Abnormalities of Life

I had two or three glorious years at Christmas during my youth. I remember the delight of pitting my parents against each other in a war of "who shows love more by buying the kid better stuff at Christmas". I knew it was greedy, but figured it was justified by being such a young product of a divorced home.

As I got older and more daring, my parents got more cunning too. Eventually, they spoke and figured out my secret plan. It went from "oh, you want that? we must get it then" to "you don't really want that, do you?". Sure enough, nearly every time, my answer was to freeze for a moment in deep thought and eventually reply with "no, I guess not". Kudos to my parents for keeping me from becoming a spoiled brat.

I'm sure I was not alone in my selfish phase. Luckily, I was raised right and taught the value of hard work and the almighty dollar. So what happens when those who never came out of that phase are now the parents?

On my drive to work this morning, I learned of something deeply unsettling. The local radio station (I'm saying / linking Q102 here in the hopes that they'll find my online) was hosting a contest on its morning show where a pair of tickets to the upcoming Miley Sirus / Hanna Montana concert was the prize. There was a secret word that, if uttered by one of the cast members, would prompt listeners to dial in and caller 102 would win the prize.

This morning, the lucky winner surprised the show members and the listening audience with "I don't want the tickets". He opted instead to have the show add them to a series of auction items where proceeds benefit a holiday charity for the less fortunate.

Then, one by one and quickly ten by ten, outraged parents called in, texted in, and--in a few isolated incidents--even stopped by the radio station to complain over what he had done. They claimed he did not have any right to do this; it wasn't how the game was supposed to work; folks were outraged that he took his fifteen minutes of fame to look like a caring stud and do something rather than let them be the cool mom or dad that scored tickets.

Reality check. . . the winner won the prize fair and square. The fact that he refused them is essentially just saying "Thank you, I'll regift these and send them elsewhere". The only difference is that he regifted to the giver. BIG F'N DEAL!

One parent complained that this wasn't fair and that she would now have to negotiate with scalpers as her only hope. Did she think that no one else was going to call in and she was going to win by the rest of Philadelphia's default? Never leverage your success on odds like that. Second, would you prefer that he take the tickets and become another scalper, making his own profit? Either way, YOU did not get the tickets. Faster fingers next time, toots.

Lastly, you're going to condemn someone for doing something nice in our cruel world?

My friend Marianne has a lot to say about frontal lobe development among minors; she's a really smart psychologist. She told me one time that most kids have awful reasoning because the frontal lobe (naturally the part that moderates this) isn't fully developed until 18 or 19; well above the target demographic for this type of show. So essentially, while they may need these tickets, and you would be a great parent for procuring them legitimately and humanely, they don't really need the tickets and will probably be OK after just a few days. Chances are, two or three years from now, they won't even remember anything about the concert, whether they went or not.

That being said, why subject me and other listeners like me to your greed. I completely understand wanting to give your kids the best and you'll stop at very little to accomplish that. It is what we all want for those we love. But at what cost? Berating those attempting to make a difference for those who are less fortunate? Give me a break!

. . . both the real ones and the cartoon ones.

The following describes a recent Sunday afternoon. I actually sent this message to my friends because as you'll see, I lost them all. If you are my friend, you don't have to read this, as you already have. If you didn't get it, I don't have your e-mail address either. If you don't know me, please don't judge me by this. . . I am usually much better.


Why I hate rodents:

For those of you privileged enough to enjoy home ownership, you know that there are great highs and low lows associated with it. For those who are not homeowners yet, here is your Condo 101 lesson.

As a condo owner, you are only actually responsible for only everything within your walls, with few exceptions (ie, the doors, windows, and lights that are an extension of the inside) and your patio. The association takes care of the rest. My roof is considered among "the rest", which is why when my neighborhood squirrel family found an uncovered attic vent within which to take up residence in my rafters, my hands were tied.

