them. Then again, I'm the kind of person who quietly stalks someone in a scooter/wheel chair and will swoop in to politely lend assistance for those hard to reach items on the higher shelves or deep in the chest freezers.
I don't know if a handicapped driver's license denotes them to be handicapped, but if it doesn't, I think it should. And I believe that when someone parks in a handicap parking stall, that despite the plate/placard, if they hop out and show no signs of infirmity, the cops should require them to show their license, prove the plate/placard is actually for them and if it's not, they should be ticketed and made to move their vehicle. I guess this is all about consideration and decency. In our self centered society where "me" is the be all and end all, I suppose that's too much to ask.
Yesterday was the first time I ever challenged someone who apparently abused this parking privilege. I always moan and groan to whomever's with me or snarl and mutter to myself if alone. But I promise you, it won't be the last time I challenge aloud this injustice when I see it. I plan to tell the next person they should be ashamed of themselves. Oh wait, shame has fallen by the wayside in our world along with consideration and decency. Maybe if we all spoke out, those three virtues would come back into vogue.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
DOG AND PONY COFFEE SHOW
Every night my sleep is ruined by the same old thing...morning. In spite of closed eyelids, my brain recognizes the increase in light intensity and registers the avian alarms outside my windows. It's then that I crack open a lid and realize I have to pry myself out of bed to face yet another day. Gone are the mornings when I'd spring out of bed, rested, no aches. Now I groan as I roll to the side of the mattress and puuuush myself into a seated position. The cold hardwood beneath my feet seems to be yet another means of assisting with this daily coming back to reality. The vertebrae of my spine no longer freely flow but, instead, act more like a ratchet. I straighten up in increments...chick, chick, chick...ahhh, upright. Each day starts with an aching back. Lovely. Recently I realized I don't even stretch anymore. Our new dog, Mia, brought that fact home to me. She pops out of her crate, takes a few steps...just enough to allow me to get moving...then she stops. Dead. I should be expecting it, but my brain is still trying to go back to sleep. She bows and stretches her front legs, then takes a step forward while keeping her back paws cemented to the floor to stretch the rest of her little Mia Mouse body. Then, as I used to do before I, shall we say "matured", she zooms off down the hall, eyes shining with bright interest to see what her day will bring while I...plod...along behind her.
Out I go to the coat rack in the living room where the dog's leash hangs. The dog is already on the back porch, but noting my absence, she quickly returns to jump into the recliner for the customary "Attaching Of The Leash" ceremony. Mia is a small dog with an equally small collar. This small collar sports a tiny steel "D" ring meant to anchor the small clasp of the leash. In order to attach the clasp, I must grasp the little "D" ring. Uh huh. This is where the ceremony kicks in. Mia, usually in the recliner (so I don't have to bend my uncooperative back as far) looks like she's having a seizure while on a sugar high and all this taking place on ice. I begin to utter the sacred words of the ritual. "Hold still!" The dog weaves, the ring slips out of my fingers. "Mia, still! Stop hopping around. I can't get the damn leash on if you don't hold still for a millisecond!" I capture the elusive ring while repeatedly uttering, "Mia Sit!" And lo and behold, Mia sits...apparently on the only section of the recliner seat that has invisible lava seething hotly just below the surface. I can't tell which happens faster, the dog's butt touching the cushion or leaving it. The wrestling match continues until the leash is fastened, then it's through the living room, through the kitchen, past the coffee maker which beckons to me, out the back door, across the porch then out that door to the backyard.
I know that the first thing I usually have to do in the morning is hit the bathroom. Mia's been in her crate, which is a plastic cat carrier with a pillow, all night. She's smaller than the cat and the cat knows it. So does Mia. But I digress. She's been in her crate all night, so one could reasonably presume, she too, needs to empty her bladder. As soon as that doglet hits the back step outside the porch door, what does she want to do? Run. First thing in the morning, long before my joints begin to unstiffen, she wants to run! She has about fifteen feet of leash between her neck and my hand but that length gets played out to the fullest before I can even blink. First stop, the big maple at the side of the garage. At the base of this tree is where I stack the fallen branches from all the other trees in the yard. This is a weekly task and must be completed before mowing can take place. One thing this little dog has learned is that pile of branches has become a chipmunk condo. She fancies herself the mighty huntress. God forbid there's an animate object in the yard. Be it butterfly, bird, groundhog or the dreaded chippy, Mia will see it first and without warning take off at the velocity of a bullet leaving the muzzle of a high powered rifle. When this happens, I have a few choices. Her diminutive stature makes it very easy to just stand my ground and let her snap her neck when she runs out of slack. I'm afraid that's exactly what would happen, so that option's out. Small size notwithstanding, she packs a heck of a punch! So the next option is to let her jerk my arm. I'm still stiff and get rotator cuff tendonitis. I'd rather not risk aggravating my shoulder, so that's out too. But I have to be able to keep some slack in the leash to protect her spine, even at the cost of my own. Seems the only option left is...to run. Oh dear Lord! I don't run anymore unless my pants are on fire! Even then I'm thankful for the Stop, Drop, Roll rule. Sooo, each morning I'm running through some part of the yard, looking like an eight pound dog's dragging me and still she keeps the leash taut. If she sees a squirrel go up a tree, she goes bonkers whining, jumping and trying to climb the tree. Even after the squirrel is long gone from sight and she's made several circuits around the house, Mia remembers and will still return to that tree. Same with the chippy condo. She remembers, and has gone in far enough that only her little jug handle tail is sticking out. I'm afraid she'll poke her eye out on a branch some day. Anyway, after about fifteen or twenty minutes of exploration, only then will she take the time to relieve herself. Finally! Now I can go make coffee.
