"Oxymoron" is what I meant to say, but anyone who has ever spent time with automated phone menus, tech service, or customer service has probably been close to a Lizzie Borden moment.
oxymoron
1657, from Gk. oxymoron, noun use of neut. of oxymoros (adj.) "pointedly foolish," from oxys "sharp" (see acrid) + moros "stupid." Rhetorical figure by which contradictory terms are conjoined so as to give point to the statement or expression; the word itself is an illustration of the thing. Now often used loosely to mean "contradiction in terms."
Thanks to the New York Times for catching me up about the top ten audio file of Vincent Ferrari's call trying to "Cancel AOL". I also enjoyed Brian Finkelstein's video on YouTube: "A Comcast Technician Sleeping on my Couch".
I've spent a ridiculous amount of time this week trying to return calls to a State Farm claims investigator about a bike/car accident I witnessed a few Sundays ago. She needs something from me, but I have invested my time first in listening to her phone messages numerous times to write down all her phone numbers, extensions, and claim ID numbers. Then I've squandered many minutes going through the State Farm automated phone menu to punch in the extension number, only to be misdirected to a switchboard or informed that the claim investigator was out of the office. She seems to be calling from a blocked number outside of office hours. Leaving her a message isn't possible. So I'm just going to put it out here in cyberspace: It was the kid on the bike's fault. The accident was entirely preventable. If you want my help, don't waste my time.
Showing posts with label car insurance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label car insurance. Show all posts
10/29/05
Fretting and Stewing
It's amazing the things that keep us awake in the middle of the night. It's not surprising that we wake up in the night, trot to the potty, then worry about affordable health care for an hour or more. The U.S. health care and medical insurance system is a waking nightmare affecting all of us. Still, I don't worry about deductibles all that much. Lately I've been fretting about my lack of a winter coat for dress occasions.
My last dress winter coat was paid for by my parents when I was a sophomore in college. My gosh, I bought it at Hovland Swanson in Lincoln! It was a camel-colored wool wrap style, and hung in my coat closet for over twenty-five years. I liked it, but it was a rare winter when it actually fit. Some winters I weighed 105 lbs., looked anorexic, and the coat wrapped around me twice. Some years I was pregnant, and the wrap wouldn't go around my middle. Many winters I never had a single occasion for a dress coat. Then we moved to Texas, and it just wasn't wintery very often. Finally, alas, I hit a stage in life when it became obvious that the camel coat was never going to be big enough again. One year some natural disaster set off numerous coat donation drives, and the camel coat and I said farewell. It was sad, as we never really knew each other well, like employees in adjoining cubicles assigned to different projects.
So every recent autumn I have fretted about my lack of a dress winter coat. Menopause is a good thing, since I rarely need a coat anyway! Still, I know my parka looks really dorky on those January opening nights at the Dallas Opera.
Fretting, stewing, and insomnia don't have the hold on me they once did. I don't worry about the first day of school, or what to give people for Christmas. I gave up keeping track of the plastic chickens for the Fisher Price Farm. I got rid of my spouse so I wouldn't have to worry about what to wear to his office Christmas party. Okay, there were a few other issues involved in that transition, but we won't go into that now. There's no obsessing about what to wear to work anymore. When I started back to work a dozen years ago, I would be awake half the night, then unable to swallow breakfast, worrying about what to wear.
Funny thing. Next to nobody notices what you are wearing, as long as you are in the wide spectrum of "normal". Nobody cares what you do as long as you don't wipe boogers on their sleeve or puke on their shoes. Most people don't remember what you gave them for Christmas last year. Those plastic chickens will turn up eventually. In the meantime, EVERYBODY ELSE ON EARTH is obsessing about their own winter coat. We are all just galloping past each other at high speed, trying to lasso the right outfit!
So today when I went for some recreational zoned-out wandering at our aged, decrepit mall after a couple hours of spray-painting student sculptures, I was pleased to find a London Fog coat that fit without even looking for it! Better yet, it was seventy dollars off. Hat and gloves were on sale, too. I am good to go, and just not going to worry about that anymore! This coat may only fit one winter if I get suddenly skinny. It may hang in my closet for the next twenty-five years. I'm just not going to fret one way or the other.
My last dress winter coat was paid for by my parents when I was a sophomore in college. My gosh, I bought it at Hovland Swanson in Lincoln! It was a camel-colored wool wrap style, and hung in my coat closet for over twenty-five years. I liked it, but it was a rare winter when it actually fit. Some winters I weighed 105 lbs., looked anorexic, and the coat wrapped around me twice. Some years I was pregnant, and the wrap wouldn't go around my middle. Many winters I never had a single occasion for a dress coat. Then we moved to Texas, and it just wasn't wintery very often. Finally, alas, I hit a stage in life when it became obvious that the camel coat was never going to be big enough again. One year some natural disaster set off numerous coat donation drives, and the camel coat and I said farewell. It was sad, as we never really knew each other well, like employees in adjoining cubicles assigned to different projects.
So every recent autumn I have fretted about my lack of a dress winter coat. Menopause is a good thing, since I rarely need a coat anyway! Still, I know my parka looks really dorky on those January opening nights at the Dallas Opera.
