There's been a lot of talk about "apocalypses" lately, what with the Mayan calendar coming to an end on December 21st of this year.
12-21-12 Buy your Twinkies Now!
Yes, it has been all the buzz of late. No one really knows what's going to happen on that day (though I'm 99.999% positive that it will be absolutely nothing). Still, the actual "Mayan prophecy" (if you want to call it that) is supposed to be that the date will be an end to the world as we know it, issuing in a new era of peace.
Peace. That would be kind of nice!
I still don't think it's going to happen on 12-21-12 - but then again, how long is an era? Not a specific number of years, but it is a very long time. And what if it is all supposed to be more a "beginning" to an era which just takes time to get things "going" for say, oh... about a thousand years?
Or will it be a "half hour of silence in the heavens?"
Who knows! Either way, I'm sure there will be turmoil before that full "era of peace" actually makes it here in its full glory.
For me, in a small way, it has arrived today. Kamaron is sick, my broken leg is still... well, in a word - broken, Kirk is out of town on business and my refrigerator decided to die last night.
I noticed it didn't feel very cold as I was putting the lettuce away, and that the door seemed to be kind of hot around the edges but I was so exhausted after trying to do all my Christmas shopping in one evening (hoping to actually be able to focus on work again - fodder for another blog) that I plumb didn't listen to that little voice in my head which repeated over and over:
"You should fill some extra jugs up with water and put them outside to freeze... just in case."
All I could think was: "Okay, I'll do it in the morning..."
Well, morning came, the fridge was roughly 70 degrees inside, and our trash can is now full of previously perishable food.
However, there are some blessings to count from all of this!
#1 For some reason, only the fridge died. The freezer was still functioning, so I didn't lose all our frozen stuff.
#2 The fridge sorely needed to be cleaned out anyway...
#3 Even though I had to unplug the fridge (for fear of it starting a fire), we have a chest freezer in the basement which had enough spare room to fit most of the frozen foods.
#4 It's winter time! And while I have, admittedly, been complaining - a lot - about not being ready for winter, this morning I'm very thankful that it is keeping the remaining frozen goods frozen (the ones that wouldn't fit in the chest freezer)... as well as our remaining refrigerator foods cold.
#5 Also, that "little voice in my head" gave me a really great idea. Call it schizophrenia if you like, I'm going to call it something more religiously based, like a prompting of the Spirit. The point is: How many hundreds of years did our ancestors use the "ice box?" Some older people still call a fridge the "ice box."
Which brings on a small story:
When I was a little girl, we went on vacation to a cabin in the mountains that had one of these charming little oak and metal ice boxes. It also had army ants... but that's another topic. On the top of that charming hunk of oak and metal was a lid with a metal box beneath it, which held a big block of ice. The cold from that ice would filter down to the contents below it, keeping our great-grandmothers milk, butter and eggs quite cool and tasty. It would work for us too, if we gave it a chance, but I remember my mother looking at it and saying:
"Oh, look... a real ice box... OH LOOK! ARMY ANTS!!!"
And that was the end of the conversation. I was left to try and figure out how this awesome little contraption worked on my own. My five-year-old self discovered that there was a drain hole in the bottom of the metal box... though where it drained to I was never able to figure out.
When my children were little, I didn't want them to miss out on so much wonderful history; so each year, for home school, we had a unit on the pioneers, after which we would unscrew all of the lights in the house, turn the heater off and unplug the appliances, so that we could have a few days of seeing what it was like to live "in the rough."
We did laundry in the bathtub, the wood stove kept the house warm enough and the oil lamps were truly lovely. Then, at the end of our "activity" (which ended the morning of Thanksgiving) we reverted back to modern life and were so thankful for our many blessings!
Unfortunately, our experiment wasn't actually complete, because I secretly never unplugged the "ice box." We called it an ice box, and talked about the principle of using it as an ice box. For one of our activities we even discussed how we might go out on a lake, cut blocks of ice from the frozen surface, haul them back to our "ice house" and pack them with straw or sawdust to help insulate it all during the summer, making the supply last until the next winter.