I don't know if it's the coffee that helps me wake up or that it's just part of my morning ritual. I have my coffee as I putter on the computer catching up on the news, playing a game, deleting junk mail. This is how I wake up. One would think the morning jaunt around the yard would do that, but I've had this wake up ritual longer than I've had Mia. I'm a creature of habit so I think it's the redundancy not the caffeine...and definitely not the dog. Some mornings I don't have to actually make the coffee, it's waiting for me as my wife made a pot before leaving for work. Other days she either didn't have time or I've gotten up first and therefore, the coffee making falls to moi. I'd really like to know who the sadistic SOB was who designed my coffee maker. It's manufactured by Black & Decker, that I know. But who designed it? What idiot thought it was a good idea to have an opening between the lid and the reservoir of the stupid thing? I raise the lid so the previous pot's grounds can be removed and replaced by four scoops of Folger's Simply Smooth (the best part of wakin' up according to the commercial) and twelve cups of water can be poured into the reservoir. And what happens? The condensation on the underside of the lid, copious amounts of water from the prior brewing, pours through the intentionally designed gap between lid and reservoir, down the back of the appliance and into puddles on the counter and beneath the previously mentioned appliance. Grab a paper towel, mop, wipe, blot. To make matters worse, the ninny designer put two oval HOLES in the back reservoir wall, near the top. I'm sure those are overflow holes, but come on! They're so small and so close to the top edge that if someone was stupid enough to pour in too much water, it would overflow the entire reservoir, not just ooze out those little holes. Now, once the basket of used grounds is removed, another water obstacle is encountered.
There is still water between the body of the basket opening and the basket. Take the basket out and that water trickles through the opening and onto the warming element. This usually requires a second paper towel as the first one, used to mop up the counter, is saturated. Yes, I do use Bounty, the quicker picker upper. Sooo, second paper towel, mop, wipe, blot...all clean and dry. Ahh, but the designer from hell isn't done tormenting me yet. You see, the coffee maker has this nice little feature of being able to remove the carafe before the full pot is done brewing. The flow ceases when the carafe is removed, enabling the user to pour a cup or two and resumes when the carafe is replaced. WRONG! Let me tell you, speed is of the essence when attempting this maneuver. You see, the flow may have ceased upon removal of the carafe, but the coffee maker's still pumping water through the grounds in the basket. Please take note. The basket fills quickly. Yep, you got it. Now, instead of water on the heating element, there's precious coffee. I have a large mug, a twenty ounce Harley-Davidson mug to be exact. If I pour fast, I can get the carafe back in place before the overflow occurs. Yet, here the evil design maniac has the last laugh. Have you ever tried to quickly pour something from a coffee maker carafe? I don't know if it's just me or if others have the same difficulty, but if I pour too fast, the liquid doesn't necessarily follow the contours of the glass. Come to think of it, even when I'm not pouring fast I have that problem. I can reuse the second paper towel...mop, wipe, blot...again! There is no doubt in my mind that whomever designed the coffee maker also designed the carafe. Either that or he had an equally warped twin who did the deed. I end up with coffee on the counter, on the floor, on my shoe, on the dog. I've actually taken to putting the mug on the side of the sink so I can hold the carafe over the sink and have the inevitable spillage land somewhere where I don't have to bend my ratchety old back to clean up.
So my mornings consist of running around the yard, looking like a zombie with rigormortis on a low dose of uppers and the mopping up operation after making coffee. Seems like Wheaties or Cheerios would be easier. Folgers...the best part of wakin' up my as...
Out I go to the coat rack in the living room where the dog's leash hangs. The dog is already on the back porch, but noting my absence, she quickly returns to jump into the recliner for the customary "Attaching Of The Leash" ceremony. Mia is a small dog with an equally small collar. This small collar sports a tiny steel "D" ring meant to anchor the small clasp of the leash. In order to attach the clasp, I must grasp the little "D" ring. Uh huh. This is where the ceremony kicks in. Mia, usually in the recliner (so I don't have to bend my uncooperative back as far) looks like she's having a seizure while on a sugar high and all this taking place on ice. I begin to utter the sacred words of the ritual. "Hold still!" The dog weaves, the ring slips out of my fingers. "Mia, still! Stop hopping around. I can't get the damn leash on if you don't hold still for a millisecond!" I capture the elusive ring while repeatedly uttering, "Mia Sit!" And lo and behold, Mia sits...apparently on the only section of the recliner seat that has invisible lava seething hotly just below the surface. I can't tell which happens faster, the dog's butt touching the cushion or leaving it. The wrestling match continues until the leash is fastened, then it's through the living room, through the kitchen, past the coffee maker which beckons to me, out the back door, across the porch then out that door to the backyard.
I know that the first thing I usually have to do in the morning is hit the bathroom. Mia's been in her crate, which is a plastic cat carrier with a pillow, all night. She's smaller than the cat and the cat knows it. So does Mia. But I digress. She's been in her crate all night, so one could reasonably presume, she too, needs to empty her bladder. As soon as that doglet hits the back step outside the porch door, what does she want to do? Run. First thing in the morning, long before my joints begin to unstiffen, she wants to run! She has about fifteen feet of leash between her neck and my hand but that length gets played out to the fullest before I can even blink. First stop, the big maple at the side of the garage. At the base of this tree is where I stack the fallen branches from all the other trees in the yard. This is a weekly task and must be completed before mowing can take place. One thing this little dog has learned is that pile of branches has become a chipmunk condo. She fancies herself the mighty huntress. God forbid there's an animate object in the yard. Be it butterfly, bird, groundhog or the dreaded chippy, Mia will see it first and without warning take off at the velocity of a bullet leaving the muzzle of a high powered rifle. When this happens, I have a few choices. Her diminutive stature makes it very easy to just stand my ground and let her snap her neck when she runs out of slack. I'm afraid that's exactly what would happen, so that option's out. Small size notwithstanding, she packs a heck of a punch! So the next option is to let her jerk my arm. I'm still stiff and get rotator cuff tendonitis. I'd rather not risk aggravating my shoulder, so that's out too. But I have to be able to keep some slack in the leash to protect her spine, even at the cost of my own. Seems the only option left is...to run. Oh dear Lord! I don't run anymore unless my pants are on fire! Even then I'm thankful for the Stop, Drop, Roll rule. Sooo, each morning I'm running through some part of the yard, looking like an eight pound dog's dragging me and still she keeps the leash taut. If she sees a squirrel go up a tree, she goes bonkers whining, jumping and trying to climb the tree. Even after the squirrel is long gone from sight and she's made several circuits around the house, Mia remembers and will still return to that tree. Same with the chippy condo. She remembers, and has gone in far enough that only her little jug handle tail is sticking out. I'm afraid she'll poke her eye out on a branch some day. Anyway, after about fifteen or twenty minutes of exploration, only then will she take the time to relieve herself. Finally! Now I can go make coffee.