Fretting, stewing, and insomnia don't have the hold on me they once did. I don't worry about the first day of school, or what to give people for Christmas. I gave up keeping track of the plastic chickens for the Fisher Price Farm. I got rid of my spouse so I wouldn't have to worry about what to wear to his office Christmas party. Okay, there were a few other issues involved in that transition, but we won't go into that now. There's no obsessing about what to wear to work anymore. When I started back to work a dozen years ago, I would be awake half the night, then unable to swallow breakfast, worrying about what to wear.
Funny thing. Next to nobody notices what you are wearing, as long as you are in the wide spectrum of "normal". Nobody cares what you do as long as you don't wipe boogers on their sleeve or puke on their shoes. Most people don't remember what you gave them for Christmas last year. Those plastic chickens will turn up eventually. In the meantime, EVERYBODY ELSE ON EARTH is obsessing about their own winter coat. We are all just galloping past each other at high speed, trying to lasso the right outfit!
So today when I went for some recreational zoned-out wandering at our aged, decrepit mall after a couple hours of spray-painting student sculptures, I was pleased to find a London Fog coat that fit without even looking for it! Better yet, it was seventy dollars off. Hat and gloves were on sale, too. I am good to go, and just not going to worry about that anymore! This coat may only fit one winter if I get suddenly skinny. It may hang in my closet for the next twenty-five years. I'm just not going to fret one way or the other.
5/8/04
Is the spell broken?
In March my son was in an accident while driving his father's van. In April my son bought his precious Nissan 300ZX. In May my ex-husband's wife backed into my son's precious Nissan 300ZX.
When I call my Farmer's agent and tell them my name, I hear a click-click-click in the background. LeAnne has set the desk stress pendulum balls in motion.
I know a ridiculous amount about LeAnne. I know her work schedule and her days to attend classes. I know her dog, Cassius, and can enquire about his surgery. I know that the stitches didn't dissolve, but Cassius was very cooperative when LeAnne decided to remove the stitches herself. I congratulate LeAnne on getting her degree with honors this week after six years.
Things rarely go smoothly in my auto insurance experience, so I am glad to have the same cast of characters when I have a problem. They owe me, and I owe them.
When I divorced, I dealt with car insurance for the first time. In this sci-fi frontier I encountered Jerry. Jerry set up my policy on my Mazda MPV. This seemed to be pretty painless and straight-forward. Alas, Jerry had typed my name as "Uncwy" instead of Nancy. After a few months I received a double rejection notice. Uncwy was rejected because she didn't actually exist (a minor detail), and Nancy was rejected because she drove her car into a neighbor's swim pool. I was thrown into the insurance dungeon, chained to the wall, left alone with the rats and a crust of bread.
It took about six months to get Uncwy rehabilitated and renamed, and Jerry nearly got fired in the process. Then it took six more to convince the insurance gods that Nancy's ex was the one who let his car roll down the driveway, across the alley, and into the neighbor's pool. While this was just a normal day for him, Nancy actually had a spotless driving record, and should be reinstated.
About this time, my oldest son became a driver, and I was introduced to Male Driver Under Age 25 insurance reality. Within a month of obtaining his license, Son One drove the van into the support post of the carport. Having done the same thing at the same age, I sympathized. Alas, I also paid, and paid, and paid.
Everytime I add or subtract a Male Driver Under Age 25, or a male driver's vehicle from my policy I hear the click-click-click. Cassius has to wear the veterinary lampshade around his neck, and LeAnne has to set the pendulum balls in motion.
When I call my Farmer's agent and tell them my name, I hear a click-click-click in the background. LeAnne has set the desk stress pendulum balls in motion.
I know a ridiculous amount about LeAnne. I know her work schedule and her days to attend classes. I know her dog, Cassius, and can enquire about his surgery. I know that the stitches didn't dissolve, but Cassius was very cooperative when LeAnne decided to remove the stitches herself. I congratulate LeAnne on getting her degree with honors this week after six years.
Things rarely go smoothly in my auto insurance experience, so I am glad to have the same cast of characters when I have a problem. They owe me, and I owe them.
When I divorced, I dealt with car insurance for the first time. In this sci-fi frontier I encountered Jerry. Jerry set up my policy on my Mazda MPV. This seemed to be pretty painless and straight-forward. Alas, Jerry had typed my name as "Uncwy" instead of Nancy. After a few months I received a double rejection notice. Uncwy was rejected because she didn't actually exist (a minor detail), and Nancy was rejected because she drove her car into a neighbor's swim pool. I was thrown into the insurance dungeon, chained to the wall, left alone with the rats and a crust of bread.
It took about six months to get Uncwy rehabilitated and renamed, and Jerry nearly got fired in the process. Then it took six more to convince the insurance gods that Nancy's ex was the one who let his car roll down the driveway, across the alley, and into the neighbor's pool. While this was just a normal day for him, Nancy actually had a spotless driving record, and should be reinstated.
About this time, my oldest son became a driver, and I was introduced to Male Driver Under Age 25 insurance reality. Within a month of obtaining his license, Son One drove the van into the support post of the carport. Having done the same thing at the same age, I sympathized. Alas, I also paid, and paid, and paid.
Everytime I add or subtract a Male Driver Under Age 25, or a male driver's vehicle from my policy I hear the click-click-click. Cassius has to wear the veterinary lampshade around his neck, and LeAnne has to set the pendulum balls in motion.
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