Posts filed under ‘Humor – Commentary’
The Strange Goings-on on 34th Street
Email from my bank: You have a new bill from Macy’s.
Odd. I haven’t used my Macy’s card in about a year. But I check. And, yep, instead of my beautiful zero balance, there’s a charge for 50 bucks with the description “Hotline.” The bill also includes a “Have a question about your bill? Call Macy’s Customer Service!” So I do.
I’m on hold being bombarded with two-second snippets of songs followed by minute-long advertisements. Then, I’m arguing with an automated voice.
Hi. I’m a machine pretending to be a person with bad hearing who, golly gee, didn’t quite hear what you just said. Could you please try again to tell me your social security number?
And I say (again), I’m not going to give you my social security number. Let me talk to a person.
It feigns confusion. I repeat. It repeats. I repeat. And, then (machine pretending to be a human with a prefrontal lobotomy) it suggests I speak with a person.
I’m on hold a while longer.
Finally, a How can I help! and my explanation and Oh, you have to call the hotline company for that. Right. And so I call the hotline and a machine asks me to say my ZIP code and my house number, which I do. And then a person gets on and asks me to say my ZIP code and my house number. (123 Deja Vu Lane?)
She asks me many questions. They have no record of me. I am put on hold. I am transferred to The Analyst. She asks me the same questions and more questions including, “Does 2009 Main Street ring a bell.”
[An aside to the Piker Family: Does it ring a bell?! HA!]
Uh yes; I used to live there. And, suddenly, The Analyst is done with me and getting off the call and I’m sputtering like Ralphie on the Santa slide as the boot comes down.
Me: Wait. Wait. I didn’t have a Macy’s card when I lived there.
Analyst: The charge is for a card protection service that was initiated through Kaufman’s.
Me: I cancelled my Kaufmann’s card years ago.
Analyst: Kaufmann’s bought Macy’s.
And I want to say I know that you stinking smarmy dipwad; my point is, Why the heck am I suddenly being charged for a FREE service that I had on a different card from over 20 years ago? but, The Analyst, she is gone. And I am left with original tele-person who desperately wants to update my address in their system. I inquire why she would bother. I don’t want this service; I’m not paying this charge; Why do you need my current address; And why am I suddenly being charged for a free service that I had on a different card over 20 years ago?
She can’t answer me that so I say, Okay, let’s just cancel this then. And she begins a sales spiel about how this service can protect me from fraudulent charges.
She. Has. Absolutely. No. Idea. How. Funny. That. Is.
She explains that I’ll get a refund and I inquire how that will occur. Do I pay and get a check? Do I not pay and get a credit? I do NOT want to end up paying any finance charges on this.
Her patronizing response? Oh, you’ll have to discuss that with Macy’s.
I will indeed have a chat with Macy’s. Or, at least, I will have a chat with a machine pretending to be a person who is bummed out about me canceling my credit card.
It’s a busy time of year folks, but keep an eye on those bills this month.
Motto/Sign from 1960s Macy's Campaign
Um, Hi?
So, this morning, I’m sitting still in rush hour traffic. I’m in the left lane.
The right lane is (of course) moving. However, a guy in the right lane just stops next to me and honks. I look over, he’s waving and smiling. He is stopped in rush hour traffic to smile and wave. The following thoughts went through my head, in this order:
1. I bet it’s one of my cousins! (There are a bunch of them in the neighborhood.)
It’s not a cousin.
2. Must be . . . some-bo-dy I know?
It’s no one I know.
3. Is there a pie on my roof?
Long-time-ago funny family story, my Dad once drove home from my gramma’s with a pie on the roof of the station wagon.
4. Do I have my purse?
Ah heredity. I once drove quite a ways with my purse on the trunk until a kind, honking, waving person pulled up next to me at a light.
5. Is there a fake bumper sticker on my car that says, “I [heart] cross-dressing”?
Practical joke once played on a co-worker.