I don't know if it's the coffee that helps me wake up or that it's just part of my morning ritual. I have my coffee as I putter on the computer catching up on the news, playing a game, deleting junk mail. This is how I wake up. One would think the morning jaunt around the yard would do that, but I've had this wake up ritual longer than I've had Mia. I'm a creature of habit so I think it's the redundancy not the caffeine...and definitely not the dog. Some mornings I don't have to actually make the coffee, it's waiting for me as my wife made a pot before leaving for work. Other days she either didn't have time or I've gotten up first and therefore, the coffee making falls to moi. I'd really like to know who the sadistic SOB was who designed my coffee maker. It's manufactured by Black & Decker, that I know. But who designed it? What idiot thought it was a good idea to have an opening between the lid and the reservoir of the stupid thing? I raise the lid so the previous pot's grounds can be removed and replaced by four scoops of Folger's Simply Smooth (the best part of wakin' up according to the commercial) and twelve cups of water can be poured into the reservoir. And what happens? The condensation on the underside of the lid, copious amounts of water from the prior brewing, pours through the intentionally designed gap between lid and reservoir, down the back of the appliance and into puddles on the counter and beneath the previously mentioned appliance. Grab a paper towel, mop, wipe, blot. To make matters worse, the ninny designer put two oval HOLES in the back reservoir wall, near the top. I'm sure those are overflow holes, but come on! They're so small and so close to the top edge that if someone was stupid enough to pour in too much water, it would overflow the entire reservoir, not just ooze out those little holes. Now, once the basket of used grounds is removed, another water obstacle is encountered.
There is still water between the body of the basket opening and the basket. Take the basket out and that water trickles through the opening and onto the warming element. This usually requires a second paper towel as the first one, used to mop up the counter, is saturated. Yes, I do use Bounty, the quicker picker upper. Sooo, second paper towel, mop, wipe, blot...all clean and dry. Ahh, but the designer from hell isn't done tormenting me yet. You see, the coffee maker has this nice little feature of being able to remove the carafe before the full pot is done brewing. The flow ceases when the carafe is removed, enabling the user to pour a cup or two and resumes when the carafe is replaced. WRONG! Let me tell you, speed is of the essence when attempting this maneuver. You see, the flow may have ceased upon removal of the carafe, but the coffee maker's still pumping water through the grounds in the basket. Please take note. The basket fills quickly. Yep, you got it. Now, instead of water on the heating element, there's precious coffee. I have a large mug, a twenty ounce Harley-Davidson mug to be exact. If I pour fast, I can get the carafe back in place before the overflow occurs. Yet, here the evil design maniac has the last laugh. Have you ever tried to quickly pour something from a coffee maker carafe? I don't know if it's just me or if others have the same difficulty, but if I pour too fast, the liquid doesn't necessarily follow the contours of the glass. Come to think of it, even when I'm not pouring fast I have that problem. I can reuse the second paper towel...mop, wipe, blot...again! There is no doubt in my mind that whomever designed the coffee maker also designed the carafe. Either that or he had an equally warped twin who did the deed. I end up with coffee on the counter, on the floor, on my shoe, on the dog. I've actually taken to putting the mug on the side of the sink so I can hold the carafe over the sink and have the inevitable spillage land somewhere where I don't have to bend my ratchety old back to clean up.
So my mornings consist of running around the yard, looking like a zombie with rigormortis on a low dose of uppers and the mopping up operation after making coffee. Seems like Wheaties or Cheerios would be easier. Folgers...the best part of wakin' up my as...
Saturday, February 27, 2010
For Whom Is The Service?
Today I attended a funeral service at a church. This church happened to be for those of the Catholic faith, but what transpired is something I've noticed at churches of other denominations too. When one passes away and a service is held, I feel we should be hearing about the dearly departed more than anything or anyone else. I mean, the service is for them...right? Wrong. At least, from my possibly twisted perspective anyway. Before I continue, perhaps I should preface what I'm about to say with a little history.
I'm Methodist...or I'm supposed to be. When I was little I attended Sunday School. When I was a little older I went to church services. Luckily, my parents weren't big church goers and my mother, who was the one to take my brothers and me, was happy to be able to sleep in at least one day a week. She made sure we got the fundamentals so later in life would could build upon them should we so choose. Rest assured, Mom made sure we knew the Ten Commandments, knew right from wrong and had morals. Oh sure...like many, I went through my agnostic stage, but like most, as I got older, I found I do have a spiritual side. But one thing that never changed and probably never will, is that I don't care for proselytizing. I believe in God and Jesus Christ, but I also know that I'd rather worship God by being around what He made...trees, fields, flowers. A church is a building constructed by man. Every Sunday the supposedly faithful gather to sing the Lord's praises and the church officers pass the plate to fill the coffers. I can't tell you how many times I've wished they'd just be honest and announce that they're aiming for $20 a head. Maybe they could charge admission at the door. Then the next thing you know, these wonderful church goers are found to be child molesters, adulterers, liars and thieves. Yes, I know there are many good people who attend church and wonderful works done on behalf of countless people by churches. Have a few bad apples spoiled the whole barrel? Investigations into allegations made against umpteen dozen so called 'holy men' show it's more than a few. I just feel much better talking to God myself, trying to treat people well and keeping those Commandments in my heart.