Side note. . . Matt K and Jimmy. . . if you would like to reenact your roles in the original Blair Squirrel Project, I think we may have the makings of a killer sequel. (editorial: Matt K and Jimmy were my college roommates. We had a squirrel infestation in our college apartment. This was the same time that The Blair Witch Project was all the rage. We of course made a really bad home movie about it where Jimmy's GF at the time went apeshit on a stuffed animal)

If you know anything about squirrels, you'll know that they are a pest to remove. You can't gas them out, as they'll rot inside the house. You actually have to wait for them to escape and then cover their entrance. If you miss one, they're trapped inside and scramble to get out. That's what happened to me. But now that the little guy was inside, it was now my problem. The condo association has since decided to keep this situation under their jurisdiction, but I had to fight for my rights on that one.

Well anyway, Saturday night, he decided to pay a visit into my kitchen by digging through the drywall of my ceiling. He never actually popped through though; I guess he was afraid of the drop.

Me in my anal-retentive manner, decided to patch the hole as quickly as possible. With the association tasked with removing him, I supplied myself with the latest and greatest Home Depot had to offer in my quest to fix the hole. I did a damn good job except for the fact that I was fairly well coated in Spackle and ceiling prep material.

Realizing that I didn't have the foresight to change into crap, I sprang into action. The shorts I was wearing were earmarked for last week's Disney World trip. And with that, I emptied my pockets, dropped trow (and then changed-so get your minds out of the gutter) and threw them in the wash along with a few other things.

30 minutes later as I was examining the thoroughly confusing Disney ticket ordering website (if you have questions, ask me or Matt; we're totally pros now), I had a question and decided to call. Can you believe the mouse doesn't have an 800#? So rather than use my ghetto home phone which charges long distance, I decided to use my cell. Now if only I could find it. . .

I called it from my home phone because I can usually locate it that way. But it went straight to voicemail.

"Where could it be?" I thought. "Certainly not in the washer; I checked my pockets".

Oh. . . but I didn't. It seems that as I contorted to match the contour of my ceiling, LG C300 actually twisted around in my pocket and got stuck in a fold of fabric that I mistook for a the bottom of my pocket.

I tried for 2 hours to dry LG, but he was a casualty of Clorox. He could send and receive calls, but he was blind, and legally deaf. He also had no way of letting you know that there was a call coming.

Luckily, Matt goes through phones like babies go through diapers, and had a spare one.

In transferring the numbers, I learned that LG had a birth defect.

Menu trees are made for idiots who break their screens and for the OCD sufferers that prefer a process for everything. Rather than relying on the cool graphics to take you where you need to go, a sequence of numerical commands help you maneuver. For instance, the instruction manual said "to complete this task, hit menu, then 8, then 6, then 1 or 2 (depending on what you wanted)". Only, there was a typo on the book that prompted me to delete all contacts rather than transferring them.

Genius!

So . . . in recap. . . I hate real rodents because they F with my house and my stuff. I hate cartoon rodents because they are so confusing that you have to call except that they make you aware that you can't call because the real rodent screwed you in the first place.

I stand slightly corrected. During conversation at work today, I forgot that long before Diddy did the recycled track thing, Robert Matthew (Vanilla Ice) Van Winkle made it big off of a resampling of "Under Pressure". My mistake.

Dear Rihanna:

I have a confession. I secretly really like you, despite a growing negative disposition that many of my friends may have against you. To some, you sound annoying and too poppy. I'll agree to some extent. At the same time, your flavor is different from many other artists currently recording.

That being said, in the same breath that I salute you, I also find myself condeming you for being a rip-off.

Reason A: Your current #1 song, Umbrella (ella ella) is at least an original tune, but once it was on the decline, you rerecorded it with some no-name Jay-Z prodigy to gain some extra mileage. Good business sense, but bad music sense.

Reason B: Over five years ago, Sean P. Puffy do wa diddy Combs invented the idea of recycling musical tracks with new lyrics. It wasn't original then, but it was a novel concept. Here we are in 2007 and you have done this not once, but twice!