It was nice in principle, but I'm kind of feeling like, now, I'm being given the opportunity to come clean of that charade and put the principle into practice for real. So...
#5 I'm thankful for the concept of "ice boxes."
... and
#6 Handy husbands who can try to diagnose what's wrong with our relatively new fridge when he gets home.
As an added bonus to this whole experience, whenever that apocalypse actually comes, and the metaphorical "zombies" take out our electric grid, I'm going to know how to survive just a little more comfortably without electricity than I was able to do before.
And... well, that's probably a very good thing.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Teaching "Reverence"
The other day, while sitting around with most of my kids and passing the Labor Day holiday away, we got to reminiscing about old times. Savannah wanted some ideas/memories to blog about on her "personal history blog" but couldn't really think of anything.
I suggested old family home evenings, like the time we stacked wood for a widow, or the time, as parents, were at our wits end as to how to teach our children the concept of "reverence," you know, that age old trick of trying to keep your children from screaming out in church because their sibling took their coloring book, or why it isn't appropriate to throw your cheerios four pews ahead of where you're sitting... complete with the bowl.
Honestly, I take issue with most reverence talks. Reverence is a holy feeling inside of you, a respect for God and his children, a kindness and appreciation for your blessings... it is NOT necessarily the "quiet" that we make it out to be. Why don't we just say it the way we mean it?
"You need to be quiet at church."
Instead we make it out to be some sort of great principle of holiness, that as long as we're quiet we can be thinking about whatever we want and be okay. As long as we're quiet, we can be playing Speed Racer or Angry Birds on the latest I-Pad or other electronic gadget and completely not paying attention to anything being said.
It's like the high priests falling asleep in church and getting their Sunday nap. As long as they don't snore too loudly then, culturally, we're okay with it. But, honestly, if you're not going to listen, why go at all. Church will surely be "quiet" if no one is there, right?
But, I digress. This blog isn't about my beefs with church culture, it was about family memories of trying to get that "Quiet" concept across to my children.
Usually, when they were little and I came up against a brick wall in trying to figure out how to be effective in teaching my kids a certain principle, I would turn it around. I'd call them in for a pow wow on my bed and just be honest with them.
Like so: "I'm kind of lost with this, you guys, and don't really know how to teach you. What would you do if YOU were the parent and I was the child?"
It usually worked like a charm. They would tell me exactly what they would do and then I would temper it to my style of parenting, by removing all the spanks and yelling and other harsh punishments, doing what was left.
I wish I could take full credit for the idea, but it actually came from my mom... who probably got it from the school psychologist. One pleasant sunny day, while we were out on the front lawn, she said to my little three year old self:
"Becca, let's play a game where you are the mother and I am the child. Would you like that?"
"Oh yes!" I agreed, thinking "Free donuts for the entire neighborhood!"
She asked me if she could do some little thing, I don't remember what it was, and I sharply said: "NO! You may not do that!" That request was followed by several more, after which I responded in like, copying what I perceived was a parent's job to do.
Finally, my mother (who by now was in SHOCK at my perception of her parenting) said: "Is that the way you want me to treat you when we switch back?"
My absolute and tyrannical reign of dictatorial authoritarianism, melted in that instant. I had no idea I was supposed to be setting a pattern. I thought I was just copying what I knew from experience.
Suddenly, the light went on and I consented for her to do anything her little mother heart desired.
Fast Forward thirty years. I waited long and hard for it, but I finally had a family of my own! When my children were really little and would ask me for something, I started out by letting that big green mommy out and telling them no! No! NO! You may not have donut holes for breakfast. You must eat something healthy first. - No, we can't go for a walk right now. It's raining! (Note: It was ALWAYS raining in Oregon). No, you can't go swimming, your room isn't clean.
Then one day, I realized: Hey, I'M the MOM and I can parent whatever way I want... within reason. Why NOT say YES? Sort of like the movie "Yes Man!" I became the "Yes Mom!"
