Retirement Rage, Adulting part 1

I have been trying for approximately one year and 5 months to set up a single retirement account for Taylor through Merrill Lynch at Bank of America. I have hence come to the conclusion that Taylor will work until he dies, because the only other option is me dying long before retirement age from exploding in the middle of one of these banking centers.

One day back in July of TWENTY-EIGHTEEN I was like hey, Taylor, you need to get your chit together on those retirement accounts. And by that I mean tag along with me to Bank of America so I can direct the proceedings as you sign the papers.

So we make an appointment at a branch in Delaware with a guy named George. Because what else would an aged, pot-bellied white guy who manages finances at a big corporation be named? Men like that are bound to go by one of approximately five names. You know it’s true. How they've come to rule the world is a mystery to me. 

My goals for this appointment were very straight forward. I informed George of these goals. 

George proceeded to spend the next hour bellowing about democrats in Florida in between opening up the account I requested and telling me I had to “call the back office” anytime I asked for anything else. I remain uncertain as to the identity of these presumably swarthy characters in the “back office”. 

Some other downtime was spent chatting about his 22-year old son who has no job and lives with George rent-free. But fear not, George was taking him on a cruise in a few weeks. That should fix things right up.

So we left that day with a new but entirely useless retirement account because there was no time to call the back office to fund said account or to allocate those funds in any way, mostly because much of the extra time had been taken up talking about those damn Floridian democrats. Honestly I thought Florida was made up entirely of retired republicans, but either way, this was no time to be discussing it.

This was annoying to say the least, and I said as much when I filled out a customer service survey a few days later. This turned out to be a grave mistake because when I sent Taylor back a few weeks later to try and sort out this account, George greeted him by saying, “I read what Tiffany wrote about me”. Perhaps this is why Taylor’s visit that day still resulted in exactly not a damn thing. 

All of this amounted to me being more irritated than usual and completely unwilling to do anything about it. I have an excellent habit of avoiding things that piss me off, so that’s precisely what I did for approximately one year. The retirement account and the funds intended for it remained in flux for the rest of our time in Delaware and through our move away from there and George the terrible.

After like 4 months in our new city I felt that I was ready to stop avoiding the situation, buoyed by the fact that we were in a new place with a new financial representative that couldn’t possibly be as inept as the santa-bellied George.

WELL I WAS WRONG. So thanks for coming to part one of my two-part series on how utterly impossible adulting appears to be. BRB with part two.

Coworker Cantankery

So at this point we’ve covered customer service and how no one should be subjected to offering it. I am now here to tell you that the same jobs forcing people to smile at customers who have lost their freaking minds are also forcing good people of the world to work alongside complete nightmares. 

In support of this statement, I offer you the following:

First, someone has always worked there for 500 years before you, so by the time the vacation calendar gets to you they have picked it over like roadside vultures, leaving you only the most exciting options, like random Thursdays in March. You never get any good days because CHERYL always gets Thanksgiving week and KAREN always gets Christmas and KEVIN always gets the 4^th of July.  

But who can blame them. And honestly, you have more nefarious problems in the world of co-workers. I’m referring of course to the incredibly awful people one is sometimes forced to work with who only grow exponentially more awful when given power. Listen, your friendly neighborhood bank tellers may look innocuous but trust me, the power dynamics behind the teller line are not for the faint of heart. I imagine this applies equally to other lines of work, but gotta stick with what I (used to) know.

My own personal nemesis, we’ll call her Carol, was an infamous villain and also my manager. An unfortunate situation to say the least.

Carol would lurk around with her hunched posture and hawkish nose until she caught some of her less favorite employees (a category in which I unwillingly excelled) doing anything she disapproved of. These things included:

1.     Us quietly suggesting to customers that they NOT do whatever thing she had just suggested they do. We were all in this fairly awkward position a few times a week because Carol had an alarming knack for having no idea what she was talking about, coupled with the habit of issuing wildly inaccurate statements with great authority.

2.     Us rolling our eyes when Carol told us for the 50^th time that SHE HAD BEEN A TELLER FOR EXACTLY ONE DAY AND WAS SO GOOD THAT THEY PROMOTED HER TO MANAGER SO YES SHE KNOWS WHAT SHE IS TALKING ABOUT.

