The Road Too Much Traveled

When Jim Morrison wrote his lyrics about how “The West is the best”, he was not thinking of I-15, I can tell you that much! He was not thinking of all the people pulling guns against cops for not particular reason, or just against random people at the mall, fighting for a sale, or of the horribly polluted air between the canyons, either. These, and many others, are random truths you find for yourself once you move and live here.

The one truth I found in probably my first month of living here, is that the main Interstate that goes by my house and is virtually the only access way to anywhere here, I-15, is surely a death trap! I wrote many times about how the speed limit here is anywhere above 25+ mph higher than what the road signs say, and how there are no rules, or, ahem, there are the Wild West Rules, meaning, every man for himself, into himself, however they deem fit!

I have nightmares occasionally about dying hit by a car on I-15. Because, I am telling you, one day of commuting on that thing could cure you of driving for life!

And I commute, an hour every day, at least. You can’t tune out life, because at any given second some idiot does something stupid that you must avoid – cuts you off, switches lanes with no signal, straddles the lanes, runs you into the wall of the HOV lane, you name it.

Well, tonight was my unlucky (and amazingly lucky, too) night of hitting a flying full size mattress in the fastest lane. You read right: a mattress. There was no way to avoid it – cars flying by me to my left and my right, so the only choice I had was “let” it settle down and drive over it. At 70 mph! And so I did. The liner, of course, came unraveled, and spun around and around and around my front wheel, making sure that the foam was securely tight under my tires.

Luckily, I could pull into the HOV lane, and beyond, on that lane’s shoulder, and also amazingly luckily, a Utah Highway patrolman was parked across the street from me. He zoomed over to my lane and after jacking the car up, taking the wheel completely off and cutting the liner from around my wheel axle, he freed me up to be able to drive off towards my house!

My disgust for people who don’t use common sense when they haul things, light things, that can fly away from a bed of a truck, was only surpassed by my gratitude for this patrolman, who was so kind, so patient, so collected and hesitated none at getting himself dirty, taking the flaming hot lug nuts off my wheel, handling the huge and disgustingly dirty mattress, to get me back to safety.

There are good people in the world, everywhere. I just wanted to stop a spell and be grateful today, when they showed up for me, to rescue me from the death trap of I-15.

Throughout the whole ordeal of being stuck on the shoulder of the fastest lane with cars zooming by at 90+ mph, I had to think of something to keep my sanity – and that was this:

 

Be safe, everyone. And whatever you do – tie that sucker down when you move it to your kid’s dorm! 

 

Mattress under car, liner around the wheel and officer trying to jack the car up

 

Mattress stuck in the front shield of the car

 

Free at least! Check out the size of that thing! 

Trapped on ... Freedom Day

"Imagine … a brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world...”

33 years later, after silencing the guy who wrote these words, America still has trouble imagining this. Or so it feels, sometimes.

It was July 4^thof this year. We went into a Verizon Wireless store, as we had opened up a new plan with them, bought two new phones and signed our lives away for 2 years the day before, but Bryan, the nice man who sold us the package, forgot one very important thing: to tag on to my phone the international calling plan. This plan (for a little bit extra a month) allows me to call internationally for a lower rate.

Now, as you know all of my family is … out there. Internationally. My parents live in Romania. My sister lives in Canada. I have friends and extended family in Germany. So, I talk to them. Some of them, quite a lot. This is a plan I have always had tagged onto my phones – whether mobile or land lines. Always. For 15 years now of living in the US, I always make sure I pay around $4/ month extra to get to speak to my mom for $0.30/ minute instead of $2.50/ a minute. Anyone who knows me or my family, or Romanians for that matter,knows that we love to talk!

Yes, we do chat online and all, but sometimes, you just have to have the phone!

Anyhoo, I digress. Bryan, from the Verizon store, had forgotten to put this on my phone. So, the next day, which is July 4, we go in, and Bryan is … not there. So, we ask someone else for help. We describe the whole predicament: we just bought two new phones, we have an unlimited everything plan with them, we need one extra service added. No problem, the answer comes from the lady that greeted us. She logs into our account, and tries to add the service. She can’t. Some odd message shows up on the screen and she calls the manager. I will call him Dick, because the name fits.

So, Dick comes along, and tells her that “oh, they want to add international calling?! Well, that will have to require a call to Credit”. I am puzzled, but I am trying to be patient. She calls someone from the Verizon cloud worlds. She describes to that person the situation and then she gives the phone to me.