Now I'll return to the subject at hand. Every time I've attended a funeral service held in a church, today being no different, the priest/minister/reverend/whomever, spends all his time talking and reading about faith, God's endless love and kindness, His sacrifice of His only Son...wait a minute! I already know Christ died for our sins but the service isn't for Christ. He's not the deceased we're gathered to mourn and to whom we're paying our respects. Why does the actual deceased person get so little mention during these services? My daughter said perhaps the priest didn't know the deceased. I guess she was trying to say it was a generic service...one service fits all. Maybe she's right. But then I have to ask myself...If this guy's supposed to be doing such a good job, why didn't he take the time to speak with relatives and friends of the deceased to get a better understanding of the person so he could speak about the one we've all come to mourn?
The only time I've heard the deceased being the focal point, is when the service is held in a funeral home. It seems that without a "man of the cloth" present, the service actually is for and about the deceased. To me, that's the way it should be. We come together to share our feelings about our loved ones, stories that will touch the heart and hopefully, despite our pain, bring a smile or a little laugh. We gather not only to remember and mourn, but to garner the strength of those around us when our own is faltering. Perhaps we also see those who attend as testament to what we believe...that the deceased was loved by more than just ourselves.
I'm Methodist...or I'm supposed to be. When I was little I attended Sunday School. When I was a little older I went to church services. Luckily, my parents weren't big church goers and my mother, who was the one to take my brothers and me, was happy to be able to sleep in at least one day a week. She made sure we got the fundamentals so later in life would could build upon them should we so choose. Rest assured, Mom made sure we knew the Ten Commandments, knew right from wrong and had morals. Oh sure...like many, I went through my agnostic stage, but like most, as I got older, I found I do have a spiritual side. But one thing that never changed and probably never will, is that I don't care for proselytizing. I believe in God and Jesus Christ, but I also know that I'd rather worship God by being around what He made...trees, fields, flowers. A church is a building constructed by man. Every Sunday the supposedly faithful gather to sing the Lord's praises and the church officers pass the plate to fill the coffers. I can't tell you how many times I've wished they'd just be honest and announce that they're aiming for $20 a head. Maybe they could charge admission at the door. Then the next thing you know, these wonderful church goers are found to be child molesters, adulterers, liars and thieves. Yes, I know there are many good people who attend church and wonderful works done on behalf of countless people by churches. Have a few bad apples spoiled the whole barrel? Investigations into allegations made against umpteen dozen so called 'holy men' show it's more than a few. I just feel much better talking to God myself, trying to treat people well and keeping those Commandments in my heart.
Now I'll return to the subject at hand. Every time I've attended a funeral service held in a church, today being no different, the priest/minister/reverend/whomever, spends all his time talking and reading about faith, God's endless love and kindness, His sacrifice of His only Son...wait a minute! I already know Christ died for our sins but the service isn't for Christ. He's not the deceased we're gathered to mourn and to whom we're paying our respects. Why does the actual deceased person get so little mention during these services? My daughter said perhaps the priest didn't know the deceased. I guess she was trying to say it was a generic service...one service fits all. Maybe she's right. But then I have to ask myself...If this guy's supposed to be doing such a good job, why didn't he take the time to speak with relatives and friends of the deceased to get a better understanding of the person so he could speak about the one we've all come to mourn?
The only time I've heard the deceased being the focal point, is when the service is held in a funeral home. It seems that without a "man of the cloth" present, the service actually is for and about the deceased. To me, that's the way it should be. We come together to share our feelings about our loved ones, stories that will touch the heart and hopefully, despite our pain, bring a smile or a little laugh. We gather not only to remember and mourn, but to garner the strength of those around us when our own is faltering. Perhaps we also see those who attend as testament to what we believe...that the deceased was loved by more than just ourselves.
Legal Rip Off Artists
I've been told I've been negligent in posting, however I have a very good reason...my computer croaked. Insert extreme sniffling here, just remembering causes that reaction. Aaahhh, my lovely little Alien had to be seen by Doctor Fred. I heard he was one of the best and he is. You don't know about my computer but I'll save that story for another day. This little rant is about my bank.
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away (from some of you anyway) Commerce Bank came to Pennsylvania. Commerce Bank, the world's most convenient bank was here! Woohoo! Open seven days a week, open early, open late, telephones answered by real live human beings! Lickety split I opened both a checking and a saving account; I even got a debit and a credit card. I didn't have to worry about ATM fees, didn't have to pay for my checks, there was no limit on the number of times I could use an ATM or on the number of checks I could write. The credit card had no fees. The checking account even earned interest! It was...well...heaven. I even won a raffle for a bag full of goodies for Superbowl Sunday! HA! Me! Imagine that! I never win anything! Ahhh yes...life was good. I was so happy with the bank and their service that I later went back and opened a Young Savers Account for my daughter.
I married but hadn't put my wife's name on the bank accounts. It was no problem for Commerce. You see, like most banks, they didn't care who put money into the account, just who took it out. So my wife's checks would be signed over to me, I'd sign them and they'd be deposited into the account. Either she'd drop off the deposit or I would...didn't matter to Commerce. You know, I even liked their logo...blue and red...that giant "C". I thought it was pretty cool lookin'. Yes indeedy, the world's most convenient bank. Friendly too.
Then one day, unexpectedly, the world changed...and not for the better. Commerce became TD Bank. Who the hell was TD Bank anyway? I'd never heard of them. We Commerce account holders were all told the only thing that would change was the name. The systems, the service, the hours...all would remain the same. And they did...for awhile.
Then one day my wife told me she'd gone to deposit her paycheck but was told she couldn't as her name wasn't on the account. What?!!...this was a deposit...hellooooo! So I took it and the next day swung by the bank myself. Guess what happened. Despite the fact that she'd endorsed the check, signed it over to me and I'd endorsed it...I was not permitted to deposit it because...you won't believe this...she wasn't with me! WTF? I was stunned. I stood there at the counter, jaw hanging around my knees and just... blinked. Repeatedly. Coming out of my TD induced coma, I was then about to go into cardiac arrest because the teller proceeded to tell me that I'd have to bring my wife to the bank with me so she could sign a paper indicating she wasn't under any kind of duress to deposit her check into my account. And this wasn't a situation where it would be done once and the paper put on file. Noooo. This paper signing would have to be done EVERY SINGLE TIME!