Can I have pop tarts for breakfast? Sure! Enjoy them though!
Can we go outside to play? Sure! But you'll need to play in a warm bath when you get back inside.
Can we invite some friends over? Sure! Let's call it a "Tuesday Party" and have cake and balloons and games while we're at it.
Yep, I thought I was pretty cool being the "Yes Mom."
However, all that leniency didn't teach my children that it wasn't okay to bean Old man Dalton in the back of the head with their hot wheels in church... even if he WAS listening to the world series with a little, hidden earphone during sacrament meeting, letting out an occasional squelched cheer at the most inappropriate times.
Finally, at my wits end, I resorted back to my mother's parenting forum.
"Tonight, for Family Home Evening, you kids are going to be the parents while daddy and I are going to be the kids. Your job is to teach us to be reverent for church. Does that sound like a good idea?"
"Oh, yes! Yes! YES!" they chimed, consumately thrilled with the prospects of total and utter tyranny.
Things started out alright. One of them, I think it was Clarke, began telling us how we need to be reverent in church. It wasn't hard. He'd heard it a million times, right?
We sat there, like obedient little children, Kirk and I, and listened to what Clarke had to say... for about 3.7 seconds. Then Kirk flung a couch pillow at my face.
Bam! Square hit!
"You punk!" I scream and flung it right back at him. Of course, by then he had gathered several other items and the war began, throwing items across the room at each other, laughing and pretending to cry and be angry.
We pulled out the stops and recreated every single thing we could remember our children ever doing in church... and elsewhere...
At first they just sort of looked at us and blinked. Astounded that WE, the parents, would be SO AWFUL during a lesson on reverence. Then, soon, they wanted in on the action, but I broke character long enough to remind them that THEY were the parents and they needed to teach us to be reverent.
Bummer!
Clarke then told Kirk that he was going to put him into a time out if he didn't "get reverent."
Kirk then began screaming and flailing in an all out tantrum: "I don't want a time out! You can't make me!" Blah, blah, blah, etc....
Clarke patiently got up, took Kirk by the hand and, after his dad flung another pillow at my face, he put him in the wicker rocking chair and told him to stay there until he could be reverent.
"La, la, la! I'm not listening!" He called out.
I decided to be "the good child" and only stuck my tongue out at him, secretly taunting him as much as I could without being caught. Then "BAM" I get hit in the face with another pillow.
Kirk, by now, was rocking his time out... literally. Back and forth he went, a little at first and then higher and higher and further back until he was almost rocked the chair completely over backwards!
I watched him in awe! He was COMPLETELY out of control and not breaking character for a second. The children were wide eyed as well!
Finally Clarke went to him and announced that he was going to have to give him a spanking for not being reverent. He took his dad by the hand, raised his arm to deliver a spank and before he could even begin the swing, Kirk burst out screaming at the top of his lungs.
"No! No! You're hurting me too bad! Stop beating me!"
Clarke, in his best grown up voice, informed him: "I haven't touched you yet!"
Kirk: "Oh. Okay."
Clarke - spank.
Kirk, falls to the floor, screaming and writhing as though he is in intense and desperate pain. Then he throws another pillow at me and goes back to the rocking chair where he begins the entire charade anew.
I don't remember all of the things that happened that night, it was such a long time ago, but I remember thinking what a good actor my husband could be and how I thought I was going to have a stroke from laughing so hard that I absolutely couldn't breathe.
The kids laughed really hard too.
But then something magical happened... they started being quiet in church.
They also seemed to develop a greater respect for the relationship between a parent and child.
In short, we were all better friends, as a family, by the end of it.
And I guess that's how we taught our children to be "reverent" in church.... or whatever you want to call it.
I suggested old family home evenings, like the time we stacked wood for a widow, or the time, as parents, were at our wits end as to how to teach our children the concept of "reverence," you know, that age old trick of trying to keep your children from screaming out in church because their sibling took their coloring book, or why it isn't appropriate to throw your cheerios four pews ahead of where you're sitting... complete with the bowl.