Example 1: In your first album, you took the Soft Cell classic Tainted Love and bastardized it (despite my affinity for the actual song) with S.O.S.

Example 2: Last night, I heard your new single Shut Up and Drive and my first thought was "OMG! Someone redid Blue Monday!". Granted, Orgy is more obscure and Blue Monday never hit cult status, but the Candyass album was one of the major LP's of the late 1990's.

Riri. . . please learn some originality!

Sincerely,

Your Closeted Fan and Critic

Jay

If you aren't from the Greater Philadelphia region of our fine US of A, you may not know the term "Wawa". Similar to a certain four letter f-word in the English language, Wawa can be used a variety of ways. For example:

Noun: "I'm going to Wawa"
Adjective: "Wawa run!"
Verb: "Ima Wawa"

Wawa is actually the region's largest convenience store chain. Similar to the more geographically diverse Sheetz, it is a veritable smorgasbord of good, but not necessarily good for you food. You can purchase your gasoline, your freshly prepared sandwich, pre-packaged salads, cheese sticks, breakfast munchies, coffee, fountain sodas--the whole gamut. If you've ever had the pleasure, you'll agree that their mac-n-cheese hot side dish is among the best inventions ever to pass one's lips.

Between my LAFitness and home, I pass approximately 3 or 4 Wawa outlets (depending on my route). Considering that the gym is less than ten miles from my house, the Wawa concentration and market penetration is fairly high.

With practically a 1:1 store to customer ratio, why are they still so crowded? I stopped at one today to grab a bottle of water. At 10:30 PM, there was a rush of cars in the lot, throngs of people in the store, and various others deciding where to go next. And unlike the Western Pennsylvania tradition of teenagers choosing Sheetz as the local hang-out, none of the 30 people in there were lolly gagging (I love that word)--they were all on some sort of mission.

This mission was most clearly evidenced by the parking lot chaos. I was nearly backed into, had to wait in line for a space, had to meander around several idle and mis-parked vehicles, and wait in a line to exit. This is normal, and tonight was actually slow!

What is with our wawonder? More important, how does arriving at these meccas of suburban life make it OK for people to completely lose touch with rules of the road, courtesy, and human decency.

If you are in the area, don't worry, they're a Fortune 500 company; your Wawaloha Hawaiian coffee and sausage Sizzli will still be there even if you take the time to park like a human.

If you aren't from the area, you should just be so jealous that you can't Wawa!

Ya. I didn't think it was holiday season already. And Christmas 2006 is but a distant memory now. So. . . why is my favorite neighbor Debbie finally getting around to throwing out her tree?

Need I mention that she solicited my help in chucking it--illegally I might ad--into the dumpster?

"You just happened to get here at the wrong time" she claims.

No no. I happen to live near the wrong person!

When visiting one of my friends over the weekend, I was pulled over for speeding. If at all possible, never have this happen to you if passing through the Commonwealth of Virginia.

I will admit that I was not at or below the speed limit. I highly doubt that I was going 81 in a 55 zone though. Nonetheless, I now face a misdemeanor felony charge for reckless driving and endangerment. I have a summons to appear in court at the end of May. Failure to appear will result in the possible warrant for extradition arrest even though I live in Pennsylvania.

I repeat: DO NOT SPEED IN VIRGINIA. I'll keep you informed about how things progress in the coming weeks. Perhaps I'll begin a new blog chronicling my days in life behind bars.

My firm recently collaborated with another to pull off a major presentation for a large healthcare client. When our forces first convened two weeks ago, the primary rep from the other firm (herein known as "Buck") tried to talk about evidence-based design. Evidence-based design is basically a nation-wide grass-roots effort that hospitals are making to emphasize hospitality within a hospital setting. It primarily emphasizes the positive impact that the built environment can have on patient healing, safety and overall satisfaction. There is a lot of evidence to support these findings, but because so much is still so new, some old-school folks have not bought into it yet.

