Visiting other people's homes, I become acutely aware of how accustomed I have become to my own clutter, and it vexes me. Now I read journals and magazines. I've watched shows that illustrate how to de-clutter and I've even asked friends to provide guidance on how to pair down the mess that nine children can make on any given day.
1) The One Room A Day Method. Clean just one room sounds reasonable, but implemented, it fails at the key objective. If we had seven rooms and I cleaned just one each day to its utmost, there would still be six other rooms in dire need of cleaning each day. Alas, we have 21 rooms in total including the bathrooms, garage, basement, back basement and study. Three rooms a day also does not preclude the reality that those three rooms once cleaned, shall be trashed once all 9 get home or when I'm not looking.
2) The One task at a Time Method. Method: Go through the house and just do one thing...picking up trash, vacuuming, or putting away clothes. The problem comes when reality interferes. You go to room 1, and there is trash so you start by picking up the trash and as you are doing it, you discover a plate under the bed. So you begin searching and lo, you find a cup and a fork and a spoon and another plate. So you take them to the sink. And then you find laundry, and toys that obviously belong in another room. Before you know it, it's 11 pm and you've spent all your time in that one kid's room and the task you started on (trash) has long since been forgotten.
3) Designated Chores. Designated Floors. The instant you allow the children out of your sight when cleaning, the goats and sheep separate, and those that would obey, clean. Those that do not, hide. After an hour, even well placed bribes produce only goats.
4) The Martyr Method: Self cleans until self drops. Note: It doesn't work. It doesn't make you happy. It makes you mad at everyone else and no one cares that you blew a Saturday, not even you.
So what's a person to do who wants a clean home?
Proposed methods of addressing this issue, tested and critiqued.
1) Inject fear. Invite company. This results in a collective need to put on a good face. Husband and children will help. Works the first two to three times, then kids start to get wise and have busy schedules that preclude the invite.
2) Withhold food. Make it good food. Pizza ordered when basement is clean. (Keep the job manageable). Pro: It may take several meals but it does work. Con: It's expensive and usually fattening.
3) Call a maid service. Explain that we could have ordered Pizza if the rooms had been kept clean. Explain that Pizza is off the menu as long as maids are required. The thing is, you still then have to fix dinner, and as such, as long as they get fed, (see 2), the impulse to clean can be comfortably supressed.
4) Purge and stash. Go into each room. Clean out, donate, clear out. If it's broken, gone. If it's ripped, gone. Do this sans witnesses or you will be digging through Goodwill bags to locate the happy meal one child loves and wind up emptying the bag as others find things you sought to remove. Then, buy bins. Fill them. Close them. Hide them. Do this until every room is full of filled boxes. Pro: Everything looks organized. Con: You cannot find anything.
5) Recycle all magazines about housekeeping and order. Keep busy until the compulsive desire in you to establish order and clean house subsides. Sedate with chocolate, sangria,sleep, books and blogging as necessary. Repeat as needed.
Upon reflection and research, #5 is the most effective. Pass me that Nutella.
Showing posts with label pizza. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pizza. Show all posts
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Friday, October 31, 2008
Why We Fast
Today, I got to shake things up a bit at our house. My youngest decided he needed a trip to the Shady Grove Spa, (nickname for all hospitals in our home), courtesy of his Pediatrician. So this Halloween, I'm pretending to be a mom of one, and their dad is pretending he works from home.
We arrived at 4, were admitted around 9 and I wanted food. (It was 11 when I expressed this idea that I should eat something). The cafeteria was closed but the vending machines remained.
One of the machines sold burritos and microwave fries and frozen pizza and one more thing, a "Fish and Cheese" sandwich. Being in a hospital, maybe you could take the risk on food poisoning, but I couldn't help but think the two dollar couldn't cut it as a Filet O Fish sandwich had to be in that machine as part of a lost bad bet or possibly, a dare.
Maybe there were some strict Catholics who needed a viable option for abstaining times of the church calendar year. The problem with that idea, there are no days of fasting in the Fall. Old Fish and Cheese sounded almost as bad as Preemptive Fish and cheese. I could not imagine how desperate one would have to be to eat such a thing.
It did however, encourage me to skip dinner. Fasting is good for the soul, particularly when the dish served is Sole.
p.s. Paul is doing very well. This is just part of the process of moving towards his eventual heart surgery.
We arrived at 4, were admitted around 9 and I wanted food. (It was 11 when I expressed this idea that I should eat something). The cafeteria was closed but the vending machines remained.
One of the machines sold burritos and microwave fries and frozen pizza and one more thing, a "Fish and Cheese" sandwich. Being in a hospital, maybe you could take the risk on food poisoning, but I couldn't help but think the two dollar couldn't cut it as a Filet O Fish sandwich had to be in that machine as part of a lost bad bet or possibly, a dare.
Maybe there were some strict Catholics who needed a viable option for abstaining times of the church calendar year. The problem with that idea, there are no days of fasting in the Fall. Old Fish and Cheese sounded almost as bad as Preemptive Fish and cheese. I could not imagine how desperate one would have to be to eat such a thing.
It did however, encourage me to skip dinner. Fasting is good for the soul, particularly when the dish served is Sole.
p.s. Paul is doing very well. This is just part of the process of moving towards his eventual heart surgery.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
What I Should Have Said
Homilies are a time for the parish to connect with the Pastoral leader. On a college campus, the priest presiding over a mass has the once a week opportunity to instruct young adults on how to conduct themselves the other six days of the week, such that they live lives of moral clarity and value.