6. Is there something wrong with my car?
Blessed Mary Mother of God, please don’t let me be the disabled vehicle in rush hour. Not here at this intersection. Not again.
7. Too old to be hitting on me. Too young to be senile.
I may have had a good day here and there, but let’s all be honest, men aren’t hitting the brakes in rush hour to meet me.
As all of the above finishes going through my head, I realize that my hand is in the process of rising up to wave back. In slow motion, halting, but it’s involuntary. Another human being is smiling and waving; I’m telling you, the wave-back is reflexive. (Your fingers just wiggled a bit right now, didn’t they?)
So I wave back. And the person gives me a great big thumbs up, nodding like a bobble head, smiling, thumbs up again, and drives away.
All of the above took place in about 5-10 seconds. No time to roll down a window, ask a question. Barely time to pull my hand down, glance around a bit sheepishly, and chuckle.
And now, dangit, for the rest of this day at least, my brain will be doing Rewind Play Rewind Play, my already faulty synapses trying to put a name to a face or a rational explanation to an odd and random moment. Who was he? What exactly about the situation warranted a thumbs-up? What was the dealio?
Am I absolutely certain there’s not a pie on my roof?
93.7, The (so-called) Fan
Even if (and I still say it’s a big if) Hines is no longer a starter when fully healthy, he deserves more respect than he got this morning from 93.7 FM, The (so-called) Fan.
They seemed inexplicably smug (bordering on happy?!) to note Hines’ minimal play yesterday, talking about him as if he’s some new-kid-nobody who got outplayed and didn’t earn a starting position. First and foremost, I’m not convinced he’s lost his starting position. The man’s dealing with two injuries that would have put a lesser man (a radio talk show host for instance) out for at least 4-5 weeks, if not the season.
It’s a small miracle and a tribute to Hines’ toughness (and perhaps a sign of the Steelers caginess) that he was even dressed and on the field yesterday. The team is in a great position right now with a phenomenal group of receivers, so why not give Hines a bit of a rest when he’s banged up?
They talked as if Hines isn’t as good as Jerricho Cotchery. Seriously? Nothing against Jerricho. Glad to have him. But he’s no Hines Ward. He hasn’t been here since 1998, a catching, running, blocking, fighting, bouncing-backing, smiling from ear to ear symbol of what football means in this town. Jericho’s a nice addition to be sure, but if he had that beyond-height-beyond-speed-beyond-training-beyond-coaching-beyond-explanation spark that somehow makes things happen — like, oh I don’t know, some 6-foot tall guy being the team’s all-time leading receiver or, um, maybe, catching five passes and a touchdown to be MVP in a Super Bowl that brought the Lombardi back to Pittsburgh — I think he’d have played in more than three games this year.
Yeah. I know. There are other talented receivers on the field with younger legs than Hines or Jerricho. That’s icing on the cake. That’s smart succession planning. We’ve breathed a collective sigh of relief in the past few months. Not because we like Brown and Wallace better than Hines Ward but because we’ve known, deep in our blackest-goldest gut, that the day would come when we’d be without Hines. And we’ve worried about it. And we’ve dreaded it. And the whispers in our heads say, This could be it; this could be the last year. I don’t know about you, but that breaks my heart a little. And I, for one among what I suspect are many in Steeler Nation, am in no hurry to see such an iconic, talented, intelligent, and spunky Steeler retire.
In a time when very few players stay with a team, in any sport, throughout a career, we have had the privilege to call Hines Ward “ours” since 1998. He was drafted a Steeler. He’ll retire a Steeler. And, in-between, for one play or one hundred, he plays his heart out.
That’s what loyalty looks like, 93.7.
Buying Jeans
Ask any group of 10 women (who like to go shopping) what their least favorite clothing item to shop for is, and I bet at least 5 of them say jeans. At least.
Jeans are supposed to be the American casual uniform, the thing we get to wear as a treat in the office, everybody’s favorite. I call Shenanigans! I propose that jeans are not and will never be as comfortable as slacks, shorts, skorts, skirts, or dresses.