Buck argued with our folks over whether evidence-based design was really worth mentioning in the presentation. The graphic that he developed for this discussed that so much evidence is just anecdotal right now and not empirical. It was a convincing argument, except that it was the difference between empirical and antidotal findings. According to Webster, there is no way that antidotal is used correctly in this instance. I'm a firm believer that if you don't know how to use a word, don't use it. Especially when using medical technology around clinicians. No matter how hard we convinced Buck that his word usage was improper, he insisted on using it.

Luckily the slide, and all that it inferred, was deleted in the 11th hour, stopping the grammar gods in their tracks. . . until. . .

At the presentation, when opened up to the floor, a question was asked about how to gain consensus among two groups that do not work together. The person continued in saying "sometimes aside from an unfamiliarity, these groups can often be likened to the Sunnis and Shiites".

In response to the question, Buck started with "well, I know things between Sunny and Cher were awful, but. . . ".

WHAT!? He was dead serious too. There are no words.

I append my previous statement. If you don't know what it means, don't crack a joke about it.

Have you ever had someone ask a rhetorical question in your presence, but the tone in which it is delivered makes you feel the need to postulate an answer?

Yes, kind of like that. It is so much worse when its in person though.

Ah, wintertime. The snow is beginning to fall today on what is potentially our first major storm of the winter. I can’t complain; it is the middle of February, I’m heading on vacation in 4 days, and the first half of winter was unusually tropical.

As the office moms are all buzzing today regarding the possibility of an early dismissal for their children, I reminisce about those wonderous years when money had no meaning, and snow was worth its weight in gold. As I am thinking back, I find myself fired up about a snow-day experience that I am still angered about . . . 20 years later.

Our elementary schools were combined at the end of my third grade-year. My elementary school (Acme) was made K-3 for the entire district with the other facility (Colfax) as 4-6. I still don’t agree with the decision to integrate an entire class so early, but I guess I turned out OK for the most part.

We had an early storm in my fourth grade year—my first year at Colfax. We were granted an early dismissal and had to wait in a room near the front door where they queued lines of students waiting for different busses. “Bus A” was broadcasted over the address system. Mr. Ide (our music teacher) sent us marching towards the front door. As we made it to the front, we realize that the bus number posted in the window was not “A’, but “C”.

Sensing our confusion, the hallway monitor—a sixth grade teacher whom I had never seen before—realized the error and turned us around. As we returned to the bus room, Mr. Ide asked why we returned. As the first one back in the room, I looked up at him, pointed outside to the woman in the hall, and said “she sent us back in”, fully expecting her to communicate the error with him.

No sooner had I said this when Mrs. Miller—a name now permanently filed into my psyche next to evil—stormed into the room at lightening speed, grabbed my wrist, slapped it, and scolded me.

“How dare you. My name is not ‘she’. I have an actual name. It is Mrs. Miller. Never make that mistake again!”

Let’s put this in perspective. I was answering a question asked by another teacher. Perhaps it was rude to point, but I was 8; manners were not inherent at that age. I never heard of this woman or her name and shouldn’t have needed to. It isn’t like I said “that bitch in the hallway sent us back”. Last time I checked, “she” was not extremely rude.

I don’t know why I am so bothered by that single point in time, but I remember crying for three hours when I got home. Years later, we learned that my mom and Mrs. Miller’s mom work together. They would always chat about how well I was doing, and how fond of me Mrs. Miller was. What kind of bullshit is that? Feeling aint mutual babe.

If you are out there, Madame M., grant me an apology. It has been 19 years since this incident, yet I still recall it as though it were yesterday. To date, I have never had anyone be so rude to me as you were back then.

Hollywood can't hold a candle to this one. I went to Wawa on Saturday to buy some Nantucket Nectar Apple Juice—my god, how I’m addicted to it right now. While I was there, I was scarred for life.

They looked fairly short-staffed. There was only one general cashier and one deli worker. When I got to the counter, the cashier was actually over at the deli helping to reduce some of the overflow. I waited patiently, as Matt was still selecting something and no one else was behind me, with one equally patient gentleman in front of me. As the line formed though, the cashier noticed and rushed back over to help.