The priest at my campus took his job seriously. He worried about being accessible to the infinitely distractible 18-21 year olds who were newly away from home. Diligently, he sought inspiration from the world around him, to link scriptural passages to modern day life; to make the muddled brains of possibly beer fogged co-eds see the relevance of God’s spoken word to life in the 21st century.
Because the mass was held just five doors down from my room, it was ridiculously easy for me to make it on time, and to celebrate with more than a plurality of people I liked. It seemed an ideal arrangement.
The first week. After reading the Gospel, our priest, Fr. T. started talking about walking about the Notre Dame campus and approaching the Athletic Convention Center, affectionately known as the ACC. A concert was planned for that Saturday and he had watched the workmen unloading speakers and lights and staging equipment.
“You know…, Life’s kind of like that, we are preparing for the big event. And all of our preparations lead up to that moment.”
“Okay. Yeah…” I went back to my room and diligently checked off in my head…went to mass, fulfilled weekly obligation.
The next week. I just had to give this mass a chance I told myself. There were people here who I knew had rock solid faith lives. We were at a university dedicated to Our Lady for crying out loud.
The homily began. “I was walking along the campus the other day. I saw a car packed up with suitcases.”
I waited for the line of relevance between the Gospel and the sermon. “…You know, life’s kind of like that. We pack up our stuff and carry it around with us, like that overloaded Volkswagen beetle.”
The image of our sins being loaded into a car for our cosmic road trip through life…it was a bit of a stretch. Maybe homilies weren’t his strong suit I told myself. To be fair, I’d give it a month.
The next week. Some liturgy students thought that perhaps we needed some jazzing up of the mass and so they tried “Clown ministry.” When the girl welcomed us to mass wearing a red rubber nose, it took restraint not to physically recoil.
When the priest tried to explain that her attire was a sign of her faith and willingness to be a fool for Christ, I struggled morally to keep from screaming. But my friends were here and singing in the mass so I told myself, the liturgy is the liturgy and “This I Believe,” and that the Eucharist mattered more than any of the window dressing. I also wondered if I had to go to confession for the mocking commentary that kept popping into my head.
Three weeks had been, while memorable and I will grant, the homilies have stuck with me now for 24 YEARS, like subsisting on Dominos Pizzas spiritually speaking. The priest even had me doing it…equating everything in my entire college experience with spiritual merit, real or otherwise.
This time, I dragged my non-church going at the time boyfriend (now husband who makes sure we get there on time no matter what and even use the envelopes that match the actual date) as an independent observer to determine if I was being overly critical. I prayed desperately there would be no people wearing extraordinarily oversized red shoes and ball noses to greet us.
Mass began with a Latin hymn this time, and I wondered if the ultra traditional beginning was in response to perhaps congregational psychological distress over the inclusion of circus attire for ushers. Maybe the priest was trying a potpourri approach to liturgy, trying to hit all different levels of spirituality by having each Sunday a different style of mass. My brain came up with multiple explanations to mollify and explain away the first three weeks. I convinced myself it was all a hyper over reaction in my head.
Until the homily.
“I was walking on campus the other day…”
Oh no.
“And I saw a little squirrel.”
No. No. Please no.
“And I had a few peanuts in my pocket.”
Bring back the clowns…trapeze artists…Volkswagens…anything…
“And the squirrel was hesitant. He came forward a bit, and then he held back. You know…we’re kind of like that. Life’s kind of like that. Life’s kind of like that squirrel…”
I know I stayed for the rest of the mass. I even shook his hand at the end and thanked him for saying mass. But I went to a different liturgy from then on, opting to frontload by taking care of it on Saturday night after football games or putting it off until 10pm on Sunday when I’d need a study break.
Two dozen years later, I finally know what I should have said at the end of the mass to Fr. T.
“Have you considered taking a road trip?”
The priest at my campus took his job seriously. He worried about being accessible to the infinitely distractible 18-21 year olds who were newly away from home. Diligently, he sought inspiration from the world around him, to link scriptural passages to modern day life; to make the muddled brains of possibly beer fogged co-eds see the relevance of God’s spoken word to life in the 21st century.
Because the mass was held just five doors down from my room, it was ridiculously easy for me to make it on time, and to celebrate with more than a plurality of people I liked. It seemed an ideal arrangement.
The first week. After reading the Gospel, our priest, Fr. T. started talking about walking about the Notre Dame campus and approaching the Athletic Convention Center, affectionately known as the ACC. A concert was planned for that Saturday and he had watched the workmen unloading speakers and lights and staging equipment.
“You know…, Life’s kind of like that, we are preparing for the big event. And all of our preparations lead up to that moment.”
“Okay. Yeah…” I went back to my room and diligently checked off in my head…went to mass, fulfilled weekly obligation.
The next week. I just had to give this mass a chance I told myself. There were people here who I knew had rock solid faith lives. We were at a university dedicated to Our Lady for crying out loud.
The homily began. “I was walking along the campus the other day. I saw a car packed up with suitcases.”
I waited for the line of relevance between the Gospel and the sermon. “…You know, life’s kind of like that. We pack up our stuff and carry it around with us, like that overloaded Volkswagen beetle.”
The image of our sins being loaded into a car for our cosmic road trip through life…it was a bit of a stretch. Maybe homilies weren’t his strong suit I told myself. To be fair, I’d give it a month.