I’m not saying I don’t like jeans. But let’s stop pretending that they’re the ultimate in comfort-wear. And let’s agree that classic-fit-straight-leg-boot-cut-flare-bell-bottom-slim-skinny-boyfriend-carpenter-indigo-dark-stonewash-mediumwash-cleanwash-beachwash-mysterywash-distressed-518-524-535-low-rise-mid-rise-at-waist-high-rise sizing, styling, and fit defy explanation.
The word “Shopping!” for me is usually said with some level of glee comparable to “I just found a twenty in my old coat pocket!” or “It’s my Birthday!” On the other hand, “Shopping for jeans” sounds more like “The dentist says I need three fillings” or “The funeral is at 10:00.”
Shopping for jeans means trying things on beneath bad fluorescent lighting in front of what might as well be a fun-house mirror for all the reality, good or bad, it will reflect; wasting hours and big wads of cash; grinding self-esteem; wandering among teetering stacks of badly folded denim in which scientists calculate that 1 in 1,000 will fit correctly but may or may not turn out to have a great big, ridiculously goofy anchor embroidered on the butt, which you will only discover at home about 5 seconds before your date rings the doorbell.
Aside from a brief period of time in the 90s when I found a brand and style that fit me perfectly, in a material that was comfy, in a shade of blue that was just right, in a line that was soon discontinued, I’ve been in search of the right jeans for about 30 years. Thin and fat, unable or able-but-unwilling to spend a lot of money on jeans, name any department store, it has never gone well.
This week, I had an idea.
Parking was a breeze and I found a spot right near the door. I strolled to a long rack of jeans. Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick and I was walking to the register–where there was no line–with an armful of jeans. I spent a total of $24. The clerk was quick and genuinely friendly. I tried the jeans on in the comfort of my own home. And I ended up with two pairs that fit great.
And, really, except for me noting it here, you’d never know they came from Goodwill.
We Hate Potholes More Than You
So Terrell Suggs thinks he’s the Most Hated Man in Pittsburgh. Terrell, honey. You don’t even make the top 10.
We hate Barry Bonds.
We hate Francisco Cabrera.
We hate the guy who decided to trade Sid Bream to the Braves when he wanted to stay in Pittsburgh, when he even offered to take a pay cut to stay and they traded him anyway.
We hate Ray Lewis.
We hate Bill Belichick.
We hate Tom Brady.
We hate Neil O’Donnell. Not because he lost us Super Bowl XXX (which he totally did) but because of his post-game interview in which he said, “It was everybody’s else’s fault and I don’t care I’m outta here.” (I may be paraphrasing.)
We hate George Atkinson. (The Raider who cheap-shotted Lynn Swann, putting him in the hospital and, ultimately, shortening his brilliant career as a Pittsburgh Steeler.)
We hate Turkey Jones. (The evil bastard who nearly killed Terry Bradshaw and then stomped on his throwing hand, too.)
We hate Art Modell, who totally screwed up our hate for Cleveland, which then kind of shifted to Baltimore, which will only ever be a step-child to the One True Rivalry.
You want to be the most hated man in this town? Get used to disappointment.
Go Steelers.
hpy bday 2 u
I promise you, you don’t really need 152,000 megapixels to take a high-quality digital photo. A movie is way more enjoyable (at least for the people around you) if you turn off your phone. I also suspect that none of us actually needs to be able to view two different DVDs while driving.
I’m not saying technological advancements are bad. Some of them are downright miraculous. But I propose to you that the frenzy over the latest and greatest blurs judgment and we’re all so busy trying to read new manuals and load updates that we don’t actually notice the fix we’re in.
A very tiny case in point. My ISP recently “upgraded” its email interface. Next week my friend (Lee Ann W.) turns a year older, and I needed her contact info to address the envelope of her Birthday card. I conducted the following experiment using a stopwatch.