As the cashier—we’ll call him Mike—was counting out change for the guy in front of me, this older woman rushed over demanding her coupon and money back as things were taking entirely too long. As Mike maintained eye contact with her, he finished giving the man in front of me his change. Before he could finish that, she demanded it again. Tending to her was the next thing he did.

Before she left, she was sure to state very audibly “I have never received such awful service than I did here. I write for the Philadelphia Inquirer and you’ll be in the Tuesday edition.” She then stormed off in a huff, but not without eyeing up everyone in the store first. I guess the communal chuckle didn’t help.

I had finished but was waiting for Matt to check out. As we left, the woman returned to the store with cell-phone camera in tow, taking snapshots of each person who had left. She must have been planning some hexes or something.

“You will all be featured in the Tuesday edition”, she proclaimed.

“Great! I love the Daily News. I can’t wait to see my picture up there”, said a man in the store in a very sarcastic tone.

“Not when you see what for” said crazy lady, as she continued to take more pictures.

As we left, Matt was now pouring his newly-purchased washer fluid into the car. The crazy woman was now being barraged by two women who demanded that she delete their pictures. Not only did she refuse, but she now took a picture of their license plate. As she then realized that their Escalade could trample her tiny Corolla, she backed down and backed out.

As her final departure from the madness, she got back out of her car one last time and screamed “Hey Baby”. I couldn’t see, as my line of sight was blocked by the hood of the car. But Matt surely got an eyeful. . . of one. . . fifty. . . year. . . old. . . breast.

There are no words. While, I’m fairly certain she doesn’t write for the Daily News, she should be in sales. You can be certain that I will be purchasing my copy tomorrow.

I just finished my tax return. I finally jumped into the computer age and used Turbo Tax. I never found taxes extremely difficult, and actually like the challenge. But I received a free trial of the software this year and was actually excited to learn just how many deductions were available that I never knew about. YAY!

I had finished up and was already dreaming of ways to spend this new found money; unfortunately, credit card bills kept getting in the way. Despite that, I was ready to click "send" and see how quickly I could receive my return. When I went to pay for the software so that it would send my new calculations to the IRS--that's the hook with the free trial--it said that my card was expired.

Sure enough, I have exactly three days until my card is expired, but the system defaulted to the beginning of the month rather than the end. In a panic, I telephoned American Express and asked what could have happened. Apparently, I received a new card in December. News to me! What worries me is that the same thing happened with MasterCard, a card I never use. Had I not needed to use it for my annual spend-to-keep-it-open ritual, it would have been months before I realized it was missing.

In both instances, the address was correct. My only assumption is that the cards came sheathed in the same overly decorative envelopes usually used for new credit offers. I am sure to rip them up and throw each half away into trash cans emptied at different intervals. This would prevent application without it being through me, as it is only possible to have one half of the paperwork at any time. If I ripped, and the card(s) were on one half of the envelope, I was never the wiser.

I was recently the victim of identity theft. My credit was not affected, but someone used my information to rack up over $875 in online gambling debt that I now have to defend against. While this amount is significant, it is small when considering what could have been.

I usually blog to gripe about the world's latest oddities and idiosyncrasies. Today, let this be a warning to me and to all of you to be more diligent in protecting your identity. Shred your documents. Check your finances regularly. Monitor your credit. When you buy Turbo Tax, you actually get a free yearly subscription of credit monitoring. I highly recommend it. For your free credit report, provided as a government mandate from the three major credit bureaus each year, visit www.freecreditreport.com. You'll be glad you did.

I was watching TV last night and saw two commercials back to back, and had to comment on both.

