My problem is that I’m too nice. When I was on my honeymoon and the pizza waitress served up a big ole pepperoni pizza instead of the mushroom one I ordered, and my brand new husband said, “Can’t you just eat it?” I dined on greasy pepperoni and smiled graciously.
When the movie rental place suggested I pony up $50 in late fines for movies I knew I returned on time, I smiled, handed the clerk my membership card, and walked away forever.
When the fat lady in the tight (sheer) bathing suit wanted to be friends at the local amusement park. . .well, I ran and hid behind my kids on that one, but now I AM the fat lady in the tight (not sheer) bathing suit, so you see how it works.
The movie rental place went out of business. The pizza place has become a shop for cheap souvenirs. The husband is now known as The Defendant and has been replaced with a dashing pirate captain.
So I never saw the need to go all Rambo in the face of suburban unrest.
Until now.
Out in Texas, where the bad times are bigger, Taco Bell jacked up the price on the crunchy beef burritos an additional fifty cents. And if burritos are crunchy here in South Carolina, I can just imagine the crackle they carry deep in the heart of Texas.
And the man ordered seven. SEVEN BURRITOS. I don’t let my kids eat a taco without a license, and this man wanted to wolf down seven burritos surrounded by innocent byproducts.
The price gouging would add an extra three and a half bucks to his total. Highway robbery on a grand scale! So it’s perfectly understandable that this man—we’ll call him the Burrito Bandito just because it sounds big enough for Texas—brought out the firepower when he found out about the price increase.
Now I can work up a perfectly good pout over the price of gasoline, but this is gas of another color. When he headed out to his trusty energy-efficient ride and laid out his assault rifle on the sunroof, the Taco Bell manager, who probably has never played the role of bullseye, even on TV, locked up and called the police.
After a three-hour standoff at a nearby motel that did not provide room service, not even chips and salsa, to our amigo, the affair was settled.
The tacos still cost the same, but now there’s a bigger price. And the Burrito Bandito never did get his authentic American Mexican food. Which is probably a good thing.
Because, really, seven burritos? Now that’s assault with a deadly weapon.
Laugh
Showing posts with label Defendant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Defendant. Show all posts
Monday, March 21, 2011
Monday, July 26, 2010
Going, Going, Guilty
I held up a tee shirt with a navy theme and shook my head. “Horizontal stripes are out.”
“Of course. You don’t want to take any chances.”
“And vertical stripes scream, “Cell Block Nine!”
"You wouldn’t want to be cited for bad taste.”
“Orange would be tacky.”
“There’s nothing worse than a fashion police repeat offender.”
“And a jumpsuit would be out of the question.”
The Captain snorted. “Look. You’re going to jury duty. Not a Totally Inmate Barbie fashion extravaganza.”
I knew my stubborn streak could outlast his sarcasm. No contest. No charge. "Barbie’s done a lot of things in 50 years, but I don’t recall Ken ever having to bail her out of the pokey for a wardrobe felony.”
It’s Jury Duty Eve and I’m trying to select an outfit that says “Trial by Jury” without stepping over the line to “Accessory after the Fact.” The Captain doesn’t understand the importance of dressing for an occasion. Any gal can tell you that the right wardrobe choice puts everyone at ease. It’s easy to see who the people person is in this relationship.
Of course, except for a kindred feeling toward Judge Judy and a lightning round session in divorce court a while back, I don’t have a lot of experience with the judicial system here on the outskirts of Sugar Tit. I’m just hoping I don’t get so carried away with the Hammer of Justice that I drive a nail through my foot.
Although I've been keeping a keen eye on the whole Lindsay Lohan jailbird drama, I have more experience with cell phones than cells. When I have a set of bars, I can call out of network. She calls her network from behind bars. But if I use her time table, my term in jury duty will last about ten minutes.
Right now I’m torn between a white sundress to emphasize the importance a clean record and a gray pantsuit to point out the no man's land between right and wrong.
Cap cleared his throat. “If you wear white, you’ll probably spill ketchup all over yourself at lunch and illustrate the appearance of a murder victim.”
He’ll never understand the nuances of Truth and Justice.
“I might not spill anything this time. In this country we emphasize the concept of ‘Innocent Until Proven Guilty.' I'm completely unbiased."
What if the Defendant were somebody like your ex-husband, on trial for not paying child support?”
I grabbed a black robe and pulled it on.
“In that case, stand back. I want to be the one that pops open the trap door on the gallows.”
If freedom is going to ring, I want to crack his Liberty Bell myself.
“Of course. You don’t want to take any chances.”