The voice on the phone explains that they will need to perform a credit check on me, for this particular service to be added. At this point, I am pretty sure they don’t understand what I want or need, but I play along. A $4 extra charge would require a credit check? But them sending me a bill every month for $130 does not?! Anyway, I try to be patient and answer her questions: “We show that you applied for a mortgage in 2007? Who is the mortgage with?” – multiple choice answer? “In what bracket does the age of the head of your household fit in?” – multiple choice answer? Etc …

I answer the questions, and then the voice wants to talk to the in store Verizon lady, again. I put her through, with Dick closely watching. The two ladies talk to each other and then the in store lady hangs up. OK. I breathe. All done, right?! I ask. She says: “Umm… no, not quite. You will need to bring in a utility bill and a federally released ID so we can finish the credit check. You need to either be a customer with us for 6 months, or else you have to prove to us that you have a credit history in this country.” I am in awe and my blood pressure is rising at this point. You have. Got. To. Be. Kidding. Me. We just bought a crapload of stuff from you people, the day before, AND you’re gonna bill me for all $130/month of it! That requires proof that I can pay, no?! For two whole years, we have a contract together, a proof of trust, right?!, and for a $4 charge, you need to turn my whole life upside down and prove to you that I have a credit history?! I am not buying a house, or a boat, even. I am not even buying  a phone! Did that already! You're serious?!

So, I voice all this: that this is all ridiculous. That I have had these plans for 15 years and I have never had to do this for a phone plan! Dick gets a voice, now. A very loud one, too, and almost yells at me: “Well, ma’am, this is the law!” – he pukes emphatically and batting his eyelashes at me like I am 5 years old and just pooped on the living room floor with The President visiting in the next hour! “Every company is doing this”, he continues. “T-mobile, AT&T, all of them”. I rebut, because I know damn well T-mobile is not doing this – this is who I am switching from! This is not the flipping law! He yells further, that this is the law and if it were not “anyone could come up in here and buy a phone and start calling internationally!”.

And I just start laughing, because oh, it’s OK and “come in here and buy a phone for two years, with an expensive plan, but by God, it is a crime to dial a number that starts with 011!”. Seriously?! You’re telling me, on July 4^th, when you celebrate your stupid freedom, that I cannot call my mother, because it is a crime that she does not live within the boundaries of the great US of A. Right?! Right! He pretty much says! “We need to prove who you are”. As if, my ID, social security number, and pay stub are lesser in importance to determine my identity as a … water freaking bill! Un-flipping-believable. At this point I feel trapped in the “free world”. Truly do!

I try to call mom, and the operator says “I am sorry, this call is not authorized. Please call Verizon customer service to authorize this call”. I feel like a big, fat nothing, at this point. In my very rare, typically Romanian drama persona, I think: If I die of a heart attack right now, my husband cannot even call my mom to tell her I died! Sure, we can buy calling cards, but we have a freaking phone! My frustration is beyond words!

But Dick, or the Verizon Gods,  will not do it! He will not open my phone so I can call internationally. I have to go home (15 miles away), and find a utility bill. Now, that, my friends, is harder than you’d expect. I am not on any of our utility bills. My husband is, because he is the one that opened them when he bought this house, before we were married. I do have a house in NC, with its utility bills, but I have had renters in there, who paid the utilities themselves. So, I come home, and dig. I pull credit card bills, in my name, car payment bills, in my name, and a NC utility bill from February, when I had no renters in the unit for one short month, so it is in my name.

The next day, I go back to the Verizon store, and Bryan is there, thank God. He is helpful and so very kind. I explain to him the whole craziness and he agrees with me, that this is not necessary and he has never heard of such a thing, all during his 3 year tenure with Verizon. I gloat: “see, this is bogus”. And he gets into my account again. But … he is sent back to the Credit lady! I tell him I already talked to her. He calls. Yep! He needs to fax her my utility bill and a copy of my ID. I give him the utility bill from NC. He faxes. Five minutes later, Bryan calls back to check if the fax is there. It is, but the bill is not good. It need to be a bill within the last 30 days! F*&^!!! Can’t do that! Renter paid those.