Honestly, I take issue with most reverence talks. Reverence is a holy feeling inside of you, a respect for God and his children, a kindness and appreciation for your blessings... it is NOT necessarily the "quiet" that we make it out to be. Why don't we just say it the way we mean it?
"You need to be quiet at church."
Instead we make it out to be some sort of great principle of holiness, that as long as we're quiet we can be thinking about whatever we want and be okay. As long as we're quiet, we can be playing Speed Racer or Angry Birds on the latest I-Pad or other electronic gadget and completely not paying attention to anything being said.
It's like the high priests falling asleep in church and getting their Sunday nap. As long as they don't snore too loudly then, culturally, we're okay with it. But, honestly, if you're not going to listen, why go at all. Church will surely be "quiet" if no one is there, right?
But, I digress. This blog isn't about my beefs with church culture, it was about family memories of trying to get that "Quiet" concept across to my children.
Usually, when they were little and I came up against a brick wall in trying to figure out how to be effective in teaching my kids a certain principle, I would turn it around. I'd call them in for a pow wow on my bed and just be honest with them.
Like so: "I'm kind of lost with this, you guys, and don't really know how to teach you. What would you do if YOU were the parent and I was the child?"
It usually worked like a charm. They would tell me exactly what they would do and then I would temper it to my style of parenting, by removing all the spanks and yelling and other harsh punishments, doing what was left.
I wish I could take full credit for the idea, but it actually came from my mom... who probably got it from the school psychologist. One pleasant sunny day, while we were out on the front lawn, she said to my little three year old self:
"Becca, let's play a game where you are the mother and I am the child. Would you like that?"
"Oh yes!" I agreed, thinking "Free donuts for the entire neighborhood!"
She asked me if she could do some little thing, I don't remember what it was, and I sharply said: "NO! You may not do that!" That request was followed by several more, after which I responded in like, copying what I perceived was a parent's job to do.
Finally, my mother (who by now was in SHOCK at my perception of her parenting) said: "Is that the way you want me to treat you when we switch back?"
My absolute and tyrannical reign of dictatorial authoritarianism, melted in that instant. I had no idea I was supposed to be setting a pattern. I thought I was just copying what I knew from experience.
Suddenly, the light went on and I consented for her to do anything her little mother heart desired.
Fast Forward thirty years. I waited long and hard for it, but I finally had a family of my own! When my children were really little and would ask me for something, I started out by letting that big green mommy out and telling them no! No! NO! You may not have donut holes for breakfast. You must eat something healthy first. - No, we can't go for a walk right now. It's raining! (Note: It was ALWAYS raining in Oregon). No, you can't go swimming, your room isn't clean.
Then one day, I realized: Hey, I'M the MOM and I can parent whatever way I want... within reason. Why NOT say YES? Sort of like the movie "Yes Man!" I became the "Yes Mom!"
Can I have pop tarts for breakfast? Sure! Enjoy them though!
Can we go outside to play? Sure! But you'll need to play in a warm bath when you get back inside.
Can we invite some friends over? Sure! Let's call it a "Tuesday Party" and have cake and balloons and games while we're at it.
Yep, I thought I was pretty cool being the "Yes Mom."
However, all that leniency didn't teach my children that it wasn't okay to bean Old man Dalton in the back of the head with their hot wheels in church... even if he WAS listening to the world series with a little, hidden earphone during sacrament meeting, letting out an occasional squelched cheer at the most inappropriate times.
Finally, at my wits end, I resorted back to my mother's parenting forum.
"Tonight, for Family Home Evening, you kids are going to be the parents while daddy and I are going to be the kids. Your job is to teach us to be reverent for church. Does that sound like a good idea?"
"Oh, yes! Yes! YES!" they chimed, consumately thrilled with the prospects of total and utter tyranny.
Things started out alright. One of them, I think it was Clarke, began telling us how we need to be reverent in church. It wasn't hard. He'd heard it a million times, right?