Okay sorry CAROL. I will just tell that customer that they should indeed write their pin number in permanent marker on the back of their debit card, you batty old witch.

Carol once pulled me into her office to ask why I was gaining weight and not doing my makeup. I informed her that I’d taken to drinking many calorie-packed rum and cokes after work these days, and that I had in fact never done my makeup and likely never would.

It would appear that this was not a believable enough explanation because after a long pause, she narrowed her eyes over that hawkish nose and asked me in a lowered voice if I was actually pregnant.

Fuckin Carol.

Then there are co-workers like Sharon. Sharon took up smoking out of spite after no one addressed her complaint that people who smoked got more breaks. When Sharon wasn’t out enjoying straight shots of poison to the lungs, you could generally find her in the lobby, running her hands through the curly chest hair poking out of the faded plaid button-up of her much older husband, who spent his free time in retirement visiting her at the bank. Perhaps this would have been mildly (and I do mean mildly) less offensive if we had not argued on more than one occasion over her stating that she didn’t have anything against gay people, she just didn’t want their love life in her face. Now isn’t that just the curly old chest hairs of the pot calling the gay kettle black.

So, ya know, just more to ponder with the intermittent introduction of the idea that ditching life behind the teller line in favor of six years of long nights in the lab was basically the-worst-decision-ever. Upon recall of Carol's shadowy form, I generally consider the entire thing to be at least a toss up. 

The Nostalgia Games

Sometimes I get into this rut where I play the “why are some of my life decisions the worst” game. It’s a pretty good time. Perhaps you’re familiar with it.

I'm not trying to brag or anything but I was a top player throughout my entire graduate school career, having spent approximately 98.2% of graduate school kvetching about my decision to go to graduate school. 

Furrowing my brows endlessly over dreamy pre-grad days of work being over when I left the building at five o'clock.
Pining over how wonderful it was to go on vacation and then come back NOT to a pile of work, because work didn't pile up when I left my bank teller job, and neither did e-mails. I REPEAT: THERE ARE NO UNANSWERED EMAILS WHEN YOU COME BACK TO YOUR BANK TELLER JOB. 

As I remember, it was pure, unadulterated bliss. 

 

But that's how the “why are some of my life decisions the worst” game works. Listen up, people: Nostalgia = PUBLIC ENEMY #1.

 
It's good to take a step back when kvetching to remember that you were probably kvetching throughout previous life decisions. too, as we humans are wont to do. Upon reading further you will witness the kvetches (is that a word? It is now) of this previously blissful life I've sketched out above.

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Being a bank teller = extreme boredom on Thursday afternoons when no one came to the bank and the clock neveeeerrrrr reached 5 and even though there is literally nothing to do, you are NOT allowed to leave.

It also = every teller except yourself calling in sick on the first Friday of the month, a day also known to every boomer on the planet as lets-go-to-the-MF-BANK day. 
This actually happened once. Fastest but most hungry day of my life.

But the overarching lesson of time served as a bank teller =  customer service is some bullshit. 

May the metaphysical hand of god strike me down every single time I neglect to address this fact when barreling down the rabbit hole of nostalgia.

In support of this claim, I offer you the following:

1.     The guy who actually filed a lawsuit against the bank branch I was working in during undergrad, in which he legitimately requested that an exorcism be performed within our building. This of course did not go far within the legal workings of Bonneville County, but losing his exorcism bid did not deter him from continuing to bank with us. He simply chose to do his business solely through the drive-through after that, and staunchly refused to look at or speak to us the entire time.

a.     Wait, no, he did look at me once. I was keying in his deposit when he turned his head slowly toward the window. Once it had swiveled enough to appropriately allow his beady eyes to rest upon me, he proceeded to snort like a pig into the microphone until I pushed the drawer back out with his receipt. Charming. 

2.     The guy who repeatedly scream-asked me if I enjoyed stealing money from old people after he discovered that $50 from his mothers account had been turned over to the state like a year previously, after five years of account inactivity.

a.     Why yes, sir, it’s one of my most treasured past times. Anything else I can do for you today?

3.     The woman who promptly strode to my manager’s office to complain that I was “loudly bragging about my drunken behavior” after she overheard me telling a fellow co-worker that I had tried a blue tarantula margarita the previous Saturday.

a.     I was soundly reprimanded for this. 