Needless to say, even though it's not the teller's fault, I told him how the bank had gone from being the most convenient to the most INconvenient bank. Fuming, I left and drove less than a tenth of a mile down the street to Harleysville Bank. I sat with Aura, the customer service rep, and found that they didn't care who put money into the account. Apparently Frankenstein could make a deposit but only I could make the withdraw. That was fine with me. Sign...me...up! Unfortunately, I couldn't just close the TD account. You see, I was unemployed at the time, having been laid off to become yet another casualty of the great recession. Henceforth, I was receiving unemployment compensation which was being direct deposited into the TD account. I figured between banking and the government, trying to change where the unemployment checks went could only spell disaster. That's the only reason the stupid account was maintained.
Fast forward. I finally get a job but now I'm just being lazy. I already had the online bill pay set up with TD, Vonage was taking their monthly cut from the account automatically...ahhh, what a pain in the butt to have to redo all that crap. It became one of those, I'll get around to it situations. Then one day I get a phone call from Harleysville to confirm some transactions they felt were "unusual". For the most part, I used the Harleysville account to pay the mortgage and that was it. Rarely did I ever use it for anything else. Just a few days before the call though, I had used the debit card for gas at Wawa and presumed that's what they were questioning. Nope. Here's how the conversation went...
BANK - "First there's a $4.99 charge for Lucky Seven."
ME (sounding ever so surprised but intelligent nonetheless) - "Huh?"
BANK - "Then there's $1.99 for mycredithealth.com."
ME (again the intelligence shines through) - "Wha...?"
BANK - "And last, there's a Western Union wire transfer for $987."
ME - (note my incredible restraint and calm demeanor in this crisis situation) - "WHAT THE HELL?! THERE ISN'T EVEN THAT MUCH IN THE F*****G ACCOUNT! THERE'S ONLY $600!"
BANK - "I take it Mr. Barnes, these are not your transactions."
Then it hits me.
ME - "Wait a minute. You mean to tell me someone used MY money to check THEIR credit?"
I was told what steps to take to rectify the situation, I took them and Harleysville returned the money. Whew! Just missed the bullet on that one. How someone got my card info I'll never know. Usually if I make a purchase with it, be it in a store or online, it's the TD account not the Harleysville. Humm. Let's think about this for a moment. Someone got the information on a card I don't use but not on the one I "do" use? I went online and checked my account with TD. And it just gave me yet another reason to hate TD bank. Yes, that account had gotten hacked too. I reported it and weeks later, got a letter from TD stating nothing could be proven and my money would therefore, NOT be returned. Amazing. Luckily it wasn't for much but that's not the point. They never called, they didn't do anything for their customer. Hell, with Harleysville, they followed the money trail and found that the numbnuts who got into my account were from out west and because it was out of state and not that much money (was a buttload to me!) there'd be no prosecution. Still, Harleysville had the best interests of their customer in mind, unlike TD.
Ok, so now I'm ready to close the account. Well, I was at that moment. Then life intervened and it got put on the back burner again. Now, I must tell you that the savings account I opened at Commerce, had no fees provided I kept at least $100 in it. That's why I opened that one. Recently I was clearing up paperwork, filing paid bills, receipts and bank statements. That's when I actually looked at one of the savings account statements. And what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a $4.00 monthly maintenance fee. HUH? Since when? I started looking back. Seems that for months I've been getting charged this fee because I don't have a minimum of $250.00 in the account. Whooaaa Nelly! That's NOT the account I opened. I yanked the phone from the cradle and punched in the number for TDB...not TD Bank...Too Damn Bad. That's pretty much what I was told AFTER being on hold for almost 8 minutes BEFORE getting to hear a NON-recorded voice! Apparently, in it's infinite banking wisdom and attempt to screw the little guy, TD CHANGED the kind of savings account I had without asking, without notification, without even a 'sorry you're screwed'. THEY, changed MY account! I just cannot get over this one! NOW I'll end my relationship with TD Bank...well, once the check my daughter got for babysitting clears. THEN I'll close every damn account and they can kiss my lily white backside because Harleysville is the only bank I'll be using in the future.
Apparently the banking gods are angry with me for some unknown reason. In the mail I just received a large white envelope from First Niagara, a bank of which I've never heard. On the outside of the envelope is a message that reads...PLEASE OPEN PROMPTLY! IMPORTANT INFORMATION ABOUT THE CONVERSION OF HARLEYSVILLE NATIONAL BANK AND EAST PENN BANK TO FIRST NIAGARA.
I can't win for losin'.
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away (from some of you anyway) Commerce Bank came to Pennsylvania. Commerce Bank, the world's most convenient bank was here! Woohoo! Open seven days a week, open early, open late, telephones answered by real live human beings! Lickety split I opened both a checking and a saving account; I even got a debit and a credit card. I didn't have to worry about ATM fees, didn't have to pay for my checks, there was no limit on the number of times I could use an ATM or on the number of checks I could write. The credit card had no fees. The checking account even earned interest! It was...well...heaven. I even won a raffle for a bag full of goodies for Superbowl Sunday! HA! Me! Imagine that! I never win anything! Ahhh yes...life was good. I was so happy with the bank and their service that I later went back and opened a Young Savers Account for my daughter.
I married but hadn't put my wife's name on the bank accounts. It was no problem for Commerce. You see, like most banks, they didn't care who put money into the account, just who took it out. So my wife's checks would be signed over to me, I'd sign them and they'd be deposited into the account. Either she'd drop off the deposit or I would...didn't matter to Commerce. You know, I even liked their logo...blue and red...that giant "C". I thought it was pretty cool lookin'. Yes indeedy, the world's most convenient bank. Friendly too.