The next week. Some liturgy students thought that perhaps we needed some jazzing up of the mass and so they tried “Clown ministry.” When the girl welcomed us to mass wearing a red rubber nose, it took restraint not to physically recoil.
When the priest tried to explain that her attire was a sign of her faith and willingness to be a fool for Christ, I struggled morally to keep from screaming. But my friends were here and singing in the mass so I told myself, the liturgy is the liturgy and “This I Believe,” and that the Eucharist mattered more than any of the window dressing. I also wondered if I had to go to confession for the mocking commentary that kept popping into my head.
Three weeks had been, while memorable and I will grant, the homilies have stuck with me now for 24 YEARS, like subsisting on Dominos Pizzas spiritually speaking. The priest even had me doing it…equating everything in my entire college experience with spiritual merit, real or otherwise.
This time, I dragged my non-church going at the time boyfriend (now husband who makes sure we get there on time no matter what and even use the envelopes that match the actual date) as an independent observer to determine if I was being overly critical. I prayed desperately there would be no people wearing extraordinarily oversized red shoes and ball noses to greet us.
Mass began with a Latin hymn this time, and I wondered if the ultra traditional beginning was in response to perhaps congregational psychological distress over the inclusion of circus attire for ushers. Maybe the priest was trying a potpourri approach to liturgy, trying to hit all different levels of spirituality by having each Sunday a different style of mass. My brain came up with multiple explanations to mollify and explain away the first three weeks. I convinced myself it was all a hyper over reaction in my head.
Until the homily.
“I was walking on campus the other day…”
Oh no.
“And I saw a little squirrel.”
No. No. Please no.
“And I had a few peanuts in my pocket.”
Bring back the clowns…trapeze artists…Volkswagens…anything…
“And the squirrel was hesitant. He came forward a bit, and then he held back. You know…we’re kind of like that. Life’s kind of like that. Life’s kind of like that squirrel…”
I know I stayed for the rest of the mass. I even shook his hand at the end and thanked him for saying mass. But I went to a different liturgy from then on, opting to frontload by taking care of it on Saturday night after football games or putting it off until 10pm on Sunday when I’d need a study break.
Two dozen years later, I finally know what I should have said at the end of the mass to Fr. T.
“Have you considered taking a road trip?”
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Video Games, A Family Intervention
My kids love video games.
We have admittedly fed this love, because we enjoy a good round of Smash Brothers or Mario Cart as much as anyone. It’s cathartic to occasionally beat your children in an area they consider themselves to be “grand masters.” When I schooled my son recently on Soulsword, he was most gracious. “She grew up on Mortal Combat and Kung Fu Battle and Gauntlet.” He explained to his awe struck sisters. Being a gracious mom back, I said, “Yes, young grasshopper, you have much to learn.” My son didn’t know his mom could trash talk either.
Being a child of the 80’s, I have fond memories of blowing wads of quarters on Ms. Pac Man, Centipede and Donkey Kong Jr. I was the Jedi master of the Star Wars game, back when all you had to hit was line drawing outlines of those tie fighters, which really meant something because I was…shocker…a girl! I was one with the force then, and sometimes, even now the mitochondrion rally to my side.
My husband and I have brought our children up on the classics, Frogger and Paperboy, and told them of the lost favorites like Indian Jones and the Temple of Doom, or the classic Gauntlet, wherein we were both frequently told, “Never have I seen such bravery.” when we would launch into suicide missions against hordes of orcs once we were out of spare change. The fondness in our voices at those times indicated tacit approval for this activity as a form of recreation.
Unfortunately for our offspring, games and game systems change and people sometimes grow up. Being grown up, we get the fun job of imposing limits in life; bed time, what’s for dinner, what’s for snack, what they can wear to church and how much they can watch television. However, in the arena of video games, we have admittedly, shown our human frailty. With seven of eight kiddos preoccupied with no mental or physical power supplied by a supervising adult, it’s hard not to succumb to sloth too.
With the baby safely tucked in her crib, my husband and I would race to our respective computers and begin our own plunge into the opiate that video games provided. Originally, we showed characteristic adult restraint, setting a proscribed time limit for this indulgent activity that was strictly observed. Then one day, the timer went off and I turned it off and instead of barking the usual, “Game over. Time’s up.” I returned to the computer to finish my round of spider solitaire. The kids stayed in Nintendo Land and my husband walloped on the French with his massive Roman navy in an island based scenario of Civilizations.
Hours drifted by and we ordered pizza. The baby played in the room with us, supplied with hugs and cuddles, occasional bottles and diapers and a pick me up as needed. The day shot by and everyone had vacated reality for all of 8 hours. We felt exhilarated and drained at the same time. We had frittered a day. Here in 2008we had managed to beat the demands that we always be doing with a unplanned unstructured day of pure indulgence that cost only the price of ordering three pizzas plus cheesy bread.
The next day was sort of a hangover, the price of our day of hooky. Laundry, dishes, grocery shopping, homework projects and gardening all acted as silent critical editorials for our day of indulging the Id. Naturally, we did what any beginning addict does, we made excuses, did a quick cursory attempt at each of the problems and then rushed back to our addiction of choice. Another wasted day, but this one did not thrill as much as the first when the work week returned. For a time, we keep this mentally and physically destructive but entirely legal habit under control. It was limited to a weekend only pursuit, we would binge play on Saturday and Sunday.