4.     The incredibly agitated man demanding to know why his account was in the negative, but who did not know his account number and stoutly refused to give me any identifying information so that I could locate said account, because he was convinced I would then try to steal his identity.

a.    It appeared to be lost on him that if I was in the identity-stealin’ mood, I would be much more inclined to steal the identity of someone with positive account balances. #justsayin

5.     The woman who came barreling up to my window in extreme panic because the ATM had refused to give her any money. Upon looking up her account I was able to inform her that the ATM could not dispense money from an account that was approximately ten thousand dollars in the negative. The outrageous state of her account was the result of a previously deposited $9000 being removed due to the fact that it was someone else’s $9000 tax refund.

a.     Rather than questioning her suddenly inflated balance, it appeared she had instead made a series of large cash withdrawals before the mistake was discovered, thus leaving a devastatingly negative balance when the deposit was reversed.

b.     As I began to quietly explain this to her she simply backed away from my window while screaming hysterically, “I AM NOT A THIEF GODDAMMIT”, as an entire lobby of people stared at me like I was kicking a dog.

6.     The woman who lectured me sharply for several minutes on the importance of maintaining a professional appearance at work, while several people waited in line behind her, because she did not like what I was wearing.

a.      I was wearing the company-approved t-shirt all employees were given to wear on Fridays.  

7.     The guy I knew from high school who was mad at me about something and took his revenge by telling my manager that I had given all of his account information to his ex-girlfriend.

a.     The best part about this is that I met his ex-girlfriend a total of one time when she was my cashier at Target. I probably told her I thought he was an idiot, but trust me, girl did not need confirmation from me that all of his assets were equally unimpressive.

8.     The savage children in the drive-through savagely demanding tootsie rolls. Some of them would just stare at me with the intensity of an axe murderer throughout the entire transaction. This was unnerving, but since I am also given to staring like that at people who have food that I want, I was generally tolerant. However, those screaming ones with the bulging eyes that would sometimes actually hang their weird little bodies out of the car windows were not getting tootsie rolls from yours truly. This was met with great disapproval from the people who had birthed or otherwise parented those weird little bodies, but I remained steadfast.

a.      I realize I could think differently of this if I ever have a little weirdo of my own, but we’ll just cross that weird little bridge if it’s ever built. 

  

Moving Mischiefs

I imagine that moving is comparable to giving birth in that after a certain amount of time, people appear to forget how traumatizing the whole affair was and start thinking it’s a good idea to give it another go. 

I have vague memories of suffering when we moved to Delaware – like yeah, I remember some exhaustion and a little frustration, but how bad could it really have been? We lifted like ten boxes and drove a couple days, big deal. Probably, I reasoned with myself, the stress mostly originated from the decision to get rid of all our stuff at a series of garage sales (see here) and then attempt to replenish it all when we arrived in Delaware (see here). We’ll just avoid that stress this time around by packing ALL OF THE THINGS and making a quick 700-mile U-Haul jaunt. Easy peasy. We don’t even have that much stuff…I predict one day of packing, 30 minutes of loading, then off to our glorious new life in a blaze of top-down-tunes-up glory, where we will then unload for 30 minutes and spend no more than one day unpacking and situating.

Lolololol.

Suffice it to say that after the surprise of having more than 10 boxes of crap to our name came a myriad of other sweet surprises. Like when we got a 20-foot U-Haul truck so we’d have “plenty of room” to pack the 500 bicycles that Taylor owns and then having to throw the bicycles on top of everything in a fit of rage because it turns out we actually own enough stuff to fill up a 20-foot U-Haul truck. This is completely counter to everything we thought we stood for in life.

As a side note, I tried getting rid of non-essentials when I started packing, but you’d be amazed at how deftly I can manipulate the definition of “non-essential” when I’m holding any given object in my hands, no matter how long it’s been since I’ve touched the thing. For example, I came across a little blue china tea set I saw at a thrift store approximately four years ago and just HAD to have. I haven’t used it once. I don’t drink tea. It matches nothing else I own so it doesn’t even get displayed. Perfect candidate for donation, yes? Oh no, my friend. Time for the what-if game. WHAT IF one of the new friends I make in Indianapolis just LOVES tea and comes to my house and requests a SPOT OF TEA? It’s hard to make friends as a grown-up, do I really want to handicap myself like this to save some space in the corner of one box? I think not. And so, despite the fact that I don’t keep tea in the house and would thus not be solving the unlikely problem of an impromptu tea party with a brand new friend (not to mention my general hatred of guests in the first place), the tea set was diverted to the “keep” pile. Also known as pretty much the only pile…but I digress.