I tried finding the first one online but could not. If I eventually find it, I'll update you all. It is for the Pennsylvania Lottery. It features Gus, "Pennsylvania's Second Most Famous Groundhog"--why any state needs more than one is beyond me, but heck it put Punxatawny on the map--as the main lottery spokes puppet. Gus, although cute, is about as technically sophsiticated as 1980's-era animatronics can get. Too bad its 2007. What really bothers me though, is that he plays a superhero watching over the people of a city as they prepare for the day by purchasing lottery tickets. The problem is that the city he is watching over is New York; you can see Times Square in the background. What ever happened to showing a Pennsylvania city in a Pennsylvania commercial? I hear Philadelphia and Pittsburgh both have tall buildings within urban landscapes. Heck, even Harrisburg, Allentown, Erie, or Scranton--now famous thanks to NBC's The Office--would be better. Can I get a cheer for Ephrata? Williamsport? Jim Thorpe?

This commercial was immediately followed by one for a local radio station. Wired 96.5 is one of the top 40 stations in the Philadelphia Market. A few months back, Chio (what the hell kind of name is that) was DJ for a different top 40 station. He was the annoying DJ I spoke of previously. Now that he has moved on, the marketing push to convert listeners has been begun. They feature him in a cheesy commercial where he does a show with sparklers, wears a dumb beret, and defaults to Beyonce every second. Its bad, but it is about par for local TV. What bothers me is him actually. He has a face truly made for radio. . .



Or made for a cartoon.

I know. It has been. . . oh. . . 6 months since I've last posted. My apologies.

One of my new year's resolutions is to get back into it. It should hopefully work; it isn't painful like the gym or anything.

So to summarize the last few months. . .


July:
I stopped blogging around the same time I stopped commuting to the city. Coincidence? Totally. I went from a relaxing 40-minute train ride to a hellish 35-minute drive to my new workplace. . . 5 miles from home. No longer was it easy for me to think of good topics by reading the useless drivel that is the free Metro paper on SEPTA trains. Now I had annoying DJ's keeping me company each morning while I looked around at make-up artists, fine diners, entertainers, and other countless car-based professions on the parking lot that is main street.

I also joined a gym in July. Six months of mostly-religious attendance and I notice nothing. I'm still skinny and emaciated, but my boobies bounce now when I do steps. That's good for women, but what about men?


August:
I was pleasantly surprised by a new morning DJ with an annoyance factor only half of what there used to be.

I was now comfortably established at my 8-5 home too. For background, my new boss is /was actually my old boss from the previous gig. She jumped ship and I followed a year later.

I also began grad school in August. My first class was the deplorable, abhorable statistics--bane of my undergrad existence. By class #2 I knew I was a goner.


September:
BBQ season may have been nearing its end by this point, but for me and my new grill, it was still going strong. You'll be happy to know that it is now stored for the winter--despite the fact that this is the most-awesomely warm winter yet.


October:
I vacationed to San Francisco (with side trips to Reno and Napa Valley) with Matt. He used to live there and knows all the cool haunts. I loved it and have many great pictures that will some day be shared somewhere other than in my camera's memory stick (are we sensing a theme when it comes to my stick-to-it-iveness?).

I took my first business trip with the new company. There is nothing like going to Miami and being woken up by the sun as it pours in through the 19th-story window of your water-front hotel. Unless of course you are woken up at 6:30 AM after having gone to bed at 2:00 (from working-alas not partying) and suffering a California-Florida red eye the night prior. But I survived.

I was so inspired by the beauty and culture of San Francisco. I loved it. In homage, I became a lesbian later that month. But only for a day--the 31st. Most people loved the joke, except for this one really drunk guy who actually thought I was a 6'-tall amazonian woman. Dude. . . Seriously? But the best quote of the night was some girl on 2nd Street who said to her friends, "Dude, they're lesbians. . . that's awesome". I actually think she may have been one too, in which case my reason for life is fulfilled. For those curious. . . I'm the red-head.


November:
Nothing exciting happened this month at all. . . Unless you count the painful finger crunch of Thanksgiving. I blame Ford for manufacturing a stupid sliding door mechanism. I blame myself for getting defeated by said sliding door mechanism. I blame my father for almost driving off with me still attached to the car. I thank and simultaneously apologize to the woman in the car next to us who helped stop my father, rescue me, and tolerate my falsetto screams. God, I am such a girl!


