Adventures in Bureaucracy

Nothing can mire you in bureaucracy like moving from one house to another, especially if you're moving within the same city.  I had some bad luck and misfortune in December that resulted in A: a lack of blog writing and B: needing to find a new place to live ASAP.  For a while, I thought I was going to have to move into a storage unit and rely on the kindness of my friends, but luckily fate smiled upon me and I found a groovy 70's-style home on Lois Lane.  The address kind of sold it.

I've been trying to transfer my water service this week, a process that should be freakin' simple.  "Hi, I need to move my service from here to there.  Thanks."  That's all it should take.  No, that would be far too easy.  It would seem that the phone number to the city water division is a closely guarded secret.  Apparently, you need to call City Hall on the Batphone and give the secret password then have a pizza with extra onions sent to the Superintendent's cable guy.  So I do all that just to be told that I need to come in  to City Hall.  Super.  I live for this.

I go down to City Hall and talk to the cashier.  Of course it can't be as easy as "stop my service here and turn it on there."  Where's the fun in that?  Nope, I get two sets of forms...one to shut it off and one to turn it on.  And of course, I can't pay my bill while I'm there.  I have to wait until they send me one in the mail.  Brilliant.  So now I have two pages front and back to fill out, which should be simple enough,  but of course it's not.

Name on bill: Hmm...do they want my actual name or the name that appears on my bill which is, naturally, Chalet Rittenday.
If renting, provide a copy of current lease: Really?  I can't even find a bowl for my Cheerio's and you want me to produce my lease?

I think the water service took lessons in customer service from Comcast who, incidentally, called me today.  They're like an ex who doesn't understand that we're broken up.

Comcast:  Why did you leave us?!?!  Was the bill too high?
Me: It was, but that wasn't what did it.  I left because of your shitty customer service.
Comcast:  Would these special offers make you come back to us?
Me: Cutting me a deal won't do it.  In fact, if you were to pay me to use your services, I still wouldn't return.
Comcast:  Are you seeing someone else?
Me: I am.  And we're very happy together.
Comcast:  They'll never love you like I will!





Now I'm left with the wonderfully tedious task of unpacking an entire housefull of crap.  You know, with all my abundant free time.

Lesson 12: You gotta cuddle that bitch.  Bitches love cuddles.
(This has no relation to the post, but was the most memorable quote from moving day.)

I'm From Texas; Here's Your Casserole

The other day, I got a text from my friend Gwyn.  Her father had gone to the ER and was getting admitted to the hospital.    Now, where I'm from, there's only one correct response to that situation: Casseroles!   Gwyn, a California native, did not seem to be aware of the proper protocol and tried to get between a Texan and a mandatory casserole delivery situation.

Me:  I'm going to make you a lasagna!
Gwyn:  That's ok; sure Dad'll be fine.
Me:  Still, you need a lasagna.
Gwyn:  That's kind of you to offer.
Me: GODDAMN IT GWYN!  Give me you address so I can bring you delicious lasagna!
Gwyn: Fine.

See, when someone has had a major life event (hospitalization, birth, death, move, whatever) friends should bring one dish meals that reheat easily.  It is also acceptable to show up and clean a part of their house, particularly for new parents.

And so my cousin and I spent the next morning making a delicious vegetarian lasagna (because in California, every family is required to have at least one vegetarian.  It's a law).  We also made some garlic bread and chocolate chip cookies, because everything can be made better with chocolate chip cookies and then we trucked halfway across the San Francisco Bay Area to deliver them.

Gwyn eventually realized the magic of casseroles delivered to your door (and of chocolate chip cookies, which barely lasted two hours).  With a family member in the hospital, anything to take mundane tasks out of the picture is helpful.  Well-wishing friends often send all kinds of messages saying, "please let me know if you need anything" or "let me know what I can do," but most people won't say, "as a matter of fact, here's what you can do."  This is why Texans and Southerners will show up with casseroles or drop by to clean your kitchen.

Lesson 11: When someone's in the hospital, take the family a casserole.
Corollary: Shut up and take the damn casserole.

Violent Peace-loving Hippies

So I had this exchange at work on Friday:

My co-worker (I’ll call her Ilene): Do you have any plans for the weekend?

Me: I’ll probably spend most of Saturday in Berkeley.

Ilene: Don’t get stabbed.

Me: I’m going to Berkeley, not Oakland.

Ilene: They don’t like the military in Berkeley.  Those hippies will stab you.

Me: …

Of course I relayed this exchange to the friends I was going to see.  About half of them went nearly apoplectic with laughter and another put that comment in the top 10 dumbest things he’s ever heard.  People in Berkeley are pretty dedicated to their “Live and Let Live” philosophy.  I could ride a tricycle down University Blvd dressed like a character from Rocky Horror while singing the best of Queen and receive nothing more threatening than an appreciative fist bump.  Possibly, if I went walking around in full service dress, I might attract a few protesters.  However, all I’d have to do is walk past an ethnic vegan restaurant and I’d be rid of them in no time.  “Get our troops out of Afghanistan!  Ooh look, that Himalayan place is all vegetarian and gluten-free.”