“And vertical stripes scream, “Cell Block Nine!”
"You wouldn’t want to be cited for bad taste.”
“Orange would be tacky.”
“There’s nothing worse than a fashion police repeat offender.”
“And a jumpsuit would be out of the question.”
The Captain snorted. “Look. You’re going to jury duty. Not a Totally Inmate Barbie fashion extravaganza.”
I knew my stubborn streak could outlast his sarcasm. No contest. No charge. "Barbie’s done a lot of things in 50 years, but I don’t recall Ken ever having to bail her out of the pokey for a wardrobe felony.”
It’s Jury Duty Eve and I’m trying to select an outfit that says “Trial by Jury” without stepping over the line to “Accessory after the Fact.” The Captain doesn’t understand the importance of dressing for an occasion. Any gal can tell you that the right wardrobe choice puts everyone at ease. It’s easy to see who the people person is in this relationship.
Of course, except for a kindred feeling toward Judge Judy and a lightning round session in divorce court a while back, I don’t have a lot of experience with the judicial system here on the outskirts of Sugar Tit. I’m just hoping I don’t get so carried away with the Hammer of Justice that I drive a nail through my foot.
Although I've been keeping a keen eye on the whole Lindsay Lohan jailbird drama, I have more experience with cell phones than cells. When I have a set of bars, I can call out of network. She calls her network from behind bars. But if I use her time table, my term in jury duty will last about ten minutes.
Right now I’m torn between a white sundress to emphasize the importance a clean record and a gray pantsuit to point out the no man's land between right and wrong.
Cap cleared his throat. “If you wear white, you’ll probably spill ketchup all over yourself at lunch and illustrate the appearance of a murder victim.”
He’ll never understand the nuances of Truth and Justice.
“I might not spill anything this time. In this country we emphasize the concept of ‘Innocent Until Proven Guilty.' I'm completely unbiased."
What if the Defendant were somebody like your ex-husband, on trial for not paying child support?”
I grabbed a black robe and pulled it on.
“In that case, stand back. I want to be the one that pops open the trap door on the gallows.”
If freedom is going to ring, I want to crack his Liberty Bell myself.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Hold It!
Some days you have to fight to hold on, even as you’re on hold. The scene: a small office, an injured worker, a secretary. Pleased to meet you. I’m the secretary.
Me *dialing the Insurance Company (referred to in the future as The Defendant) listed in large print on our official Insurance Policy, and assuming a pleasant, yet professional Secretary Barbie voice*: Hi! I have a Worker’s Comp case here. What do I need to do?
Insurance Professional: We don’t handle that. You’ll need to call our claims administrator. They can tell you everything.
Me: Okay. How do I reach them?
Insurance Professional: Call this number, ask for Brandon. *Amy ponders the fact that this sounds a bit like a clandestine drug drop, but decides to play along for the sake of the employee, who is beginning to swell. * "Oh, and you’ll need an Injury Report Form," the Insurance Professional whispers confidentially.
Me: How do I get one?
Insurance Professional *Amy imagines her waving a hand vaguely into the air in the approximation direction of Brazil* They have a website. . .
*Amy Dials New Insurance Professional*
Me: Hi! I have a Worker’s Comp case here. This is a very small office and we’ve never had to file a claim before. I’m supposed to ask for Brandon.
New Insurance Professional: It doesn’t matter who you talk to. You just need to file a claim.
Me: Okay, How do I do that?
New Insurance Professional: I’ll find someone in claims. *Amy makes mental note to apply for job in insurance industry.* You need a claim number. *Puts Amy on hold. No music. No cheerful voice. The sound of a phone echoing in the distance continues until Amy considers retirement and begins to create an online advertisement for her replacement.*
New Insurance Professional comes back on line: You need to verify your policy number. *Amy does this and is rewarded by the ringing phone of doom for another few hours. My fingernails now need trimming and I could use a hair cut and leg wax.*
Another New Insurance Professional comes on line: Hello. (No cheerful voice. No “How can I help you? She sounds as if she’s on an IV Valium drip.)
Me: I have never had to file a Worker’s Comp Claim. I need a claim number.
Another New Insurance Professional: We don’t give out claim numbers.
Me: That’s fine. I just need to send our employee to the doctor. What do I need to do? (Amy is thankful the patient is not spouting the spurty kind of blood. So is the patient.)
Another New Insurance Professional: I don’t think we give out claim numbers. I’ll ask my supervisor.