Scenario 1
1. Open browser.
2. Log in to email.
3. Click on “Address book.”
4. Click on the W.
5. Scroll to Lee Ann’s listing.
6. Click on “View.”
Time: 32 sec.
Scenario 2
1. Pick up address book.
2. Flip to W tab.
Time: 4 sec.
The book won’t disappear if I change ISPs. And upkeep and accuracy on either list is going to come out the same. Unscientifically quantifying how many times I need an address, I calculated that I would save 2 hours (minimum) a year doing this task the old-fashioned way.
Not a great deal of time in a big scheme, I admit. But time enough to plant and smell some roses, bake Tollhouse cookies and pour a glass of ice-cold milk, get 100 miles closer to the nearest beach, watch Meet The Robinson’s and spend the additional 25 minutes laughing hysterically at my nephew saying, “I’ve got a big head . . . and little arms,” ride Kennywood’s Thunderbolt 33 times, read a few chapters of Jane Eyre or one paragraph of Moby Dick, do happy hour (twice), or write a post that mentions an old friend while pondering that, when I met her, there were no portable phones, personal computers, portable GPS, CDs, DVDs, DVR, iThises, iThats, Droids, IMs, emails, facebook, websites, or, for that matter, blogs.
Dang. I should have gotten a card that makes fun of her age.
A Superior Innovative Quality Post
Yes. I’m a writer. I’ve been studying, learning, practicing, and making a living with the English language for more than 25 years. But I am not one of Those People. The ones who spitefully note grammar or spelling errors in friends’ emails or facebook posts. The ones who can spend two hours arguing whether or not the phrase anal retentive requires a hyphen. I couldn’t care less if my friends know the difference between who and whom. I truly sincerely assure you, I am not one of Those People.
However.
If you are being paid money to communicate a message. And you bungle it out of what can only be stupidity or laziness. You. Annoy. Me.
Freakin’?
This morning, I heard a radio commercial that claimed its product was “freakin’ great.”
Yikes. How crass and unprofessional. Yes, I realize it’s not actually the F-word, but it’s a slang that exists only as a stand-in for the F-word. (And, let’s be clear, I’m not nearly as offended by the F-word as I am by bad writing.) If you can’t think of a better adjective than freakin’, you should probably change careers.
Word Choice Matters
The words less and fewer are not interchangeable. (Used incorrectly in a financial services ad couple of weeks back, which made it extra amusing.)
Every day and everyday are also not interchangeable. Although I admit this one’s borderline pet-peevian.
People n’ Things
When referring to a human being, the pronoun is who, not which or that.
The Apostrophe
Learn how to use an apostrophe. The Joneses will thank you. The Joneses’ cat, however, will not care.
Lighten Up, Frances
Must we really muddle meaning and/or mangle grammar simply to avoid using words like mankind? Really?
Interesting to note: The word mankind derives from the word humankind (not penis).
Hackneyed Smack Need
You do not offer educational solutions; you’re a college. I don’t want creative banking or innovative toilet paper. Buildings, paper products, shampoo, cars, etc., are incapable of being environmentally conscious. Or any kind of conscious. Can we all admit this kind of sloppy writing is a problem (and not an opportunity)?
Stop It with the Ellipses
And
Also on the annoying list are reviewers who high-and-mightily, completely aghastly, so-oh-oh condescendingly spout things like, You can’t begin a sentence with a conjunction!
Yeah. Okay darlin’. Why don’t you take that tone and your 1902 diploma and go ask your doctor to bleed you with leeches to ease your blood pressure a bit.
Which Reminded Me
I once had a client call a boss and complain that I was a bad writer because I used prepositional phrases. And the boss called me into his office. I expected a chuckle of commiseration and time spent figuring out how best to interpret the feedback and magically edit the text in question. Instead. I got a lecture on the importance of customer satisfaction, a dramatic portrayal of his disappointment in my skill as a writer, and a stern warning to stop using prepositional phrases forthwith.
Which, you know, meant I was thereby forbidden to say, “Up yours.”