My husband (who is right there with me, watching the drama) has a bill for our home, from last month. He is on the same cell phone plan as me, and he is an owner/ manager on the Verizon account, just like me. So, Bryan faxes yet another bill, with my husband’s name on it, and it is a legitimate utility (water) bill.

Five minutes of waiting and another call to Credit later … nope, that bill is not good, either, because the international plan is going on my phone, not my husband’s, and the account is in my name (forget the equal power he has!!), because I needed to get the discount from work on it!

Bryan tells them that I have a bill for my car payment. Several for my credit cards. Nope. No good. Utility bill! And then … a silver lining! They will also take a car registration! Bingo! My car is registered in my name! Alas - salvation! I run into the parking lot, glove compartment, back in, out of breath to Bryan – please fax the darn freaking thing!

And wait … Five minutes become 10 and then 20. I try to call mom, and keep getting “nope, you’re a criminal” voice! Bryan!! So, after several more minutes, he calls Credit again. And they talk. And talk. The registration was good and all that – not sure what the delay is. But finally, they “unlock” my phone. And I call mom, and she answers and all is good.

I am still thinking that I am in some kind of a dream or a Kafka novel, at least! But I am glad to hear mom’s voice and I thank Bryan, and then I go back to work – almost two hours later. So, after three trips in three days, to the Verizon store (who said you can do everything online, nowadays?!), after several faxes and innumerable calls to Credit later, I can finally make some use of this phone! Thank the Lord!

I think. But as with dramas … there is always more. We go home, and then the next day (day number four, for those counting), my husband (no, not me!!, but him), the unimportant, your bill is no good and you’re not the owner of this account, good for nothing person, gets a call from … Verizon. “Just to make sure you did, indeed, authorize for international calls to be activated on your other line.”

I will let you ponder on this for a bit: I have committed to this company for 2 years. I am paying good money for it, and they had no problem trusting me, at face value, with the promise that I will pay them every month. There was Bryan’s time on the phone with Credit, and the lady greeter person, and Dick’s time to yell to my face and feel like a man, and then, there were … the Credit people (several), several scans and wasted bandwidth and electricity. All this wasted energy and people resources, for what?! Because, for some reason, making a call outside the borders of this country requires all this! I am still having a hard time googling and finding out who is requiring this, precisely?! We talk about a United Europe, a global economy, how are we expected to communicate, then?!

What is the purpose? What did they accomplish? Why can’t America be less paranoid?! Why can’t we not only love, but at least accept everyone, accept that there is a bigger world out there, other than “us”, but instead we find it 'wrong' that people don't worship us?! 

Does America feel safer now, knowing that I drive a white Prius registered in Utah – I am sure this record is out there, in some file now that will never purge. Do they feel safer knowing that and that … I sometimes start my dial number with 011?! Who benefits from this? Do you feel safer knowing that now, they did a thorough job of checking me out, before they will allow me to call my dad in a week for his birthday?! Do you? Or do you feel better now that I know also have the permission of my husband to call my dad, as well?! The irony leaves me speechless (well, beyond what I have already written…), so I will stop here.

“You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one.”

A Burning Issue

Warning: a couple of times a year, I write about something totally trivial and personal. This is one of those times.

I have never been into clothes. Never been into fashion. I do know how to spell “style”, but that’s about how far it goes with me. I remember my dad telling me all throughout high school and college that no boy will even notice me because I dress like a “golanca” – which means … “rogue”, in a way. Back then, I used to wear his (torn, bell-bottom) jeans from when he went to college, so, go figure!

I could not tell you what goes through my head as I pick a shirt or a skirt or a pair of jeans. Well, my first thought is always: “Holy cow! Is that what people pay for cheese cloth?!” But my second thought is: “It won’t fit”! Unlike the majority of women out there, I hate shopping for clothes and shoes, because nothing ever fits. I have no set size. I can wear a 0, a 1, a 3 or a 4, a 5 or a 7, even a 14 or a 16 – depending on what department I shop in: women, petites, juniors, children, etc… I never know!

Unlike my beautiful sister, who knows exactly what’s in fashion now, in Montreal and Paris, and New York and what is a has been already … I have no clue whether denim is in or “so out”, same thing for chenille, velure or polyester. I have people tell me “oh, purple is the color of the summer” (that’s my favorite color), and I smile, thinking: “well, then, this one year I must be in style, ‘cause I have plenty of purple clothes, thank you very much”. But I never know, and fashion has never, ever preoccupied me!