I stopped scheduling weekend activities.
However, the creeping addiction of virtual crack provided by fake worlds and fantastic swords kept trying to pry open the rest of the week and eventually succeeded. Homework finished, they would rush to their screen of choice. I wasn’t much better, feeding the baby as I played on my laptop in the kitchen.
Fortunately, we have many actors in our family and the one least invested performed an intervention of sorts. It was partially due, as all interventions actually are, to the increasing level of sloth by those supposedly providing guidance, supervision and care. Having requested a glass of water and received none, my two year old decided to help herself. She got a paper cup from the closet. She took it to the sink. She filled it to the brim and quenched her thirst .
Smacking her lips with satisfaction, she walked over to where her siblings sat pushing buttons and cheering on their latest hero, Link. Toddlers are called toddlers for a reason. Sippy cups are used for a reason. Toddlers carrying sippy cups can trip all day and not spill a drop. Toddlers carrying nearly full paper cups trip and electronic equipment designed to provide hours of entertainment do not like the results.
The cry went out too late but there it was, a 6x6 inch cube of plastic rendered unusable by virtue of one of the basic necessities of life and the “we presume” innocence of a two year old. Looking at the remains of the once beloved box, the children shook their heads in disbelief as we all recovered from our madness and remembered again the taste of barbeque, the spray of the pool waterslide and the glory of listening to baseball on the radio that should fill the hours of summer.
Never has a toy fallen from grace so quickly. Never has a recovery come so instantaneously. The next few weeks passed in a blur of summer activities that made me proud to be a parent and put the whole video crack addiction behind us. It was just a bad bump in parenting and family dynamics, a fall, the result of our fallen nature, from which we had emerged stronger.
Then the kids started a lemonade stand. I was feeling so proud of them for inventing a way to enjoy the day until I saw the sign. “Raising Money for our OWN Wii. 50 cents a cup. Donations Welcome.”
And I know, I may have to give the baby a glass of lemonade one day.
We have admittedly fed this love, because we enjoy a good round of Smash Brothers or Mario Cart as much as anyone. It’s cathartic to occasionally beat your children in an area they consider themselves to be “grand masters.” When I schooled my son recently on Soulsword, he was most gracious. “She grew up on Mortal Combat and Kung Fu Battle and Gauntlet.” He explained to his awe struck sisters. Being a gracious mom back, I said, “Yes, young grasshopper, you have much to learn.” My son didn’t know his mom could trash talk either.
Being a child of the 80’s, I have fond memories of blowing wads of quarters on Ms. Pac Man, Centipede and Donkey Kong Jr. I was the Jedi master of the Star Wars game, back when all you had to hit was line drawing outlines of those tie fighters, which really meant something because I was…shocker…a girl! I was one with the force then, and sometimes, even now the mitochondrion rally to my side.
My husband and I have brought our children up on the classics, Frogger and Paperboy, and told them of the lost favorites like Indian Jones and the Temple of Doom, or the classic Gauntlet, wherein we were both frequently told, “Never have I seen such bravery.” when we would launch into suicide missions against hordes of orcs once we were out of spare change. The fondness in our voices at those times indicated tacit approval for this activity as a form of recreation.
Unfortunately for our offspring, games and game systems change and people sometimes grow up. Being grown up, we get the fun job of imposing limits in life; bed time, what’s for dinner, what’s for snack, what they can wear to church and how much they can watch television. However, in the arena of video games, we have admittedly, shown our human frailty. With seven of eight kiddos preoccupied with no mental or physical power supplied by a supervising adult, it’s hard not to succumb to sloth too.
With the baby safely tucked in her crib, my husband and I would race to our respective computers and begin our own plunge into the opiate that video games provided. Originally, we showed characteristic adult restraint, setting a proscribed time limit for this indulgent activity that was strictly observed. Then one day, the timer went off and I turned it off and instead of barking the usual, “Game over. Time’s up.” I returned to the computer to finish my round of spider solitaire. The kids stayed in Nintendo Land and my husband walloped on the French with his massive Roman navy in an island based scenario of Civilizations.
Hours drifted by and we ordered pizza. The baby played in the room with us, supplied with hugs and cuddles, occasional bottles and diapers and a pick me up as needed. The day shot by and everyone had vacated reality for all of 8 hours. We felt exhilarated and drained at the same time. We had frittered a day. Here in 2008we had managed to beat the demands that we always be doing with a unplanned unstructured day of pure indulgence that cost only the price of ordering three pizzas plus cheesy bread.
The next day was sort of a hangover, the price of our day of hooky. Laundry, dishes, grocery shopping, homework projects and gardening all acted as silent critical editorials for our day of indulging the Id. Naturally, we did what any beginning addict does, we made excuses, did a quick cursory attempt at each of the problems and then rushed back to our addiction of choice. Another wasted day, but this one did not thrill as much as the first when the work week returned. For a time, we keep this mentally and physically destructive but entirely legal habit under control. It was limited to a weekend only pursuit, we would binge play on Saturday and Sunday.
I stopped scheduling weekend activities.
However, the creeping addiction of virtual crack provided by fake worlds and fantastic swords kept trying to pry open the rest of the week and eventually succeeded. Homework finished, they would rush to their screen of choice. I wasn’t much better, feeding the baby as I played on my laptop in the kitchen.