Then one day, unexpectedly, the world changed...and not for the better. Commerce became TD Bank. Who the hell was TD Bank anyway? I'd never heard of them. We Commerce account holders were all told the only thing that would change was the name. The systems, the service, the hours...all would remain the same. And they did...for awhile.
Then one day my wife told me she'd gone to deposit her paycheck but was told she couldn't as her name wasn't on the account. What?!!...this was a deposit...hellooooo! So I took it and the next day swung by the bank myself. Guess what happened. Despite the fact that she'd endorsed the check, signed it over to me and I'd endorsed it...I was not permitted to deposit it because...you won't believe this...she wasn't with me! WTF? I was stunned. I stood there at the counter, jaw hanging around my knees and just... blinked. Repeatedly. Coming out of my TD induced coma, I was then about to go into cardiac arrest because the teller proceeded to tell me that I'd have to bring my wife to the bank with me so she could sign a paper indicating she wasn't under any kind of duress to deposit her check into my account. And this wasn't a situation where it would be done once and the paper put on file. Noooo. This paper signing would have to be done EVERY SINGLE TIME!
Needless to say, even though it's not the teller's fault, I told him how the bank had gone from being the most convenient to the most INconvenient bank. Fuming, I left and drove less than a tenth of a mile down the street to Harleysville Bank. I sat with Aura, the customer service rep, and found that they didn't care who put money into the account. Apparently Frankenstein could make a deposit but only I could make the withdraw. That was fine with me. Sign...me...up! Unfortunately, I couldn't just close the TD account. You see, I was unemployed at the time, having been laid off to become yet another casualty of the great recession. Henceforth, I was receiving unemployment compensation which was being direct deposited into the TD account. I figured between banking and the government, trying to change where the unemployment checks went could only spell disaster. That's the only reason the stupid account was maintained.
Fast forward. I finally get a job but now I'm just being lazy. I already had the online bill pay set up with TD, Vonage was taking their monthly cut from the account automatically...ahhh, what a pain in the butt to have to redo all that crap. It became one of those, I'll get around to it situations. Then one day I get a phone call from Harleysville to confirm some transactions they felt were "unusual". For the most part, I used the Harleysville account to pay the mortgage and that was it. Rarely did I ever use it for anything else. Just a few days before the call though, I had used the debit card for gas at Wawa and presumed that's what they were questioning. Nope. Here's how the conversation went...
BANK - "First there's a $4.99 charge for Lucky Seven."
ME (sounding ever so surprised but intelligent nonetheless) - "Huh?"
BANK - "Then there's $1.99 for mycredithealth.com."
ME (again the intelligence shines through) - "Wha...?"
BANK - "And last, there's a Western Union wire transfer for $987."
ME - (note my incredible restraint and calm demeanor in this crisis situation) - "WHAT THE HELL?! THERE ISN'T EVEN THAT MUCH IN THE F*****G ACCOUNT! THERE'S ONLY $600!"
BANK - "I take it Mr. Barnes, these are not your transactions."
Then it hits me.
ME - "Wait a minute. You mean to tell me someone used MY money to check THEIR credit?"
I was told what steps to take to rectify the situation, I took them and Harleysville returned the money. Whew! Just missed the bullet on that one. How someone got my card info I'll never know. Usually if I make a purchase with it, be it in a store or online, it's the TD account not the Harleysville. Humm. Let's think about this for a moment. Someone got the information on a card I don't use but not on the one I "do" use? I went online and checked my account with TD. And it just gave me yet another reason to hate TD bank. Yes, that account had gotten hacked too. I reported it and weeks later, got a letter from TD stating nothing could be proven and my money would therefore, NOT be returned. Amazing. Luckily it wasn't for much but that's not the point. They never called, they didn't do anything for their customer. Hell, with Harleysville, they followed the money trail and found that the numbnuts who got into my account were from out west and because it was out of state and not that much money (was a buttload to me!) there'd be no prosecution. Still, Harleysville had the best interests of their customer in mind, unlike TD.
Ok, so now I'm ready to close the account. Well, I was at that moment. Then life intervened and it got put on the back burner again. Now, I must tell you that the savings account I opened at Commerce, had no fees provided I kept at least $100 in it. That's why I opened that one. Recently I was clearing up paperwork, filing paid bills, receipts and bank statements. That's when I actually looked at one of the savings account statements. And what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a $4.00 monthly maintenance fee. HUH? Since when? I started looking back. Seems that for months I've been getting charged this fee because I don't have a minimum of $250.00 in the account. Whooaaa Nelly! That's NOT the account I opened. I yanked the phone from the cradle and punched in the number for TDB...not TD Bank...Too Damn Bad. That's pretty much what I was told AFTER being on hold for almost 8 minutes BEFORE getting to hear a NON-recorded voice! Apparently, in it's infinite banking wisdom and attempt to screw the little guy, TD CHANGED the kind of savings account I had without asking, without notification, without even a 'sorry you're screwed'. THEY, changed MY account! I just cannot get over this one! NOW I'll end my relationship with TD Bank...well, once the check my daughter got for babysitting clears. THEN I'll close every damn account and they can kiss my lily white backside because Harleysville is the only bank I'll be using in the future.
Apparently the banking gods are angry with me for some unknown reason. In the mail I just received a large white envelope from First Niagara, a bank of which I've never heard. On the outside of the envelope is a message that reads...PLEASE OPEN PROMPTLY! IMPORTANT INFORMATION ABOUT THE CONVERSION OF HARLEYSVILLE NATIONAL BANK AND EAST PENN BANK TO FIRST NIAGARA.
I can't win for losin'.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Murphy Sucks
Good evening and welcome to my Rant of the day. On today's menu I have a lovely serving of ire aimed at someone we all know and hate. Murphy. Not Murphy as in Murphy Brown or Eddie Murphy but Murphy as in...Murphy's Law.
I have to tell you, I'm sick to death of this irritating little guy. Most people only have to deal with him on occasion. I, on the other hand, am oohhh so fortunate as to have this apostle of Satan actually living with me! While, I've never actually seen him, I know he's around because he throws monkey wrenches into everything I do.