We demand that the Vegan Ethiopian Cafe also have a varied selection of craft beer.

(If you pictured Frank N. Furter singing Fat Bottomed Girls on that tricycle, you get a point.  You should probably keep track of those.  There might me more.)

Lesson 10: Those hippies will not stab you.

There's Nothing Like Free Bacon

Right now I am eating free take-out bacon in a Super 8 somewhere in Arizona half drunk with road fatigue.  So of course now is a good time to post a blog.  I'm not even sure where I am right now.  I can narrow it down to somewhere east of Phoenix and west of Tuscon.

This little 1200 mile excursion is just a practice run for my January cross-country tour.  I'll be driving from San Francisco to Nashville, visiting friends and family on the way and seeing part of the country before I move to England.  Oh, did I not mention that yet?  Yep, I'll be living in Suffolk, UK for about 4 years.  This may turn into a travelblog while I explore Europe.  Deal with it.  I'm going to drink Scotch in Scotland and Jameson in Ireland and wine in France and you're going to hear about it.

But back to my current road trip.  What the hell is wrong with people driving sports cars like they're geriatric stoners?  Drive your Corvette like it's a goddam Corvette!  I should not pass you in my 6 year old Focus.

And, yes, I checked my hotel room for bedbugs.  Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.

Lesson 9: When your vision goes all wibbly wobbly, it's definitely time to go to sleep.

Comcast Hates Puppies!

I’m convinced that Comcast/Xfinity trains their customer service reps to be as unhelpful as possible.  I’m an expert on the subject…I spoke with three of them yesterday and two last week.

Thank you for calling Comcast!  How may I help you today?

Somehow I found myself paying more for cable and internet than I would pay for cable, internet, and a phone.  I called customer service and eventually found myself a supervisor who could make it happen.  End of story, or so I thought…

I arrived home from work yesterday to find a package on my porch.  Hmm…what is this? I didn’t order anything recently.  Is it a surprise?  I love surprizes!  Nope.  It was a new modem from Comcast.  I’m already suspicious of those weasels and now they’re sending me unexpected packages in the mail.  How much are they going to try and charge me for this modem?

I hop on the Comcast website hoping that I can have a quick chat with a rep and resolve everything before dinner.  Ha!  As if!  Though I did find out that the modem was triggered by upgrading my service to include a phone (which I told the original rep that I had no intention of using).  And then the shitty online rep signed off without actually fixing anything.

So now I get to call customer service.  In the dark.  Because it’s Halloween and I don’t want to give candy to my shitty neighbors who trick or treat well into their 30’s without costumes!  That’s called begging where I’m from.  At least try.  Wear a cape and call yourself a vampire.  Paint your face like a zombie.  Whatever.  Just don’t put a sheet over your head and go as a ghost.  That won’t fly in my neighborhood.  You might get shot.

Pictured: What not to do.

So I called customer service.  I spoke with a very very soft-spoken woman with a tremulous grasp of the English language who told me there was a $15 shipping fee for this modem.  Despite the fact that I neither want nor need a new modem, didn’t ask for a new modem, and wasn’t told I would be getting a new modem, the tiny (I imagine her tiny) Asian lady told me she couldn’t reverse the charge.   “That’s fine,” I said, still in the mood to be reasonable, “just connect me to a supervisor who can.”  Instead, she explained to me that I needed the new modem to use my new phone service.

“But I don’t want phone service!  I just want to stop getting violated every month when my cable bill comes.  I want to use my old modem and pay realistic fees for your services.”  Again, I suggested a supervisor might be the best option here.  So she continues asking me questions!  “I’m gonna go ahead and stop you right there to let you know that I’m only going to say the word ‘supervisor’ until you connect me with one.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you today?”

Supervisor

“How was my service?”

Supervisor

And so I get put on hold for way too long.  Because I’m not angry enough and they’d like to get me good and pissed off before completing the transfer.

Now the supervisor tells me the same nonsense about needing the modem for my new phone service.  “BUT I DON’T WANT FRIGGIN PHONE SERVICE!!!!  I want cable and internet and I don’t want to get raped for it.”  He finally tells me that as a “one-time courtesy” he’ll reverse the delivery charge and I can return the modem.  Hell fucking no!  “You’ll reverse the charge this time and any other time you send me something without my authorization.  You can’t just send people things and charge them if they didn’t ask for you to send them things.”

So they did reverse the charge and take the modem back.  After I yelled at two people.

Comcast wants to kick these guys in their furry little heads.  And they hate America.

Lesson 7: Comcast is the best!  Tell your enemies.

Lesson 8: The Comcast customer service reps don’t have the ability to hang up the phone on you.  This could prove useful later.

Good Bye Awful August; Hello Serendipitous September

If you read my last post, you know August was kind of a bust.  September, however, is looking up.