Fortunately, we have many actors in our family and the one least invested performed an intervention of sorts. It was partially due, as all interventions actually are, to the increasing level of sloth by those supposedly providing guidance, supervision and care. Having requested a glass of water and received none, my two year old decided to help herself. She got a paper cup from the closet. She took it to the sink. She filled it to the brim and quenched her thirst .
Smacking her lips with satisfaction, she walked over to where her siblings sat pushing buttons and cheering on their latest hero, Link. Toddlers are called toddlers for a reason. Sippy cups are used for a reason. Toddlers carrying sippy cups can trip all day and not spill a drop. Toddlers carrying nearly full paper cups trip and electronic equipment designed to provide hours of entertainment do not like the results.
The cry went out too late but there it was, a 6x6 inch cube of plastic rendered unusable by virtue of one of the basic necessities of life and the “we presume” innocence of a two year old. Looking at the remains of the once beloved box, the children shook their heads in disbelief as we all recovered from our madness and remembered again the taste of barbeque, the spray of the pool waterslide and the glory of listening to baseball on the radio that should fill the hours of summer.
Never has a toy fallen from grace so quickly. Never has a recovery come so instantaneously. The next few weeks passed in a blur of summer activities that made me proud to be a parent and put the whole video crack addiction behind us. It was just a bad bump in parenting and family dynamics, a fall, the result of our fallen nature, from which we had emerged stronger.
Then the kids started a lemonade stand. I was feeling so proud of them for inventing a way to enjoy the day until I saw the sign. “Raising Money for our OWN Wii. 50 cents a cup. Donations Welcome.”
And I know, I may have to give the baby a glass of lemonade one day.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
My Two Cents vs. Their Three
Picking up the mail in January, I froze, and not just from the -10 degree wind chill whipping around for my winter pleasure. In my hands amidst the bills and late Christmas cards, flyers for pizza and leftover catalogs were an OVERDUE NOTICE.
I always pay all our bills at the beginning of each month. I keep the tabs and am scrupulous about knowing what checks I write and for whom. Maybe the Christmas rush had allowed me to miss one…I was upset as I sat at the table and began to open it up. Would my clerical error ruin our credit rating? The notice seemed to scold me with its very presence.
Opening the letter my fear gave way to rage. “This letter is to inform you that the bill on your 2004 Mini-van loan for the amount of $.03 is PAST DUE. Please remit the sum of $.03 to the Ameri-Bank account immediately to avoid procedures that could affect your CREDIT RATING.
I put down the letter. I got out my checkbook and past bill stubs. Sure enough, I had written the check for $379.76. The bill was $379.79. I called the 1-800 number to discuss the matter.
“May I help you Ms?” A disinterested voice came on after I had spent the better part of 15 minutes punching buttons on the phone tree to get to a human being.
“Yes! I’m calling about my account…”
She then proceeded to interrupt me to ask for all the information I had just spent 15 minutes punching into the phone tree. “How may I serve you today?” she said finally in a bored voice.
“Why am I getting an OVERDUE NOTICE?” I asked. “You have proof that I made my payment promptly.”
“Yes, it shows that you paid, but our computers indicate that you haven’t satisfied the terms of your contract for the loan.”
“Because of three cents?”
“Yes Ms.” She replied. “What if everyone started writing their checks for pennies less than the actual bill, the company would loose thousands of dollars.”
Momentarily stopped by the thought that a business could loose thousands because of a second of dyslexia, common sense reasserted itself in my brain. “This isn’t a vast conspiracy; I just switched a number by accident, from a nine to a six. I can’t just write three more cents on the next bill?”
“No Ms, our computer indicates that your account is not in compliance. Any additional money sent in next week would apply to the principle but not satisfy the outstanding balance left unpaid.” She droned.
“But it’s three cents. If I write a check for three cents it will cost .39 cents to mail it and more than that for you to process it. Why am I getting a threatening we will destroy your credit rating over three cents?”
“I understand Ms. But our computer reads the payment as insufficient funds and as such you have to send in a check immediately or it will forward your account to the appropriate collection agencies.” I could almost hear her filing her nails and chewing gum in indifference.
“What? For Three CENTS?”
“Yes Ms.” She said this with the evident self detachment culled from hours of telling countless people the same information for even smaller sums.
…..
Trying not to seethe at the incomprehensibility of having my credit rating ruined over three copper coins easily found on the bottom of my car for which the payments were made, I mentally debated the satisfaction of mailing three pennies, of mailing the next full payment in nothing but pennies, and of simply blowing the whole thing off.
“What about an electronic transfer?” I asked, trying to avoid an unnecessary chore and make the best of a stupid situation.
“There is a twelve dollar fee for the transfer Ms.”
“So it would cost me twelve dollars and three cents to square my account?”
“Yes—“
Not feeling particularly civil at that moment, I hung up in mid Ms.
As I wrote the check and began addressing the envelope, I wondered if the bank would fine me for having written a check for such a tiny amount. Phoning the bank, they explained that yes indeed, there would be a 5 dollar fee for writing a check for three cents. I could avoid the fee if the amount exceeded a dollar. I also figured that mailing three cents physically would cost $.45 cents in postage, and that probably sending three physical cents would warrant another letter from the bank.
Ripping up the check, I wrote a new one for a dollar with a note, “Since we both could use the change, I’m transferring my account.”
I always pay all our bills at the beginning of each month. I keep the tabs and am scrupulous about knowing what checks I write and for whom. Maybe the Christmas rush had allowed me to miss one…I was upset as I sat at the table and began to open it up. Would my clerical error ruin our credit rating? The notice seemed to scold me with its very presence.