I truly believe the old adage about Murphy's Law was coined by none other than the little weasel himself. You know the one...whatever can go wrong will and at the worst possible time.
In January of this year I was laid off from my job and have yet to find another. It's ugly out there folks and it's at this emotionally and financially fragile time in my life that rotten ol' Murph makes his existence known. Let me give you an example of his "helpful" interventions.
I have a lot of yard to mow and for that purpose, I have a lawn tractor. This spring I got it out of the shed, gassed it up and checked the oil. Low. Huumm. Where did the oil go? A shrug of my shoulders and a few glugs of oil later and I was mowing away. It wasn't until I started to drive the tractor back into the shed that I noticed the large, black spot on the raised wood floor. Yuppers, there, was the missing oil. I gave the tractor a good eyeballing and wouldn't you know it, there's a leak on one side! Oil's been sprayed out all over the place. And is it an easy fix? Nope. It's the gasket at the bottom of the engine, therefore necessitating the removal of the entire motor and at a price I currently cannot afford. My service guy said I could keep adding oil but that eventually the oil would destroy the rubber belts that turn the blades and the transmission. I've replaced them in years past and they are not cheap. Soooo, all season long I've been holding my breath and only mowing when I absolutely must. I've got it down to a science now. Once half the yard's mowed I top off the oil and finish the other half. The last thing I want to do is seize the engine.
Now here's where Murphy really started using underhanded tactics. He enlisted Mother Nature to aid him in his attempt to thwart my property maintenance endeavors! This has been one of the wettest spring/summer seasons we've seen in Pennsyl-tucky (I'll explain Pennsyl-tucky in a later post) in decades! I understand that April showers bring May flowers...but who wants a huge wooden ship in their yard? Sorry about that. Seriously though, I know rain is good, it's needed for crops, livestock and water tables. I have a well, rain keeps it from going dry and leaving me without water. But come on! There was only one stinking day in all of June that it didn't rain! At one point there was so much water laying atop the ground in my front yard that I thought the well had overflowed! Folks, when frogs come out of the marsh near the pond and take their chances dodging tires on the road, you know it's rained too much. I'm sure I saw one frog with a life vest and pontoons! Even the birds had water wings.
And the result of all that rain and the subsequent heat spells? You guessed it...the grass exploded! It would rain Monday and Tuesday then, because the grass was already so high, take Wednesday, Thursday and Friday to dry enough to mow. Saturday I'd mow in the sweltering heat and humidity and Sunday it would rain again. Personally, I believe the grass was on steroids. Hushed voices whispered up to me from the green depths, "We'll be back." I've now named my lawn...Arnold. I swear, not two full days after I mowed, the yard looked as if I'd been away for a month and hadn't cared enough to hire a neighbor kid to mow in my absence.
If you'll remember I previously stated I was trying to mow only when necessary. HA! Could this season have been like the previous, when I had a job and there was little rain so I only mowed every two or three weeks? Nooooo. On more than one occasion I let the grass get much taller than usual and when I could no longer put it off, raised the blades higher to keep the grass from clogging the chute and stalling out the tractor.
It's now the middle of September. I thought we might have an Indian Summer and shuddered to think of the additional mowing that extension of summer would mean. But the temperature has dramatically dropped. It would seem that Murphy has ticked off Mother Nature and their collusion has come to an end. I'm greatly relieved. After Murphy's interference this evening, I need a break. What happened this evening you ask? Ahhh well...I'll save that for another time. My blood pressure can only go so high. Besides, I need to put my brain to another task...how to charge Murphy rent.
Good night Gracie.
I have to tell you, I'm sick to death of this irritating little guy. Most people only have to deal with him on occasion. I, on the other hand, am oohhh so fortunate as to have this apostle of Satan actually living with me! While, I've never actually seen him, I know he's around because he throws monkey wrenches into everything I do.
I truly believe the old adage about Murphy's Law was coined by none other than the little weasel himself. You know the one...whatever can go wrong will and at the worst possible time.
In January of this year I was laid off from my job and have yet to find another. It's ugly out there folks and it's at this emotionally and financially fragile time in my life that rotten ol' Murph makes his existence known. Let me give you an example of his "helpful" interventions.
I have a lot of yard to mow and for that purpose, I have a lawn tractor. This spring I got it out of the shed, gassed it up and checked the oil. Low. Huumm. Where did the oil go? A shrug of my shoulders and a few glugs of oil later and I was mowing away. It wasn't until I started to drive the tractor back into the shed that I noticed the large, black spot on the raised wood floor. Yuppers, there, was the missing oil. I gave the tractor a good eyeballing and wouldn't you know it, there's a leak on one side! Oil's been sprayed out all over the place. And is it an easy fix? Nope. It's the gasket at the bottom of the engine, therefore necessitating the removal of the entire motor and at a price I currently cannot afford. My service guy said I could keep adding oil but that eventually the oil would destroy the rubber belts that turn the blades and the transmission. I've replaced them in years past and they are not cheap. Soooo, all season long I've been holding my breath and only mowing when I absolutely must. I've got it down to a science now. Once half the yard's mowed I top off the oil and finish the other half. The last thing I want to do is seize the engine.
Now here's where Murphy really started using underhanded tactics. He enlisted Mother Nature to aid him in his attempt to thwart my property maintenance endeavors! This has been one of the wettest spring/summer seasons we've seen in Pennsyl-tucky (I'll explain Pennsyl-tucky in a later post) in decades! I understand that April showers bring May flowers...but who wants a huge wooden ship in their yard? Sorry about that. Seriously though, I know rain is good, it's needed for crops, livestock and water tables. I have a well, rain keeps it from going dry and leaving me without water. But come on! There was only one stinking day in all of June that it didn't rain! At one point there was so much water laying atop the ground in my front yard that I thought the well had overflowed! Folks, when frogs come out of the marsh near the pond and take their chances dodging tires on the road, you know it's rained too much. I'm sure I saw one frog with a life vest and pontoons! Even the birds had water wings.