We sat there, like obedient little children, Kirk and I, and listened to what Clarke had to say... for about 3.7 seconds. Then Kirk flung a couch pillow at my face.
Bam! Square hit!
"You punk!" I scream and flung it right back at him. Of course, by then he had gathered several other items and the war began, throwing items across the room at each other, laughing and pretending to cry and be angry.
We pulled out the stops and recreated every single thing we could remember our children ever doing in church... and elsewhere...
At first they just sort of looked at us and blinked. Astounded that WE, the parents, would be SO AWFUL during a lesson on reverence. Then, soon, they wanted in on the action, but I broke character long enough to remind them that THEY were the parents and they needed to teach us to be reverent.
Bummer!
Clarke then told Kirk that he was going to put him into a time out if he didn't "get reverent."
Kirk then began screaming and flailing in an all out tantrum: "I don't want a time out! You can't make me!" Blah, blah, blah, etc....
Clarke patiently got up, took Kirk by the hand and, after his dad flung another pillow at my face, he put him in the wicker rocking chair and told him to stay there until he could be reverent.
"La, la, la! I'm not listening!" He called out.
I decided to be "the good child" and only stuck my tongue out at him, secretly taunting him as much as I could without being caught. Then "BAM" I get hit in the face with another pillow.
Kirk, by now, was rocking his time out... literally. Back and forth he went, a little at first and then higher and higher and further back until he was almost rocked the chair completely over backwards!
I watched him in awe! He was COMPLETELY out of control and not breaking character for a second. The children were wide eyed as well!
Finally Clarke went to him and announced that he was going to have to give him a spanking for not being reverent. He took his dad by the hand, raised his arm to deliver a spank and before he could even begin the swing, Kirk burst out screaming at the top of his lungs.
"No! No! You're hurting me too bad! Stop beating me!"
Clarke, in his best grown up voice, informed him: "I haven't touched you yet!"
Kirk: "Oh. Okay."
Clarke - spank.
Kirk, falls to the floor, screaming and writhing as though he is in intense and desperate pain. Then he throws another pillow at me and goes back to the rocking chair where he begins the entire charade anew.
I don't remember all of the things that happened that night, it was such a long time ago, but I remember thinking what a good actor my husband could be and how I thought I was going to have a stroke from laughing so hard that I absolutely couldn't breathe.
The kids laughed really hard too.
But then something magical happened... they started being quiet in church.
They also seemed to develop a greater respect for the relationship between a parent and child.
In short, we were all better friends, as a family, by the end of it.
And I guess that's how we taught our children to be "reverent" in church.... or whatever you want to call it.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Flat tires and other infernal tests of marriage
I have a flat tire, which might be a problem, mostly because I hate flat tires.
My car (actually a truck) has a jack hidden in a really inconvenient place under the front seat on the passenger side.
I know this, because after 18 months of owning my truck I finally got the first flat tire that couldn't be resuscitated by a large can of fix-a-flat.
It happened on July 4th 2012... I had driven to my dear friend's house to take a present to her on her 30-somethingeth wedding anniversary. I made it there, somehow, but when I left for home and hit the road, my car/truck began making those dreadful noises on the pavement. You know the kind: Brzzz-thump-a-thump-brzzz-thump!
Being too lazy to actually pull over and check it out, I lowered the electric side mirror and looked.
Yep. Flat. All the way dead.
Now, weather-wise, I've never known July 4th to be pleasant in any state of the Union (disclaimer: I've also never been to Alaska) but here in Missouri it is normally down right miserable and this year it is hotter than ever - over 105 degrees.
To be short in writing, I called my husband, who VALIANTLY came out to rescue me by changing the tire. I do this every once in a while. He seems to like being needed.
Unfortunately, he DOESN'T 't like the heat much better than I do and was getting rather frustrated by the ridiculous design that Dodge came up with in HIDING the jack securely under the front seat. First off, he had to search the owner's manual to even FIND the jack, then spent the next 20 minutes trying to extricate it from the place where it had welded into the frame of the car under the seat.