This past Friday I went out for burgers and pie with a friend.  I usually get custard pie.  It’s one of the few places I’ve found where you can always get it.  Friday, though, I felt like changing it up a little and ordered coconut cream.  When I got to my table with my food, I looked and saw not coconut, but chocolate cream pie.  Oh no!  They got my order wrong!  I hate that.  But I took a second to think…what’s the worst that can happen if I don’t send the pie back?  I eat a slice of delicious chocolate pie?  Well fuck me, that sounds pretty damn good!  So I honeybadgered on and ate the fuck out of that chocolate pie.

And so started the trend of saying “to hell with it!” and going with the flow.

Next, after a weekend of camping, I suggested to my friend that we stop for food somewhere between the site and my house.  I actually was in the mood for In & Out Burger, but my friend suggested the Jack in the Box just down the road.  Fuck it!  Let’s go to Jack in the Box.  We wound up running in to a guy from the camping event and hung out for a while.  Now I have plans to go camping again next weekend.  (and he’s promised me craft beer and bourbon!)

But wait!  It gets better!

On Friday, my camping buddy asked about our plans for Sunday.  I just needed to deliver some cupcakes and pick up some brewing supplies, but otherwise just needed to make time to eat.  “My brother does sound for various touring musicians,” my friend said to me.  And so that’s how I wound up backstage at a Willie Nelson concert looking at nude pictures of the sound guy’s wife.  Yep, that happened.

Rule 6: Say yes like a honeybadger.

I Call Do-Over on August

August was not kind to me.

First, a visit from my former best friend turned into an inferno of suck when he started acting like a giant douchecanoe so I put his ass back on a plane to Texas.  We haven’t spoken since.  He behaved like so much of a jerk that our friendship is beyond repair.  We’re not friends who are arguing; we’re no longer friends.

Right before I sent him packing, we were in Lake Tahoe for a couple of days where I apparently I laid down in the Unholy Lair of Bloodsucking Fiends.  Go do a quick Google image search for “bedbug bites.”  I’ll wait here.  Back?  I looked far worse than anything you just viewed.  Stress and anger kept the reaction down for a few days, but when it hit it was all at once and miserable.

This is what I imagine was happening while I slept

I painted my body with Caladryl and took 50mg of Benedryl before going to bed only to wake up four hours later itching like mad.  50 more of Benedryl and four and a half hours of sleep and I’m up again now with enough bites on my face that my right eyelid is swollen enough to partially obstruct my vision.  My doctor’s office offered to see me in two weeks.  Luckily I work in a clinic and they offered to see me in two hours.  I walked in and an ER Physician’s first words to me were, “You’re getting seen for that today, right?”  No one I worked with…doctors, nurses, EMTs, Public Health…had ever seen a case of bedbugs that bad.  I got a steroid injection on the spot and a bottle of Prednisone to take home.

My hands were so swollen I couldn’t even cook dinner for myself.  I had a filet mignon (that I was going to cook for the douchenugget) thawed out in the refrigerator but all I could manage to pull together was mac and cheese from a box.  It was a miserable several days until the itching subsided.

My friends yelled at me for not calling them to bring me real food.

A week later, my cat got sick.

Now I have to pay for cat ultrasounds and cat lab tests and cat antibiotics.  Super.  And it’s the shitty cat I don’t care about.  Awesome.  Three vet visits and $600 later, she’s all, “I don’t know what you were worried about.  I’m totes fine now.”  My cat’s a teenaged girl.  And kind of a bitch.

This is what my cat would look like as a person.

Shitty work drama ensues.  I won’t bore you with the details, but know that much obnoxiousness was afoot in my workplace.

Someone even came after my Rio Red Swingline stapler.  No lie.

Finally, August 31 was my birthday.  It’s been a horrid month.  Surely things will look up on my birthday.  It’s my birthday!  Nope.  My friends all bail on game night because they didn’t realize it was my birthday…understandable since I’d had my party three weeks earlier when my shitty ex-friend was in town.  No problem.  I’ll just walk to the Italian place around the corner and have a beer and some pasta…maybe some cheesecake for dessert, and then I’ll come home and watch some Dexter on my laptop.  But that was not to be…

That's probably every patrol car in town.

While I was waiting for my food, a dude came in acting erratically and going back and forth to the bathroom.  I thought about calling the cops but he came and sat down a few feet from me.  Instead, I scoped out the place to see who would be useful if we needed to subdue this guy.  Military training, HUA!  Meanwhile, my food comes and I take one delicious bite of my fettuccine alfredo before a half dozen police storm in, some with assault rifles, all with weapons drawn.  They yell, “Get out!  Get out!  Get out!” so I do.  Fuck.  All I wanted to do was to have a nice quiet dinner on my birthday.  Dammit.

So yeah, any month that starts with losing a friend and ends with a SWAT team interrupting my birthday dinner can suck it.

Happy Birthday!  Now get on the ground!