Okay so then shit really hits the fan when you remember how many address changes loom on the horizon. You’ve lived in a place so long you don’t even remember whom you’ve been slinging that address out to.

Because I did not actually have a forwarding address (because Taylor and I were like, WE’LL JUST MOVE TO INDIANAPOLIS AND FIND SOMEWHERE TO LIVE ONCE WE GET THERE, which actually ended up working out but is typed in caps because I realize what a ballsy move that was), I needed to get one. So, I toddled on down to the Post Office and they were like, “No, you can’t open a post office box from a distance because we’re the worst” <end exact quote>. However, UPS was like, “Hell yeah baby, let’s do it”. Or at least their website said something close to that. So I investigated a few UPS locations in Indianapolis and started down the list.

The first two locations didn’t answer. I tried each of them twice with an average ring total of 532 times. No luck.

However, an individual who was potentially 13 years of age answered at the third location after only about 224 rings.

Let’s call him Kevin.

Kevin answered the phone in the same tone he likely assumes when his mom tells him to clean his room. I told him I needed to open a mailbox at his location before actually moving there so that I could forward my mail.

His response: “Ummmmm, yeah, I don’t think we do that.”

Me: Well, I’m looking at your website right now and it says you do, I just need you to send me the forms so I can get them notarized and send them back.

Kevin: Uh…well…I don’t think we do that.

Me: Kevin, trust me, you definitely do it. In fact, it says here I just need form 1583 notarized along with a copy of 2 IDs, so if you wanna just go ahead and send that over, I’ll be on my way. Pretty busy today, Kev.

Kevin: Wullllll, like, I don’t know. Like I think we’ve had problems before or something so we just don’t do it.

Me: Kevin. May I direct you to the company’s website for further instruction? Sounds to me like it’s still a thing. Let me help catch you up.

Kevin: Yeeeeeeaaahhhh I don’t think we do that.

Me: KEVIN. I’m sure you’re great but it looks like you haven’t dealt with this particular situation before so it might be best if I talk to someone else. (Translation: Any chance there is an adult in the house, KEVIN?)

Kevin: Uh, I don’t think anyone else will know.

Me: Let’s give it a try!

Kevin: Yeaaahh I don’t think so. BUT, there’s something that’s like really important for you to know. So if you open a box with us and then move, you have to file a forward request with us and not the post office, and we charge for that. You know, because it would be you moving…not us moving.

Me: Wow. Thank you, Kevin, for your incredible foresight and factual acuity. Tell me, what are the chances we could talk about opening the box before going over the rules of eventually closing the box?

Kevin: Yeaaahhh I don’t think we can open one for you.

HOLY JESUS, KEVIN. Maybe we come back to this after you’ve attempted puberty.

Moving on to the fourth UPS location on the list. Patrick answers. On a human expression scale of 1 to 10, Patrick is in the negatives. However, Patrick gets shit done, a rare quality it would seem. I explain my situation (this is accompanied by the occasional grunt from his end, which I take as comforting acknowledgment of the precarious spot I’m in), after which he says, “Yeah. We can do that”. Hindsight tells me I should have recorded this call for the training purposes of young Kevin.

I express my undying love to Patrick. He grunts and hangs up the phone, presumably overcome with emotion. He e-mails me the correct form.

Taylor drives 30 minutes to meet me at a Delaware UPS where we pay $10 to notarize this form, after which I walk all over God’s green earth to find a scanner so I can e-mail it back. These feats accomplished, Patrick provides us with a 6-month mailbox lease for the nominal fee of $140, and voila – we have a forwarding address a mere six hours after I dialed the first UPS store. I then call approximately 500,000 places to provide this address knowing full well I will have to call all 500,000 of them back once we get an actual address as I do not plan on spending $300 per year for a mailbox.