Seeing that his annoyance was growing to anger, I suggested that we just call AAA and have it changed by them. I figured they could take their little tow truck thingy, lift the back of my truck off the ground... and voila!
The hubs failed to see my strategy at this point, being that he had already (finally) freed the jack. However, when he went to actually use the jack, he discovered that it was broken.
"Okay, tell you what, I'm just gonna call AAA."
"No, I think I can make it work."
Seriously?!?
Meanwhile I'm BAKING in the car, he's BAKING outside the car and we are both wondering why we ever married each other!
I'm thinking: Why torture yourself? We pay $90/year so they can come change our tires for us.
He's thinking: Why doesn't she think I can do this? She called me out here, after all, to do this and I'M GOING TO DO THIS!
As the storm continues to brew in a cycle of failed attempts to get the jack to work, I finally call AAA and run back to hide in the air conditioning of my friends house.
AAA and my valiant hubs changed the tire and let me know when the drama was all over. Then he went the extra mile and, about a week and two nagging sessions later, actually got my tire replaces.
I thought I was doing pretty well to get only one non fixably flat tire in an entire year and a half, but this past weekend, my daughter and I went out to take pictures of our poor sizzling Midwest crops. To accomplish this, I pulled off the road (which are all single lanes in the country) and somehow got something in the tire.
Providence was merciful to me in waiting until I'd taken my girl to the airport and come clear back home before going flat but, alas, it finally did.
My car (actually a truck) has a jack hidden in a really inconvenient place under the front seat on the passenger side.
I know this, because after 18 months of owning my truck I finally got the first flat tire that couldn't be resuscitated by a large can of fix-a-flat.
It happened on July 4th 2012... I had driven to my dear friend's house to take a present to her on her 30-somethingeth wedding anniversary. I made it there, somehow, but when I left for home and hit the road, my car/truck began making those dreadful noises on the pavement. You know the kind: Brzzz-thump-a-thump-brzzz-thump!
Being too lazy to actually pull over and check it out, I lowered the electric side mirror and looked.
Yep. Flat. All the way dead.
Now, weather-wise, I've never known July 4th to be pleasant in any state of the Union (disclaimer: I've also never been to Alaska) but here in Missouri it is normally down right miserable and this year it is hotter than ever - over 105 degrees.
To be short in writing, I called my husband, who VALIANTLY came out to rescue me by changing the tire. I do this every once in a while. He seems to like being needed.
Unfortunately, he DOESN'T 't like the heat much better than I do and was getting rather frustrated by the ridiculous design that Dodge came up with in HIDING the jack securely under the front seat. First off, he had to search the owner's manual to even FIND the jack, then spent the next 20 minutes trying to extricate it from the place where it had welded into the frame of the car under the seat.
Seeing that his annoyance was growing to anger, I suggested that we just call AAA and have it changed by them. I figured they could take their little tow truck thingy, lift the back of my truck off the ground... and voila!
The hubs failed to see my strategy at this point, being that he had already (finally) freed the jack. However, when he went to actually use the jack, he discovered that it was broken.
"Okay, tell you what, I'm just gonna call AAA."
"No, I think I can make it work."
Seriously?!?
Meanwhile I'm BAKING in the car, he's BAKING outside the car and we are both wondering why we ever married each other!
I'm thinking: Why torture yourself? We pay $90/year so they can come change our tires for us.
He's thinking: Why doesn't she think I can do this? She called me out here, after all, to do this and I'M GOING TO DO THIS!
As the storm continues to brew in a cycle of failed attempts to get the jack to work, I finally call AAA and run back to hide in the air conditioning of my friends house.
AAA and my valiant hubs changed the tire and let me know when the drama was all over. Then he went the extra mile and, about a week and two nagging sessions later, actually got my tire replaces.