Me: I just need to know *Amy interrupted by her arrival once again on the Insurance Hold System which equates with Dante’s Seventh Level, the one populated by people who could not pass the Wal-Mart Greeter test. This time, however, she is serenaded with music from Casper the Friendly Ghost. Okay maybe it’s not Casper, but it’s not Mozart either.*
*Amy organizes pencil drawer, stacks post-it notes according to color, and alphabetizes contents of candy dish. Just as she tears page off calendar and resets clocks to daylight savings time, her old friend comes back on the line.*
Another New Insurance Professional: Yeah, we don’t give out claim numbers.
Me: That’s fine. What do I need to do to get this employee seen by a doctor?
Another New Insurance Professional: You can call in the report.
Me: Should I do that now or later?
Another New Insurance Professional: Yes.
Me: So I need to call you later?
Another New Insurance Professional: You can. Or you can do it now. * Amy holds phone away from ear. This kind of stupid might just seep through the phone line. Just my luck, to avoid swine flu and get struck down by this. *
Me: So I can do it now?
Another New Insurance Professional: If you want to. Whenever. At your convenience.
Me: So I can send our employee to the doctor and then call you?
ANIP: If you like.
Me: Do I need to ask for you? *Please, God, no* What’s your name?
ANIP: Beelzebub *This is not entirely accurate. I changed names to more accurately describe the situation.*
Me: So she can just go on to the doctor.
ANIP: Well she needs to go to an Urgent Care Facility.
Me: So she doesn’t go to her own doctor? How clever of you to mention it.
ANIP: Yeah.
Me: I don’t have a claim form.
ANIP: Well you can just call. . .
Me: Got it. Thanks so much for your assistance.
* Amy terminates the call and considers terminating the Insurance Professional but is leery of being placed on hold indefinitely and doesn’t think she can hold out much longer. *
Employee: So what do I do?
Me: Hold on.
Me *dialing the Insurance Company (referred to in the future as The Defendant) listed in large print on our official Insurance Policy, and assuming a pleasant, yet professional Secretary Barbie voice*: Hi! I have a Worker’s Comp case here. What do I need to do?
Insurance Professional: We don’t handle that. You’ll need to call our claims administrator. They can tell you everything.
Me: Okay. How do I reach them?
Insurance Professional: Call this number, ask for Brandon. *Amy ponders the fact that this sounds a bit like a clandestine drug drop, but decides to play along for the sake of the employee, who is beginning to swell. * "Oh, and you’ll need an Injury Report Form," the Insurance Professional whispers confidentially.
Me: How do I get one?
Insurance Professional *Amy imagines her waving a hand vaguely into the air in the approximation direction of Brazil* They have a website. . .
*Amy Dials New Insurance Professional*
Me: Hi! I have a Worker’s Comp case here. This is a very small office and we’ve never had to file a claim before. I’m supposed to ask for Brandon.
New Insurance Professional: It doesn’t matter who you talk to. You just need to file a claim.
Me: Okay, How do I do that?
New Insurance Professional: I’ll find someone in claims. *Amy makes mental note to apply for job in insurance industry.* You need a claim number. *Puts Amy on hold. No music. No cheerful voice. The sound of a phone echoing in the distance continues until Amy considers retirement and begins to create an online advertisement for her replacement.*
New Insurance Professional comes back on line: You need to verify your policy number. *Amy does this and is rewarded by the ringing phone of doom for another few hours. My fingernails now need trimming and I could use a hair cut and leg wax.*
Another New Insurance Professional comes on line: Hello. (No cheerful voice. No “How can I help you? She sounds as if she’s on an IV Valium drip.)
Me: I have never had to file a Worker’s Comp Claim. I need a claim number.
Another New Insurance Professional: We don’t give out claim numbers.
Me: That’s fine. I just need to send our employee to the doctor. What do I need to do? (Amy is thankful the patient is not spouting the spurty kind of blood. So is the patient.)
Another New Insurance Professional: I don’t think we give out claim numbers. I’ll ask my supervisor.
Me: I just need to know *Amy interrupted by her arrival once again on the Insurance Hold System which equates with Dante’s Seventh Level, the one populated by people who could not pass the Wal-Mart Greeter test. This time, however, she is serenaded with music from Casper the Friendly Ghost. Okay maybe it’s not Casper, but it’s not Mozart either.*
*Amy organizes pencil drawer, stacks post-it notes according to color, and alphabetizes contents of candy dish. Just as she tears page off calendar and resets clocks to daylight savings time, her old friend comes back on the line.*
Another New Insurance Professional: Yeah, we don’t give out claim numbers.
Me: That’s fine. What do I need to do to get this employee seen by a doctor?
Another New Insurance Professional: You can call in the report.