Opening the letter my fear gave way to rage. “This letter is to inform you that the bill on your 2004 Mini-van loan for the amount of $.03 is PAST DUE. Please remit the sum of $.03 to the Ameri-Bank account immediately to avoid procedures that could affect your CREDIT RATING.
I put down the letter. I got out my checkbook and past bill stubs. Sure enough, I had written the check for $379.76. The bill was $379.79. I called the 1-800 number to discuss the matter.
“May I help you Ms?” A disinterested voice came on after I had spent the better part of 15 minutes punching buttons on the phone tree to get to a human being.
“Yes! I’m calling about my account…”
She then proceeded to interrupt me to ask for all the information I had just spent 15 minutes punching into the phone tree. “How may I serve you today?” she said finally in a bored voice.
“Why am I getting an OVERDUE NOTICE?” I asked. “You have proof that I made my payment promptly.”
“Yes, it shows that you paid, but our computers indicate that you haven’t satisfied the terms of your contract for the loan.”
“Because of three cents?”
“Yes Ms.” She replied. “What if everyone started writing their checks for pennies less than the actual bill, the company would loose thousands of dollars.”
Momentarily stopped by the thought that a business could loose thousands because of a second of dyslexia, common sense reasserted itself in my brain. “This isn’t a vast conspiracy; I just switched a number by accident, from a nine to a six. I can’t just write three more cents on the next bill?”
“No Ms, our computer indicates that your account is not in compliance. Any additional money sent in next week would apply to the principle but not satisfy the outstanding balance left unpaid.” She droned.
“But it’s three cents. If I write a check for three cents it will cost .39 cents to mail it and more than that for you to process it. Why am I getting a threatening we will destroy your credit rating over three cents?”
“I understand Ms. But our computer reads the payment as insufficient funds and as such you have to send in a check immediately or it will forward your account to the appropriate collection agencies.” I could almost hear her filing her nails and chewing gum in indifference.
“What? For Three CENTS?”
“Yes Ms.” She said this with the evident self detachment culled from hours of telling countless people the same information for even smaller sums.
…..
Trying not to seethe at the incomprehensibility of having my credit rating ruined over three copper coins easily found on the bottom of my car for which the payments were made, I mentally debated the satisfaction of mailing three pennies, of mailing the next full payment in nothing but pennies, and of simply blowing the whole thing off.
“What about an electronic transfer?” I asked, trying to avoid an unnecessary chore and make the best of a stupid situation.
“There is a twelve dollar fee for the transfer Ms.”
“So it would cost me twelve dollars and three cents to square my account?”
“Yes—“
Not feeling particularly civil at that moment, I hung up in mid Ms.
As I wrote the check and began addressing the envelope, I wondered if the bank would fine me for having written a check for such a tiny amount. Phoning the bank, they explained that yes indeed, there would be a 5 dollar fee for writing a check for three cents. I could avoid the fee if the amount exceeded a dollar. I also figured that mailing three cents physically would cost $.45 cents in postage, and that probably sending three physical cents would warrant another letter from the bank.
Ripping up the check, I wrote a new one for a dollar with a note, “Since we both could use the change, I’m transferring my account.”
Friday, December 7, 2007
As American As...
Baseball, Mom and Apple Pie...
I debated leaving out that phrase to let the reader fill in the blank as part of the conceit.
Everyone and their dog has used this cliché to describe some aspect of life in America, from illegal immigration to massive credit card debt to the latest model SUV with extra cargo space, a DVD player and heated leather seats. Googling the phrase to discover its orgin only muddied the waters of what it means to be “as American as” that game with a stick and nine players, your biological maternal unit and granny smiths chopped and mixed with a good heaping of sugar and tapioca baked to gooey perfection.
The web search for “American as…” lead to Music, Drugs and Movies, a tag for a Flowmaster Exhaust system and a What kind of Chocolate Pudding are You quiz that I refused to investigate. There was an ad for Jim Salestrom, a musician who someone loved as much as…you guessed it. I also found a screed on how politicians HAVE to like baseball, Mom and apple pie, as though those were bad obligations. Though I suppose cherry lobbyists would appreciate slight modifications, not to mention Hockey Players or for that matter, Dads.
Even old Bartlett Quotations let me down as I could not trace the source of this tried and true phrase that has been used to describe so many and so much while revealing so little. These words have been used to justify cookies and milk at snack time for kindergartners from super unctuous nutrition police in Lembke, though I don’t actually think Lembke is in America. Money management used it to describe the need to save for retirement. Five pages back in the Ask Jeeves search, were sites dedicated to both love and hated of all things Walmart, and a promotional page for a Portland Oregon Radio Station. Ten pages deep into Google, there was a scary website I also wouldn’t visit, hotboxingnews. I'm sure it's very heart warming and patriotic though.
I guess the need to equate one thing with another and ascribe virtue and appeal is very American. Think I’ll grab a pizza, watch some football and call my Mom.
What can I say? I’m still something of a traditionalist.
I debated leaving out that phrase to let the reader fill in the blank as part of the conceit.
Everyone and their dog has used this cliché to describe some aspect of life in America, from illegal immigration to massive credit card debt to the latest model SUV with extra cargo space, a DVD player and heated leather seats. Googling the phrase to discover its orgin only muddied the waters of what it means to be “as American as” that game with a stick and nine players, your biological maternal unit and granny smiths chopped and mixed with a good heaping of sugar and tapioca baked to gooey perfection.