I thought I was doing pretty well to get only one non fixably flat tire in an entire year and a half, but this past weekend, my daughter and I went out to take pictures of our poor sizzling Midwest crops. To accomplish this, I pulled off the road (which are all single lanes in the country) and somehow got something in the tire.
Providence was merciful to me in waiting until I'd taken my girl to the airport and come clear back home before going flat but, alas, it finally did.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
I'm okay... really.
This morning I yelled at a computer...
Actually, SCREAMED(!) would be more like it...
And I learned something new. Apparently, my insurance company’s computer-aided answering device has been programmed to detect intense, rage-like anger.
Ha ha.
The story goes something like this.
We pay hundreds of dollars every-single-freaking-paycheck into an insurance plan. For our respectable purchase of their services, they cover a fraction of our medical expenses. For instance, we have an exorbitant $1,000 out of pocket co-pay for diagnostic testing, after which, they will cover 40% of the expense... as long as it is an "in-network" provider.
Crazy, yeah?
Another totally ridiculous rule our insurance carrier has is that, at the first of EVERY single year, we have to call them, or send in some other form of confirmation, stating that we aren't covered by any other additional insurance.
If we fail to do this in a timely manner (as in, say - January 2nd), then they promptly reject any and all claims made to them. In short, they try to make it as difficult as possible to use the "product" that we've just purchased.
My husband has made 3 attempts since the first of the year to send them the electronic verification for which they’ve asked, but this year they've taken their obnoxiousness to an all new level by not acknowledging his emails.
Just to top off their atrociously awful service, instead of sending medical ID cards for each person in the family, they sent only 1(one) card for the entire family… which my husband promptly put into his pocket.
Wow. In any other industry, those sorts of practices combined would put the business under. However, in the insurance trade, they seem to feel it their right and responsibility to make it as difficult as possible for the common guy to reclaim even 1/20th of the product for which they have paid.
After receiving yet another unpaid billing notice, I got on the phone this morning and called the insurance so that I could work the problem out, civilly, with a real, live person.
Ring, ring, ring:
"Hello, you have reached blah, blah, blah..." the computerized voice tells me. "Please enter your identification number."
Unfortunately, I don't have the ID number, because they only sent out 1(one) card and it happens to be in my husband's wallet, in his pocket... out of state, in California. So, I tell the computer:
"Operator".
This magical word is a cue to the computer that I need something other than what a computer can provide. It is supposed to patch me through to a real person.
Unfortunately, the computer wanted more information first.
"I understand that you want to speak to an assistant. Please state your identification number."
Sheesh, like I said, I don't have that information so, once again, I say:
"Operator".
The computer responds in kind:
"I understand that you want to speak to an assistant. Please state your identification number."
I figure the third time is a charm. Surely, it will realize that by three times, I need the help of a human, so once again I say those magic words:
"Operator".
"I understand that you want to speak to an assistant. Please state your identification number."
I’m starting to get mildly irritated.
"I don't have my number," I say. "Let me talk to an operator."
Apparently, the computer recognized the slightly elevated stress levels in my voice. It changed its voice recorded message ever so slightly.
"I understand that you want to speak to an assistant. Please state your identification number, so I can forward it to an assistant."
By this point, I'd had enough. I wasn’t really angry, but I was irritated enough to want to hang up. Figuring I’d get one up on the computer(and also figuring I couldn't hurt the feelings of a mere machine), I gathered all of the power in me, drew a breath, and SCREAMED into the phone, as LOUD as I could possibly manage:
"O P E R A T O R ! ! ! ! ! ! !"
It was loud enough that Kamaron - who was in the shower... upstairs...- turned off the water and asked if I was okay! The computer instantly, and humbly I might add, replied:
"May I transfer you to an assistant."
Amused by a different response, I maniacally screamed back:
"Y E E E E E E S S S S S S S !!!!!"
Apparently, it is also programed to identify Rage. I must take note of this for the future…
Almost immediately, I got an operator, who said:
“Don't get upset with me.”
Apparently, it also transfers voice recordings.
Ha ha ha!
Duly noted.
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