Hire a Professional
If you need wiring done, you call an electrician. If your pet is due for shots, you go to a vet. If you want to communicate clearly and effectively to business-related audiences, if you want to promote a professional image, if you want to get the most out of your media buy, use a professional writer.
Speaking of, how about a shameless plug for fellow-writer Christine Hollinger of WordPlay Writing? She’s a long-time colleague, kind blog follower, situational grammar consultant, and supporter of sanity. In other words, a life preserver. And a darn good freelance writer.
Good Bad Stupid
Good Being a Steeler.
Bad Being a Raven.
Just Plain Stupid A Steeler mouthing off in a way that makes Ray Lewis seem lucid and polite.
Good The Second Amendment.
Bad Glorifying violence.
Just Plain Stupid Posing half-naked with guns on a magazine cover while calling yourself a hit man, when others in your industry and from the very town you live in have died tragically and recently by gunfire.
Good Being a supportive teammate.
Bad Being mean to your friends.
Just Plain Stupid Ripping on Rashard Mendenhall for something other than his tweets.
Good Being a great linebacker.
Bad Being a great disappointment.
Just Plain Stupid Being a great big ass.
Good Having fans who are so loyal and sport savvy that they will pay your fine in a way that is both supportive and funny.
Bad “Egregious and elevated hits that violate rules.”
Just Plain Stupid Slamming teammates.
Good Playing football for a living.
Bad Being on strike.
Just Plain Stupid Not being able to find something constructive to do with all of your money and free time.
Good Looking both ways before crossing the street.
Bad Peeing in public.
Funny but Just Plain Stupid Saying, to a reporter, that you wouldn’t cross the street to pee on Goddell if he were on fire.
Good Not sucking up to an unqualified commissioner.
Bad Calling said commissioner names in public.
Just Plain Stupid Talking like an insensitive, uninformed school boy when you’re supposed to be a professional.
Good Being fair minded.
Bad Being overly critical of someone who makes a mistake.
Just Plain Stupid Saying “It’s just James being James.” as if that makes it acceptable to be astonishingly mean, preposterously self-centered, a stinky teammate, and an embarrassment to the entire city.
Good Being candid.
Bad Lying and blaming others when you’ve made a mistake.
Just Plain Stupid Telling everyone a reporter twisted your words when you know damn well the dude was recording it.
Good How a fan feels about cheering for a team with respected ownership, a proud legacy, a lot of talent, and a belief that their heroes are the good guys.
Bad How a lot of Steeler fans feel right now.
Just Plain Stupid James Harrison.
Dear Proud Parents of Nathan Lavezoli
[To follow-up on my previous post, I discovered that the reason I could not access my network is because a neighbor had “stolen” it. Amusingly enough, he named the stolen network after himself—Dumb Ass—so I was able to figure out who the thief was and get his address in about 15 seconds. What follows is the letter I mailed to his parents today. Enjoy.]
Dear Proud Parents of Nathan Lavezoli:
I just wanted to thank your son for hijacking my wireless network. After about a week of having no internet access and spending many frustrating hours trying to figure out why, I finally spent a real fun Friday night on the phone with my ISP to figure out that Nathan was to blame. Then, I got to spend another hour (and $50) with the manufacturer of my wireless hub to get things back to normal.
First and foremost, I am so glad he used his own name when he stole my wireless and made it his own. That made it so much easier to be able to send this note!
I had been told by a professional that my wireless was secure, so imagine my surprise when Nathan proved that wrong. I am very appreciative that Nathan demonstrated this error to me in such a creative way.
Please thank your fine son for taking the time to steal my network. Had he not done what he did—had he simply used my wireless signal to get onto the internet whenever he felt like it—I would have never known.
By the way, I write this assuming you are aware that Nathan has had internet access. (But, if not, don’t worry, I’m sure he has just been using it to donate money to charity or buy school books.)