The web search for “American as…” lead to Music, Drugs and Movies, a tag for a Flowmaster Exhaust system and a What kind of Chocolate Pudding are You quiz that I refused to investigate. There was an ad for Jim Salestrom, a musician who someone loved as much as…you guessed it. I also found a screed on how politicians HAVE to like baseball, Mom and apple pie, as though those were bad obligations. Though I suppose cherry lobbyists would appreciate slight modifications, not to mention Hockey Players or for that matter, Dads.
Even old Bartlett Quotations let me down as I could not trace the source of this tried and true phrase that has been used to describe so many and so much while revealing so little. These words have been used to justify cookies and milk at snack time for kindergartners from super unctuous nutrition police in Lembke, though I don’t actually think Lembke is in America. Money management used it to describe the need to save for retirement. Five pages back in the Ask Jeeves search, were sites dedicated to both love and hated of all things Walmart, and a promotional page for a Portland Oregon Radio Station. Ten pages deep into Google, there was a scary website I also wouldn’t visit, hotboxingnews. I'm sure it's very heart warming and patriotic though.
I guess the need to equate one thing with another and ascribe virtue and appeal is very American. Think I’ll grab a pizza, watch some football and call my Mom.
What can I say? I’m still something of a traditionalist.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Aren't we all on the B-team Most of the Time?
Growing up attending Catholic elementary school and high school (and college and grad school too, but that’s another matter), there was only one extracurricular activity available for social outlets in the seventies. Sports. This worked well if you were tall, athletic, coordinated, had stamina, strength, popularity or hustle. Nowhere in that list are the qualities, sense of humor or good with words. I dreamed of making the “A team.”
Then eighty’s television sort of hijacked that phrase to connote a black and red van with a Mr. T.
But the status of “B team” has remained unchallenged. Living in a county where birthing is considered a competitive sport, there have been systemic attempts to destroy the very essence of a “B-team.” These parents worry their kids self esteem will be irreparably damaged if they suffer the humiliation of knowing someone else is better at something than they. These attempts have failed even more impressively than the b-teams themselves.
Method #1: Not keeping score. Like that worked. Anyone who has ever been at a pee-wee soccer game where the parents don’t keep score was not paying attention. Just go up to a parent of a kid who does well. “My kid scored six goals!” Just go to a parent of a kid who did poorly. “She tried really hard. That team was tough. “ “She let in six goals!” the dad will whisper with hints of despair while mentally planning on going to the nearest sporting goods store to buy a net and a new soccer ball and spend the rest of the day coaching his offspring on how to be a goalie. The parents can deny the reality on paper by not writing down a score, but they and the kid doing the end zone dance after snack and the one moping in her cupcakes know the truth.
Method #2: A Team by any other name. Team I and Team II, that didn’t work for obvious reasons. Apples and Oranges? Red and Blue? Naming the teams as equals never worked. Why? Because the instant a scrimmage starts up, Everyone knows who the athletic kids are. This is an American oddity, that we fear acknowledging excellence for fear of putting down everyone else. We don’t want a kid to be a ball hog. However, the kids on the team know “He can shoot, he can score.” Guess what they do, feed the ball to the hog.
Method #3: Revisionist Theory in Application. Twenty first century values demand that all heroes be fallen ones, and all lesser or supporting casts be simply as of yet undiscovered vastly underrated prospects. I've seen people on the sideline praise the slightest moment of competence by a poor player stumbling down the court as being "Michael Jordanesque" while the true ace player of the team hustles to capture the bad bounce pass from said teammate. The mental yoga that these adults engage in is amazing. It’s like parents doing a high five with a kid for bringing home a “C.”
Then, reality reasserts itself. With two minutes left in a tight game, the kids on the bench were shouting, “NO, pass it to Her! HER!” Ball sharing was for when you were up by ten or more with no time left.
Method #4: Marxism. Some people at my son’s school tried doing an even exchange, in basketball. Each coach got two prime players, two decent players, two coachable players , one headache and one hopeless. Both teams had losing seasons. Losing seasons are okay. The kids will live. The pizza at the end of the season party still tastes as good. In the adults, however, there is a note of desperation in that creeps into even the most zealous advocate of communism in the sporting world as they stare at the prospects of another 0-8 season.
The problem with "A teams" is they require a High Physical standard. It's intangible but identifable. Today in America, we are discouraged from even acknowledging anything but excellence. Some parents unfortunately swallow this Kool-Aid. Children and their accomplishments have become part of the adult resume. "Hello, my name is ....and my kids are currently learning German, Russian, Sanskrit, making mock replicas of the seven wonders of the world out of toothpicks and training for the Olympics. They performed tap dance at the State House last year for the Easter Egg Roll and are ranked amongst Who's Better than Who in American Parents' Magazine. Want to see my web site? It has a day by day documentary plus commentary on their struggles to write the next great American novel."
Parents, being obsessive in their love for their children, often fail to recognize that a C is not an A, no matter how much you love them. Someone who can't shoot, can't dribble and can't pass should not be on the A team any more than someone who spells "towards" twoard should be given full points on a spelling test. We can't helicopter/spell check our children out of all their faults and weaknesses. If we do, we'll fail them morally and academically, as surely as "The Dairy of Anne Frank" can slip by Microsoft Word's spell check in a book report.