I will have you know that I pursued this painful and expensive venture so doggedly because there were two important items of mail that I happened to know would be sent out around the 6^th, which was one day after we’d be leaving our old address and who knows how many days until we had a new address. So, I made sure to call these two places first and provide them with my hard-won UPS address. I made them slowly repeat this address back to me. Then as a back up, I filed a forwarding request with the post office, complete with their stupid $1 fee.

And how, you might ask, were these long and arduous efforts rewarded? I will tell you. They were rewarded with a text from my previous landlord, on the 14^th of June, with a picture of the two pieces of mail I was particularly worried about, which had been delivered directly to our old address.

The moral of this story is that nothing matters. And that UPS should really do something about that Kevin guy.

Wurkin' 9 to 5ish

I am currently riding (dragging alongside?) the fitness train again (a ride I may have taken once or twice before). I hopped back on sometime last July when I realized I couldn’t get my ring to come off my finger anymore. Shit happens when a good portion of your day requires deskwork…and also when you’re really into donuts. To counteract this I decided to become super into fitness (so still into donuts, but super into fitness, because this is how we COMPROMISE, OKAY). And by super into, I basically mean during business hours, because I guess that’s all I’ve got in the willpower tank.  

This goes one of two ways.

Way 1: I wake up and bust out a round of high-intensity interval training followed by a breakfast full of words like protein and fiber, further mixed with many green things. I then saunter into work feeling extremely self-satisfied, pretending that every time I open a door, the song “I woke up in beast mode” precedes my entrance like a pro UFC fighter. I barely manage to restrain myself from instagramming some kale while simultaneously informing everyone around me that I busted out a few one-armed burpees before 9 am. #obnoxious

Way 2: I attend a Les Mills GRIT class around 5 pm. If you don’t know what this is, here’s a quick primer: for 30 grueling, non-effing-stop minutes, you do insane things that raise your heart rate to the level of zebra-versus-lion-on-the-open-savannah. For example, sometimes you will have to jump down into a burpee, throw down a pushup, jump back up, then jump into the air until your feet touch your butt. You then continue this series of movements until an entire minute has passed, at which point you are allowed 15 seconds of “rest” until the next move. So I get through 30 minutes of this madness, shake my head like an animal to shed a liter or so of sweat, then walk out the room (that’s right, not out OF the room, but OUT THE ROOM) wearing my bright red face and sweat-soaked shirt like badges. In my world, Fat Joe is busting out the song “All the way up” (you know, from the Mountain Dew commercial) as I walk in slo-mo through the gym, turning heads as I go, occasionally stopping to body check a nearby weight lifter (where does she live? ALL THE WAY UP). In everyone else’s world, there is probably just concern that the girl walking past with a little foam on her mouth might collapse shortly if she doesn’t get that breathing under control. It’s all about perception. 

Whichever of these ways prevails, the overall feeling of badassery reigns supreme until it hits approximately 6:00. From 9 to 5ish I’m declining donuts left and right, popping almonds while I smugly survey all the chumps who ate out for lunch, throwing back blueberries and slathering green peppers in hummus while I jog in place (okay I don't really jog in place). But then the clock hits 6, and to the great satisfaction of the aforementioned chumps (because god knows that people on the exercise plus vegetable train can be annoying af), the beast inside of me awakens. It starts dragging me, step by step by sideways glance, toward the vending machine, the leftover donuts, the velveeta queso across the street from my office.

It. Is. Savage.

I try to be zen about it.

I tell myself: ENOUGH. Your body is a temple. It is the vessel you have been given to live this life and –

Myself interrupts: IT IS A VESSEL FOR GRAVY. FILL IT.

Sometimes I win this battle. Other times I go home and eat a fudge pop smashed up in a bowl with a Reese’s egg on top. Then I might follow that up with some chips. Then maybe I roast a marshmallow peep on top of the gas stove…

Listen. What matters is that my ring comes off my finger now. To celebrate this, I recently took serious advantage of the after-Easter candy sales. I may or may not have been standing at the Walgreens register at 6:30 pm, face still red from GRIT, with 3 bags of discounted chocolate in hand. You win some, you lose some, amirite?

Maladies and medicine

As I always knew would one day happen, Taylor’s renegade ways have gotten him into trouble.