As long as it’s covered and I am comfortable, I am good!

And that’s one of my criteria: money is first – it has to be cheap to buy it; I feel silly investing a lot in clothes and even shoes; comfort is a close second; if I don’t feel comfortable in something, there is no way I’ll buy it. And fashion can wait.

But lately, I have experienced some strange new feeling. I wake up every morning hating my clothes. All of them! They look like solitary little strange soldiers, lined up to torture me every day! I hate them all! Some don’t fit anymore, some are faded, some are so old I am simply bored by them! But for the first time in my life, I actually have some kind of feeling about my clothes!

I asked my husband if people who buy an expensive car for their midlife crisis have always been into cars, or just one day wake up that they want to buy an expensive car, and they just buy it, outta crazy impulse. I feel the same way: I have never been preoccupied by clothes, but all of a sudden, I want to burn all of mine and spend $5000 on a whole new wardrobe and a whole new ‘style’. Well, a style at all, from the previously non existent one!

Yes, ladies and gents, I am having my midlife crisis and mine is about clothes! True to form, as always – I am a late bloomer (to be noticing clothes just now – people usually have these dilemmas when they are teens!) and a precocious one, too (to be having my midlife crisis at 36, I guess) – but here we go … I am a mess! It still doesn’t excite me to go shopping for them, but I actually notice what women wear around me, to get ideas and figure out what in the world to do with myself next. I have no clue where to start. How do people learn about what looks good on them? How do people buy clothes? Really ...

I have not actually burned my clothes as of yet. I have not even thrown at least one t-shirt in a Good Will basket … I am not sure what will happen, really, but I do know I will have to do something soon! Spending 20 minutes in front of my shelves in the closet every morning trying to decide what to wear needs to stop! That time is for snoozing, not for styling! One is so much more becoming of me than the other.

And for my friends and family who read this and are now thinking “oh, I’ll take her shopping and I’ll show her a few things that’ll look cute on her” – STOP! You know me well enough to know the last thing I could be is a puppet! I am pretty lost, but I still can’t take advice benevolently.

This too shall have to be a self-discovery journey. I just hope I remember to burn only after I have gotten some new outfits to replace the old. It, after all, still needs to be covered first!

I know … I am trifling.

Feed Them (Pretty Much Anything …) and They Will (Still) Come

You know what we all should be in the business of selling in order to get rich? Even in this crappy economy?! We should ALL sell fast food! All of us! It seems to me that no matter how bad the publicity of all the fast foods is, no matter how scandalous the lawsuits, how many bypass surgeries they have to pay for, no matter how bad the food is, fake, plastic, greasy, poisonous, deadly, no matter how many times they screw up your order … we all keep going back!

We keep them all in (very successful, bazillion dollar making) business. Did you notice how McDonald’s stopped counting?! They now don’t tell us exactly how many millions of burgers they sold, they just say “millions served”. I guess Seinfeld’s wish has been fulfilled after all …

It’s the biggest mystery yet, to me. We all complain about bad service pretty much anywhere, even WalMart - although, like I said before, you just set yourself up for failure if you walk in there expecting good service. But we don’t ever promise to never go back to say … McDonald’s. Even if they give us the wrong drink, no ranch, no plastic ware for the salad, bacon when we want sausage, even when people find human thumbs in the chili (sorry, that was Wendy’s) or bugs in the tacos (T. Bell) – we go back … Always …

So, here’s my most recent experience at the now (unfortunately) legendary establishment.
There is this “ritual” in my new office – every Friday, my “team” goes somewhere fast for breakfast. Most usually, they go to McDonald’s because it’s faster, closest (of course, they’re on every corner in America, you knew that!), bla bla bla …

I seldom eat any fast food. Unless I am on the road to somewhere and I am in a rush, I never visit them. But, I am new in the office, didn’t want to be antisocial, so, I go along for the ride. I usually get just a plain biscuit and a cup of coffee. I figured, it’s the least poisonous stuff in the freezer, right?! I never liked fast food much, but since Morgan Spurlock’s documentary , I am even more consciously avoiding them. So, anyway, back to my sheep: they go to McDonald’s every Friday … I (most) times join them.