December:
It was cold. . . for like 3 days. . . and then it wasn't cold anymore. I rejoiced. Then it all happened again. Now it is warm again, and I am rejoicing.

I decorated for Christmas--really early. I finally have a tree that looks like a tree. My former roommate recalls the year that I won a plethora of Bud-Light / NHL-themed key chains and used those on our tree. I'm glad I've progressed since then. Now if only I could convince my family that one dozen penguin ornaments are sufficient and 5 dozen is scary, I'd be set.

I finished my statistics class. I rejoiced. I learned of my B+ and REALLY rejoiced.

I also had a party: The 2nd-Annual Krazy Kookie Time (don't ask about the spelling. . . a moment of pure insanity during the planning of the 1st-Annual Krazy Kookie Time--who am I to mess with tradition?). Everyone brings a few dozen cookies of one type and everyone goes home with several dozen in an assortment. We had wine. . . lots of wine. We'll just say that I started the night with 5 bottles, threw out 7 empties, and now own 10. That sounds like Enron Math to me, but its fun.

I had quality time with the family, as do most this time of year. I know I'm exactly like both of my parents. I have my mom's creativity, independence, and wit. I have my dad's stubbornness, fear of decision-making, and penny-pinching miserly-ness. Perhaps my parents' divorce was based on the fact that these traits do not get along overly well, possibly illustrating why I am so conflicted. But we'll go into the family stuff later. I have SO much on just that alone. I'll just say--we're never going to Cold Stone Creamery ever again.

Lastly, New Years Eve. None of it will go into print for fear of the waves of repercussions that could go on forever.


January:
Its January 2nd. Be patient! I'm hoping to add a few of these. Thanks for coming back though to read!

My DSL modem broke. As such, I had to call Verizon to schedule a replacement. I am so angered by the level of inadequate customer service provided to me.

I am very liberal. However, I must say that while I encourage equal opportunity, I am not a huge fan of sending these customer service jobs overseas to begin with. I guess that is one price we pay for true globalization. It was originally meant as a cost-cutting measure as overseas wages were significantly lower than domestic wages, especially once benefit costs were tabulated. While Verizon's plan is supposedly aimed at saving me money, I would gladly pay more for an experience similar to that when contacting Cingular, which operates from Tennessee. I'll take a drawl over a choppy accent any day.

My call was routed to "George". George did not speak very good English, which quickly answered the question of whether I was speaking to someone stateside or in India. George could not answer my questions, he proceeded to tell me (not in so many words) that I don't know what I'm talking about. I must have ventured too far off of script. Once he realized he could not help me, it was determined that I would need a replacement modem. He struggled to deliver my home address, having no clue how to pronounce Philadelphia. PHIL-A-DEL-PHI-A! You know, one of America's LARGEST cities! Even in Mumbai, Delhi, Calcutta, or anywhere else from where you may be operating, you have surely heard of it. And I am surely not the first person in all of Philadelphia to require a replacement part.

I am sure that costs for the amount of time I wasted trying to bridge the apparent language barrier have now been offset by the costs it could have taken to resolve the issue (which I might add was not actually resolved) in half of the time speaking to someone who was didn't have the Verizon Script in one hand and Hooked on Phonics in the other.

I hate to cut into George too harshly though, he did give it his best shot. I'm more angered by the ineptitude of his employer. Here is my favorite part. The automated system placed me on hold, but first ran me through some potential trouble-shooting procedures. Finally, before sending me to George, they finished with the message "we're sorry you are having difficulty connecting to the internet, we will be happy to assist you. While you wait for one of our technicians, try logging on to help.verizon.net to assist you."

Correct me if I missed something here, but how is providing me with a website to troubleshoot connectivity going to help me AT ALL?

Screw you Verizon. And your little Indians too!