Since we first met, Taylor has called me a conformist because I’m all about the rules. I never enter a situation without making myself fully aware of any associated laws or social customs, and deviation from those things just isn't an option in my world. I apply equal stringency to the rules of the road. I am that person in front of you who immediately brakes upon sighting a yellow traffic light, causing you to wave your fist in anger for not allowing you to blow on through before it hits red. I am that person who goes 47 in a 45 only if I’m feeling frisky – a rare occasion indeed. 

Then there’s Taylor. Taylor makes a point of initiating contact between his car and any unfortunate traffic cone he should find out on the roadways, veering across lanes with a grin on his face while I screech out a safety lecture from the passenger seat. He often issues the following warning beforehand: “Watch out babe, it’s about to get western up in here”.

Traffic cameras have a ball with his antics, sending us neat letters in the mail with pictures of Taylor gleefully gliding through the first few seconds of a red light. This also elicits screechy lectures from yours truly.

Up until this point, Taylor has simply waved off these lectures as nonsense from a card-carrying member of the “fun police”.  But as they say, it’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt, and Taylor has indeed been hurt.

While on his way to work a few weeks ago he decided that the extensive line of traffic just wasn’t for him and figured he’d save a little time by passing everyone on the shoulder, a feat he could easily manage on the motorcycle. However, as I could have informed him in any number of my traffic law lectures, this maneuver is quite illegal – and for good reason. Turns out that if you’re riding up the shoulder of the road, obscured by two lanes of stalled traffic, the opposing traffic cannot see and does not expect you to come flying up the road. This is particularly problematic in the case of vehicles attempting to make a left through the waiting cars, which is precisely what was going on approximately 50 feet in front of Taylor. To make a long story short: Taylor flies up road shoulder, car turns left given that the two legal lanes of traffic are not forthcoming, car smacks into Taylor, chaos ensues.

Note that I left the house at the same time as Taylor that morning and watched as he made the decision to pass those cars. I did my normal “tsk-ing” and then returned my attention to some good NPR Trump bashing. Approximately 1 minute later, as the line of traffic began to move, the most terrifying moment of my life thus far occurred. I registered that there was a wreck in my periphery. I spared only a quick glance, avoiding that shameful rubber necking. In that glance however, I registered an awfully familiar motorcycle lying on the road. I froze as an internal battle raged for what felt like hours in which one side was screaming that the bike belonged to Taylor and the other side screamed back that this was an impossibility because this kind of tragedy could not be a thing. Fortunately, before the full impact of possibilities could hit me, my attention was hijacked by an arm waving from the ground. This arm belonged to Taylor, who was amazingly intact and waving me over to him.

According to a traumatized witness: Following an acrobatic flip over the front of his bike (which he has demanded video of from the street cam, and which the cop has promised to send), Taylor apparently crawled to the side of the road and proceeded to throw his helmet in a fit of fury. He was certain his leg was broken and he was piiiiissed.

Though (amazingly) not broken, his leg was in pretty bad shape. His foot required several stitches and along with the leg is temporarily unable to carry out its typical support duties. This means many hours on the couch and several runs of Back to the Future, only the former of which elicits complaints from Taylor and only the latter of which elicits complaints from myself.

This also means extended periods of time dealing with the medical community, a place that appears to be more irritated with Taylor’s accident than he is. Following the initial ER visit we returned out of concern for Taylor’s rapidly swelling appendage. When we reached the point where his toes no longer looked like they had room to expand, I felt it would be prudent to get that checked out. Patrick, the very nice man who got us through that particular visit, asked that we please return in 3 days to make sure all was well. We did so and following a 4.5 hour visit during which Taylor was subjected to everything from 50 blood draws to an ultrasound, we were sent away with a new ACE bandage and what I’m sure is an impressive tab. In that time we spent approximately 5 minutes with a doctor who poked at the newly red and inflamed portion of Taylor’s leg and said, “uh, I don’t think it’s infected…but I guess I can give you antibiotics just in case…”. He is apparently not up to snuff on the antibiotic resistance war currently being waged. Following a not-at-all reassuring shrug, he then informed us that coming to the ER for anything other than a stabbing or a shooting essentially made us a “burden on the system”. Thanks, doc. Just to be clear, you are essentially a burden on the collective sense of humanity.