And the result of all that rain and the subsequent heat spells? You guessed it...the grass exploded! It would rain Monday and Tuesday then, because the grass was already so high, take Wednesday, Thursday and Friday to dry enough to mow. Saturday I'd mow in the sweltering heat and humidity and Sunday it would rain again. Personally, I believe the grass was on steroids. Hushed voices whispered up to me from the green depths, "We'll be back." I've now named my lawn...Arnold. I swear, not two full days after I mowed, the yard looked as if I'd been away for a month and hadn't cared enough to hire a neighbor kid to mow in my absence.
If you'll remember I previously stated I was trying to mow only when necessary. HA! Could this season have been like the previous, when I had a job and there was little rain so I only mowed every two or three weeks? Nooooo. On more than one occasion I let the grass get much taller than usual and when I could no longer put it off, raised the blades higher to keep the grass from clogging the chute and stalling out the tractor.
It's now the middle of September. I thought we might have an Indian Summer and shuddered to think of the additional mowing that extension of summer would mean. But the temperature has dramatically dropped. It would seem that Murphy has ticked off Mother Nature and their collusion has come to an end. I'm greatly relieved. After Murphy's interference this evening, I need a break. What happened this evening you ask? Ahhh well...I'll save that for another time. My blood pressure can only go so high. Besides, I need to put my brain to another task...how to charge Murphy rent.
Good night Gracie.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
OOPS!
I can't believe it! My first published post and there's a freakin' typo!! I used spell check but apparently it's as inattentative as me. In the second paragraph, Fpr should be For. Sorry. I'll do better next time. Promise. Goes to bed muttering under his breath and shaking his head at himself.
I thought I'd try my hand at writing again but there's a problem. It's an annoying little sound that won't go away. This is driving me crazy! Each tap of fingers on keys is accompanied by this quietly haunting melody. Is it my keyboard? Pokes at a couple keys with the tip of his index finger. Perhaps it needs to be oiled. Do keyboards ever need oiling? I've never heard of such a thing but then, this is me and weird things happen to me. Naaah, can't be that. Maybe there's something stuck between the keys? Picks up the keyboard, turns it upside down and tries to shake the crap out of it. Ok, maybe one or two keys but not all of them! Puts the keyboard down just a wee bit harder than necessary. What is that infernal little noise?! Oh wait. I think I figured it out. It's not the keys, it's the fingers pressing them. Arthritis? Well, my fingers do ache from time to time. Humph! Arthritis my as...hold everything! I've been away from the keys for quite some time. It...it can't be! Ahhh, but it is. Rust. The sound I hear is the creaking of joints rusted by the lack of use. A good hand massage with WD-40 should do the trick.
I'm glad I got that sorted out, but I seem to have run into another problem. As time passes and you get accustomed to my life, you'll see that nothing is ever uncomplicated. This new wrinkle just happens to be...cobwebs. Taps the side of his skull with a finger. Up here. I'm sitting before this empty composition box with an equally empty brain. Seems the old adage is true. If you don't use it, you lose it. Ohhh Lordy, I'm one lost pup. Ahh well, let's just consider this post an exercise for mind and fingers...an attempt to clear away cobwebs from withered gray matter and reddish brown rust from digit joints. Fpr anyone foolish enough to read this, perhaps it's best I tell you a bit about myself.
I'm cranky but still able to laugh at myself, I believe people in general take themselves far too seriously and have forgotten the value of laughing at oneself, I'm opinionated and set in my ways...which is a nice way of saying stubborn. All too frequently I'm a cynic and I've always had the problem of wearing my heart on my sleeve. I'm often far too much of an open book, sometimes to the chagrin of those around me. Once upon a time I was heavily involved with the world of online role play. Through the cooperative writing with others who invented characters and storylines with me, I became a half decent writer...or so I've been told. We shall all see if I retained any of that ability over my long hiatus from the ol' plastic keys.
What do I hope to accomplish with this blog? Huumm...glad you, I mean, "I" asked. I'd like to get some things off my chest, share my never-to-be-humble opinions with the world, get a few of you to laugh...or at least crack a grin and perhaps, just perhaps, open some eyes and make some folks think.
That's it. Now you know a little about me and why I'm taking up perfectly good cyber space with my idiotic little Rants and Raves. Stay tuned, more will come but it's late and my Tylenol PM is kicking in.
Goodnight Gracie.
I'm glad I got that sorted out, but I seem to have run into another problem. As time passes and you get accustomed to my life, you'll see that nothing is ever uncomplicated. This new wrinkle just happens to be...cobwebs. Taps the side of his skull with a finger. Up here. I'm sitting before this empty composition box with an equally empty brain. Seems the old adage is true. If you don't use it, you lose it. Ohhh Lordy, I'm one lost pup. Ahh well, let's just consider this post an exercise for mind and fingers...an attempt to clear away cobwebs from withered gray matter and reddish brown rust from digit joints. Fpr anyone foolish enough to read this, perhaps it's best I tell you a bit about myself.
I'm cranky but still able to laugh at myself, I believe people in general take themselves far too seriously and have forgotten the value of laughing at oneself, I'm opinionated and set in my ways...which is a nice way of saying stubborn. All too frequently I'm a cynic and I've always had the problem of wearing my heart on my sleeve. I'm often far too much of an open book, sometimes to the chagrin of those around me. Once upon a time I was heavily involved with the world of online role play. Through the cooperative writing with others who invented characters and storylines with me, I became a half decent writer...or so I've been told. We shall all see if I retained any of that ability over my long hiatus from the ol' plastic keys.
What do I hope to accomplish with this blog? Huumm...glad you, I mean, "I" asked. I'd like to get some things off my chest, share my never-to-be-humble opinions with the world, get a few of you to laugh...or at least crack a grin and perhaps, just perhaps, open some eyes and make some folks think.
That's it. Now you know a little about me and why I'm taking up perfectly good cyber space with my idiotic little Rants and Raves. Stay tuned, more will come but it's late and my Tylenol PM is kicking in.
Goodnight Gracie.
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