Me: Should I do that now or later?
Another New Insurance Professional: Yes.
Me: So I need to call you later?
Another New Insurance Professional: You can. Or you can do it now. * Amy holds phone away from ear. This kind of stupid might just seep through the phone line. Just my luck, to avoid swine flu and get struck down by this. *
Me: So I can do it now?
Another New Insurance Professional: If you want to. Whenever. At your convenience.
Me: So I can send our employee to the doctor and then call you?
ANIP: If you like.
Me: Do I need to ask for you? *Please, God, no* What’s your name?
ANIP: Beelzebub *This is not entirely accurate. I changed names to more accurately describe the situation.*
Me: So she can just go on to the doctor.
ANIP: Well she needs to go to an Urgent Care Facility.
Me: So she doesn’t go to her own doctor? How clever of you to mention it.
ANIP: Yeah.
Me: I don’t have a claim form.
ANIP: Well you can just call. . .
Me: Got it. Thanks so much for your assistance.
* Amy terminates the call and considers terminating the Insurance Professional but is leery of being placed on hold indefinitely and doesn’t think she can hold out much longer. *
Employee: So what do I do?
Me: Hold on.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
The Personality Test - A True Story
When the kids were wee, innocent producers of diaper-filling by-products, I remember gazing into their tiny faces and thinking with motherly love, “If I don’t get these guys potty trained soon, I’m taking a one-way cruise to Tahiti.” They giggled and cooed and made those adorable crinkly-nosed baby faces that God gave them so that mothers wouldn’t try to return them to the factory before the warranty expired. If I had only known then that they were actually saying, “Just wait until I’m sixteen. Then we’ll see who can achieve flight in a Chrysler,” I’d be sunning myself in a Tahitian lounge chair right now.
These days the oldest child is tucked safely away at college on the ten year plan. The youngest is a high school senior, hovering on the brink of independence. He’s been hovering on the brink of independence since he was one year old and refused to eat anything that had seeds, roots, or crust. Now at seventeen, he doesn’t just march to a different drummer, he counts cadence.
For reasons beyond my fathoming ability, the local high school deemed Son Two fit for college courses and tucked him into a program that allows for an earned semester at the local community college during the high school year. It’s my job to be late for work while I chauffer him from one institution of higher learning to the other. As a mother of teenagers, institutions fall within my area of expertise. This morning, Son Two hopped into the car after class, filled with glee and the joy of life. That’s a bad sign.
“Guess what?” This is a generic term that means something has happened that makes his planets align like three bars on a Las Vegas slot machine. He has an odd sense of humor. Gets it from my ex-husband, The Defendant.
I gave him my best Mommy’s Listening to Your Needs look and wheeled up to the Stop sign at the exit of the college parking lot. “What?”
“We took a personality test in Psychology today.”
So far, no speed bumps on the road to higher education. How did I miss the road sign that read Caution: Do Not Enter?
“It listed famous people whose qualities we share.”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Who’s Hannibal Lecter?”
They tell me the city will replace the stop sign and insurance will pay for the damage to the car. But I’m probably going to put my therapist’s child through college. I hope he’s not taking psychology. That was Hannibal's major, too.
These days the oldest child is tucked safely away at college on the ten year plan. The youngest is a high school senior, hovering on the brink of independence. He’s been hovering on the brink of independence since he was one year old and refused to eat anything that had seeds, roots, or crust. Now at seventeen, he doesn’t just march to a different drummer, he counts cadence.
For reasons beyond my fathoming ability, the local high school deemed Son Two fit for college courses and tucked him into a program that allows for an earned semester at the local community college during the high school year. It’s my job to be late for work while I chauffer him from one institution of higher learning to the other. As a mother of teenagers, institutions fall within my area of expertise. This morning, Son Two hopped into the car after class, filled with glee and the joy of life. That’s a bad sign.
“Guess what?” This is a generic term that means something has happened that makes his planets align like three bars on a Las Vegas slot machine. He has an odd sense of humor. Gets it from my ex-husband, The Defendant.
I gave him my best Mommy’s Listening to Your Needs look and wheeled up to the Stop sign at the exit of the college parking lot. “What?”
“We took a personality test in Psychology today.”
So far, no speed bumps on the road to higher education. How did I miss the road sign that read Caution: Do Not Enter?
“It listed famous people whose qualities we share.”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Who’s Hannibal Lecter?”
They tell me the city will replace the stop sign and insurance will pay for the damage to the car. But I’m probably going to put my therapist’s child through college. I hope he’s not taking psychology. That was Hannibal's major, too.
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