The Tuesday following this incident we were scheduled for a post-trauma checkup during which Taylor would get his stitches removed. The place responsible for such post-trauma appointments was quite specific about its availability. Our appointment options were Tuesdays between 1 and 3. Sweet, we’ll take Tuesday. Let’s say 2:30. Unfortunately, Delaware ended up receiving 2 inches of snow that day. On this section of the east coast that is just under what would constitute a phone call to FEMA but just enough to shut down the city. No post-trauma checkup for us. This was particularly unfortunate as Taylor’s wound had chosen this day to turn an interesting shade of green. With no primary doctor and no wish to further burden those uncertain souls at the ER, we headed over to see a doc-in-the-box, also known as the minute-clinic, also known as urgent care.

Reluctant as she was to put down her phone for a moment, the receptionist at said minute-clinic checked us in using as few words or facial movements as humanly possible. Once in a room we explained our predicament to a nurse who presumably then explained it to the doctor who would be seeing us.

Said doctor walked into the room and asked to see Taylor’s foot. He proceeded to stand next to the bed impatiently while Taylor struggled to get on it and unwrap his own foot. Doc smiles looked at the foot, turned around, and walked out of the room. He returned a moment later with two sharp instruments and headed for Taylor’s foot. Taylor attempted to pull his foot back and demanded to know if the instruments were clean. Doc smiles said, “yep” and began removing the stitches without another word…and without gloves. Taylor later remarked, “Dude, this isn’t a car, you gotta talk to this thing”. Aptly stated, I thought.

Other interesting points of interaction included the following:

Taylor: “There are 12 stitches to remove, ok?”

Doc Smiles: No response. Runs into problem when one stitch sticks to instrument. Solves problem by wiping instrument on the side of the vinyl bed and proceeding to next stitch.

Upon removing what I’m sure he thought was the last stitch, Doc Smiles starts bandaging the wound back up.

Me: “Whoa. Whoa. Can we talk about this for a second? Are you worried about this festering portion of the wound at all?”

Doc Smiles: “It is definitely infected.” …continues to bandage wound.

Me: “Great, so maybe we talk about that?”

Doc Smiles: “We’re an urgent care. I’ve done about everything I can do, but considering that he’s got this infection while already on antibiotics, that’s a problem.”

Me: “Right, so can I get a suggestion on a plan of action here…?”

Doc Smiles: “The antibiotic probably can’t reach the wound because the blood vessels were probably broken in the impact. Might want to get some IV antibiotics at the ER.”

Me: “So should we just head to the ER then?”

Doc Smiles: “I’ll just prescribe him an antibiotic.”

Me: “…that doesn’t make sense…”

Doc Smiles suddenly bursts into a monologue about the Harley trike he purchased in the 70’s and how hard it was to get around curves. After this he leaves the room and we never see him again.

Nurse pops in a moment later with the prescribed antibiotic that, according to Doc Smiles, will not be effective. In one long monotone sentence she instructs Taylor to take two a day for seven days no matter what and then leaves the room. I poke my head out the door after about 5 minutes and ask if we’re supposed to leave now. Some lady sitting at a computer simply nods and turns away.

So we leave the land of apparent language deficits and head home where I unwrap Taylor’s foot because Doc Smiles has wrapped it so tightly that all of the accident-related blisters have burst. As I get to down to the business of re-wrapping I realize that despite Taylor’s attempt to educate him on the number of stitches he would need to remove, Doc Smiles has left us one, perhaps as a souvenir of our time together. Considering that antibiotics can’t do anything about bacteria on foreign objects (or, ostensibly, on Taylor’s wound??), I grab some tweezers and a tiny pair of scissors from my makeup bag and remove the thing myself. Not to worry - this was followed by a heavy rinse of hydrogen peroxide and, in any case, couldn’t have been worse than Doc Smiles’ vinyl bed assistant.

Attempt #2 with the post-trauma clinic is this coming Tuesday. We so look forward to making more friends in the medical community.

cc

Travels and Tribulations

1. I told Taylor it was a bad idea to take the crypt keeper’s car on a 2400-mile trip.

2. Taylor told me I was afraid of adventure.

3. I said yes, I was in fact afraid of adventure if adventure meant standing on the side of the freeway bathed in the smoke of a busted engine.

4. Taylor said that would not be happening.

5. I heartily disagreed.

Repeat steps one through five each day for the month prior to departure.