For now, I have decided not to report this incident to the police because I value them and the work they do, and I think they have way more important things to do. But, if this or something similar happens again (or if I discover that anything more than my wireless has been hacked), I will count on Neighbor of the Year Nathan to be available to help with the investigation.
I’m also not asking for reimbursement. To do that, I would have to provide my name and address. And, while I assume that Nathan is just a dumb kid who did a dumb thing and I assume you were unaware and I assume that a letter to his parents is all that’s needed to set him straight . . . if any of those assumptions were wrong, I wouldn’t want anyone in your household to have my information.
I have also, after some deliberation and against the advice of friends, decided not to leave a flaming bag of poo on your doorstep. With the mailing of this letter, I consider the matter closed.
Smack!
I am into day 6 of a really nasty cold. Not bad enough that you’re flat on your back, dead to the world, nothing matters, zzzzzzzzzz—but sick so that you feel you must somehow continue to attempt to function as a responsible adult while feeling like absolute crap. Aching muscles, feverish, an impossibility of flem that makes you imagine that research scientists would be amazed if only there were a way to measure the actual volume of it, and moments of exhaustion so extreme that I nearly fell over while waiting in line at the drug store where I had dragged my weary self to buy Kleenex, o.j., soup, cold medicine, and a Lord of the Rings Pez set.
(Yes, a Lord of the Rings Pez set. It was just sitting there on one of those post-holiday 75% off tables. Freakin’ sweet.)
In the past week, I had tried everything in my medicine cupboard: cough drops, cough medicine, Cepacol throat spray, Alka-Seltzer Plus, Mucinex DM, vitamin C tablets, and echinacae tea.
But I trekked to the drug store once again because, obviously, I just didn’t have the right product. After nearly crying real tears over the overwhelming array of choices before me, I selected TheraFlu. TheraFlu! Yes! It has honey and lemon! The-ra-Flu! It has the right symptoms listed on the box. And, more important, as I stood there in the drug store, stupified with fever and unembarrassed by my childlike whimpering, I recalled a lovely wonderful image from TV of a sick person cupping their hands around a warm mug, with steam rising as they drank in the elixir that brings them back to life. TheraFlu! da-da-da-DA! TheraFlu. Yeah.
So, I get home and read the directions. I am hopeful. I am almost breathing easy. I believe I am near relief. (We never give up hope that there is actually an option other than “feel crappy for 5-7 days.” And the drug companies know this.)
Two points:
1. Dear makers of Theraflu, I’m not sure you grasp the simple idea that a sick person—between fever and chills, mangled sheets, body-wracking-pet-startling coughs, some really quite astoundingly funny but loud enough to wake you nose whistles, and extreme stuffed-up-ness that makes you lie there at 3:00 a.m., absolutely certain you will never-ever-ever feel normal again and at 4:00 a.m., paranoid with the knowledge that being found dead from snot-induced suffocation in an unclean house with teetering dish piles and unrinsed soup cans in the kitchen and 1,002 balled up tissues lying about every other room in the house, wearing stinky gross pajamas, sporting the world’s worst flu hair, and with all that I-swear-it’s-not-boogers dead skin under the nose would be a sad way to die—desperately craves only one thing: A good night’s sleep.
I bought the night-time version of this product. The directions say “Take every four hours.”
2. The directions say to dissolve the packet of grainy particles in hot tap water (hot tap water!) and include the warning: “If using a microwave, do not overheat.” (Do not overheat?) There won’t be a little curl of steam? I won’t get to curl up on the couch, hands and heart warmed by my lovely cuppa? Well, hoping (feverishly, irrationally) as I was for a cure, I did as instructed—and nearly had to add puking to my list of symptoms.
That said, I have made it back to work. I’m not proud of how I look, but I am at least no longer wearing the toxic jammies and I have washed my hair, and 80% of the time I feel 57% certain that I will survive this. And when I do, I’m going to find the people who created the TheraFlu TV commercial and kiss each one on the lips. And spit on their keyboards. And lick their phones.
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January 12, 2012 at 5:41 am 1 comment