Today, I didn’t have much of a breakfast at home, so I figured, I can get something on my biscuit. And I decide I don’t like sausage, nor bacon (not today, anyway), nor steak, there is no chicken option, nor ham, so I’ll get just a cheese and egg biscuit – but that is very dangerous, because there is no such thing on the menu. So, it’s a custom order. I am nervous, but … here it goes:

Me: "An egg and cheese biscuit and a regular small coffee" (there is no “button” for my order, you see).
Teenage chick, who looked new and lost, in a foreign accent: "Hhmm... you want an egg biscuit?"
Me: " Egg and cheese, please"...
Her: "Oh, ok." She punches something in the register ... and repeats just to make sure she got it right: "OK. An egg biscuit." - looks all happy of herself. " And a coffee??"
I give up and say: "Yep. Egg biscuit and a coffee."

I was secretly happy she kept missing the cheese, since I really don't need it anyway ...

She puts it in the system. The lady from the back comes with the order in the bag. The cashier confirms with her she got an EGG biscuit, not anything else ...

I am all happy ... We drive back to the office, I sit down and open the sandwich. And surprise-surprise: I got not only egg AND … cheese on my biscuit, but sausage, as well. Although the word “sausage” never once was spoken.

Apparently, whoever Subway is using for their egg provider is in business with McDonald’s, too, because the eggs are square, and they taste like cardboard. That is not a metaphor, mind you … they really, do taste like you just licked the back of your pizza box! Really. Honestly!

So, I peeled off the sausage AND egg AND cheese off the bread, and ate my usual plain biscuit. Now, I am kicking myself for paying $3.00 for all that, when I should have just started with a plain biscuit (they didn't screw that one up yet ... ) and paid $1!

I am contemplating this office Friday "ritual". Should I risk being unpopular and a stick in the mud and just not join my co-workers?! Too soon to decide that, I think, but I can definitely not be on the McDonald’s Friday diet, for reasons so many the entire infinite web space is not roomy enough to host! So, I’ll refrain from listing … “Sigh”.

How I Lightened up my Friday

Thanks, C.!

I have been kind of down lately, and needed a good laugh. So, I emailed my friend C. because I know he has some ready made crack up joke and I’ll be guaranteed at least one chuckle. And he comes back with the story below. It was so good, it made me laugh so hard, I had to share it – with his approval, of course.

Sorry, C.! This made me think of Mr. Bean! And also: next time this happens, I am not sure lighting a match will be advised in that small room!

Enjoy, everyone!

Here's the basic story: I was at my friend J.'s house setting up for a church group function with a few friends. It was a co-ed group and there was one girl there that I'd been flirting with and was trying to impress.

Well, my stomach was a little upset that day and I found myself in the bathroom. I get this knock on the door and it's this girl, K., who needs to come in and use the bathroom after me. Of course, I was mortified that ANYBODY would have to come in the bathroom after me, especially in light of my upset tummy. I figure I'll light the candle on the back of the toilet, figuring the match would cover the odor.

I figure if there's a candle, there MUST be matches lying around somewhere. My first instinct is to check the medicine cabinet so I grab the mirror to open it and check. Well, the mirror doesn't pull to the side as I expected. It pulls up from the bottom. Now, at this point, most people would figure out that there isn't a medicine cabinet there at all. It's just a mirror. Not me.

I say to myself. "Hmmm. I've never seen a medicine cabinet open from the bottom before. That's kinda' cool." So I grab it from the bottom with both hands and lift up to get to the contents of the cabinet.

That's when the mirror pulls away from the wall entirely and I'm left holding a mirror and staring at the blank wall underneath. So now, instead of just having to deal with a smelly bathroom, K. has to deal with a smelly bathroom and no mirror above the sink in which to check her makeup or whatever! When I pulled the mirror, the little fasteners on the back came away entirely! I had to put the mirror on the floor. And I still haven't found matches!

So I'm tearing the place apart looking for matches and finally discover a pack in the closet. I light the candle and leave. Of course, NOW I have to explain why the mirror that used to be above the sink is now on the floor. And I can't lie. So I have to tell the whole story to the girl I was trying to hide it from in the first place! AND I have to call the owner of the house (who wasn't there at the time) to explain to him why he no longer has a mirror in his guest bathroom.

Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

J. (owner): "Hey, man. What's up?"
Me: "Hey, buddy. Listen, you know that medicine cabinet in your guest bathroom?"
J.: (Pause) "Um...I don't have a medicine cabinet in my guest bathroom.
"Me: "Exactly!"