Step 6: Become a card-carrying member of the “I told you so” club following five brutal hours stuck in the middle of nowhere Iowa.

Yeah.

You’ll be proud to know that the second I realized what was happening, I closed my eyes and willed myself to be a good person. Not a person who throws things and yells with great fury about her supreme righteousness, but a good person. After a dramatic show of engine smoke and a slow coast to the closest gas station, we sat in silence for a few moments before each exiting the vehicle. I grabbed the furry beings from the backseat and walked around to the front of the car moodily stare at whatever mess was under the hood Taylor had just opened. It wasn’t good. Some kind of liquid was exploding out of some kind of pipe and the look on Taylor’s face was not inspiring hope.

He shook his head and said, “I thought she would make it”. (She? Seriously?)

I shook my head and said, “I didn’t” and left the matter at that while I went off in search of some grass so the furry beings could relieve themselves and I could choke down all the words trying to claw their way out of my mouth.  

Five sweaty hours and a little emergency fund hemorrhaging later, the matter had been mostly resolved.  The car is now in Victor, Iowa awaiting our return with its busted little transmission.  Enterprise, after driving an hour to get us (on top of staying open late for us – I take back every time I’ve said that I hate everyone because I love these people), sent us on our way with a sweet 2016 rental Jeep. They had originally planned to send us on our way in a sweet 2016 Toyota Corolla, in which they came to pick us up, but while driving back to the office it started to have transmission problems. Go figure. Upon crossing into the neighboring state I saw a specialized license plate that said IH8IOWA.

Amen.

So, counting the transmission problems in the first rental car, we were 2 for 2, and they say bad things come in threes, right? I’m generally not one to get worked up over any statement that starts with “they say”, because who is “they”, anyway? In this case, I guess someone who knows what “they’re” talking about, because listen to this:

Once we return to Victor, Iowa we have to drop off the rental car and then somehow tow the crypt keeper’s car (hence forth known as CKC) back to Delaware. We will then also need a vehicle for Taylor to drive while he fixes (and then SELLS) CKC. Thus, we purchased a Chevy Silverado in Idaho Falls. Taylor drove said Chevy Silverado to Island Park to visit family, and then it promptly broke down during the drive back.

My thoughts on this: #@!$%&**@#$%!!!!

My conversation with the dealer about this:

Me (after telling him the harrowing tale of our travels): If there’s any way you can help us out here, I would really appreciate it.

Dealer boss guy: “Yeaaaah. I appreciate the story, but my concern here – “

Me: “You don’t get concerns here. I get concerns. I HAVE concerns. Many of them.”

Dealer boss guy: “Well, it’s just that I have no idea if he was off-roading around up there in Island Park and ignoring some kind of check engine light.”

Me: “Just because he has a very large beard doesn’t mean he goes hillbilly off-roading every chance he gets. Really, the bottom line here is that we bought the truck like 2 days ago, and it would be pretty rude of you to just dump us like this.”

He then offered to tow it back to Idaho Falls for an easy $400 so they could take a look and “see what they could do”.  I said I would have someone with a decent sense of humanity help us tow it for free so he could take a look and “see what he could do”.

So we did that. The next day I get a call from Mike. Mike’s a good guy. He said that when inspecting the truck before purchase, his technician must have missed that an oil line was swinging around all willy nilly under the truck, clamp-less and alone. Thus, when Taylor was “driving around on those rough roads in island park”, it must have hit something and burst or whatever (not quite his words but close enough). I informed him as well that beards don’t equate to constant travel on dirt roads and then asked when we might be getting it back. Apparently, these clamps are in high demand because this phone call took place 4 days ago and we are still quite clamp-less.

Let’s hope they find a clamp or a bread tie or something pretty soon because we have to go home and they are at risk of becoming the next addition to my ever-growing shit list, right after Buicks and the great state of Iowa.

Lastly, since I’m always spreading hate and discontent around here, I’d like to end with two things that are not on my shit list:

1) The lovely people that live in the horrible state of Iowa. They were very helpful in our predicament. I simply hate the actual dirt and rock and corn that constitute that wretched state, the land of my misfortunes.

2) The rental Jeep. Because it has an actual plugin that is keeping my laptop happily humming along while I spread my hate and discontent. Also because it runs…knock on wood.  

Okay. Amen.