Fortunately, reality has a way of correcting these issues, even if it takes a season to do so.
No one wanted another perfect losing season. After that year, the coaches reasserted themselves in the draft picks, calling them A and B teams and everyone was clear on the matter.
Some parents were fuming mad that their kids weren’t on the A teams.
Intervention Time Out
The head coach/director however was having none of it. Rather than talk to irrational people rationally about being reasonable, he tacked up a picture of “Mr. T” with the caption, “I pity the fool who argues with me. You’re on the team, be it A or B! Anyone who argues will take the blame. He or she will be banned from the game. “
Both teams had winning seasons. Eating pizza in celebration, I swore I heard the coach/cyo director say, “I love it when a plan comes together.”
EDITOR'S NOTE and LEGAL DISCLAIMER: Please remember this is a humor blog. Any resemblance to reality is unintentional except to the extent it makes you laugh.
Then eighty’s television sort of hijacked that phrase to connote a black and red van with a Mr. T.
But the status of “B team” has remained unchallenged. Living in a county where birthing is considered a competitive sport, there have been systemic attempts to destroy the very essence of a “B-team.” These parents worry their kids self esteem will be irreparably damaged if they suffer the humiliation of knowing someone else is better at something than they. These attempts have failed even more impressively than the b-teams themselves.
Method #1: Not keeping score. Like that worked. Anyone who has ever been at a pee-wee soccer game where the parents don’t keep score was not paying attention. Just go up to a parent of a kid who does well. “My kid scored six goals!” Just go to a parent of a kid who did poorly. “She tried really hard. That team was tough. “ “She let in six goals!” the dad will whisper with hints of despair while mentally planning on going to the nearest sporting goods store to buy a net and a new soccer ball and spend the rest of the day coaching his offspring on how to be a goalie. The parents can deny the reality on paper by not writing down a score, but they and the kid doing the end zone dance after snack and the one moping in her cupcakes know the truth.
Method #2: A Team by any other name. Team I and Team II, that didn’t work for obvious reasons. Apples and Oranges? Red and Blue? Naming the teams as equals never worked. Why? Because the instant a scrimmage starts up, Everyone knows who the athletic kids are. This is an American oddity, that we fear acknowledging excellence for fear of putting down everyone else. We don’t want a kid to be a ball hog. However, the kids on the team know “He can shoot, he can score.” Guess what they do, feed the ball to the hog.
Method #3: Revisionist Theory in Application. Twenty first century values demand that all heroes be fallen ones, and all lesser or supporting casts be simply as of yet undiscovered vastly underrated prospects. I've seen people on the sideline praise the slightest moment of competence by a poor player stumbling down the court as being "Michael Jordanesque" while the true ace player of the team hustles to capture the bad bounce pass from said teammate. The mental yoga that these adults engage in is amazing. It’s like parents doing a high five with a kid for bringing home a “C.”
Then, reality reasserts itself. With two minutes left in a tight game, the kids on the bench were shouting, “NO, pass it to Her! HER!” Ball sharing was for when you were up by ten or more with no time left.
Method #4: Marxism. Some people at my son’s school tried doing an even exchange, in basketball. Each coach got two prime players, two decent players, two coachable players , one headache and one hopeless. Both teams had losing seasons. Losing seasons are okay. The kids will live. The pizza at the end of the season party still tastes as good. In the adults, however, there is a note of desperation in that creeps into even the most zealous advocate of communism in the sporting world as they stare at the prospects of another 0-8 season.
The problem with "A teams" is they require a High Physical standard. It's intangible but identifable. Today in America, we are discouraged from even acknowledging anything but excellence. Some parents unfortunately swallow this Kool-Aid. Children and their accomplishments have become part of the adult resume. "Hello, my name is ....and my kids are currently learning German, Russian, Sanskrit, making mock replicas of the seven wonders of the world out of toothpicks and training for the Olympics. They performed tap dance at the State House last year for the Easter Egg Roll and are ranked amongst Who's Better than Who in American Parents' Magazine. Want to see my web site? It has a day by day documentary plus commentary on their struggles to write the next great American novel."
Parents, being obsessive in their love for their children, often fail to recognize that a C is not an A, no matter how much you love them. Someone who can't shoot, can't dribble and can't pass should not be on the A team any more than someone who spells "towards" twoard should be given full points on a spelling test. We can't helicopter/spell check our children out of all their faults and weaknesses. If we do, we'll fail them morally and academically, as surely as "The Dairy of Anne Frank" can slip by Microsoft Word's spell check in a book report.
Fortunately, reality has a way of correcting these issues, even if it takes a season to do so.
No one wanted another perfect losing season. After that year, the coaches reasserted themselves in the draft picks, calling them A and B teams and everyone was clear on the matter.
Some parents were fuming mad that their kids weren’t on the A teams.
Intervention Time Out
The head coach/director however was having none of it. Rather than talk to irrational people rationally about being reasonable, he tacked up a picture of “Mr. T” with the caption, “I pity the fool who argues with me. You’re on the team, be it A or B! Anyone who argues will take the blame. He or she will be banned from the game. “
Both teams had winning seasons. Eating pizza in celebration, I swore I heard the coach/cyo director say, “I love it when a plan comes together.”
EDITOR'S NOTE and LEGAL DISCLAIMER: Please remember this is a humor blog. Any resemblance to reality is unintentional except to the extent it makes you laugh.
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