Signed Confession

I got a message this week from the University Travel Office informing me that I had an outstanding charge on my university corporate credit card that I use for traveling. A couple days earlier I had discovered that my hotel had erroneously billed my card for room service that I did not order. I emailed them about it, and they immediately credited my card for the complete amount. When I went online, the credit for the charge was listed right below the erroneous charge. I decided to call the Travel Office, thinking that I would tell them about the charge and its credit being listed right next to each other, and we would all have a good laugh about how computer systems are so dumb because they don’t catch easy stuff like that. And then they would fix it.

Hah! No sooner had I described the problem then the student employee started to describe in detail the multiple forms and documents I would have to fill out and submit to get my card cleared. My blood started rushing to my head, and at about the three minute mark, I couldn’t take it anymore. There was no way that I was going to spend an hour filling out forms to appease bureaucratic policy. Ten years ago I would have, but at my age, life is too short to waste on idiocy not of my own making. So when she took her next breath, I cut in and told her that this was not my problem, that it was an accounting problem, and that I was not going to fill in the forms. She took me at my word, probably because we academicians have a bad reputation of being unreasonable. She politely asked me to hold while she talked to her supervisor.

I’m sure her and her supervisor had a wonderful chat about my ancestry and profession, after which she came back on the phone and offered to help create the forms while I waited. I conceded. After about 10 minutes, we had things wrapped up except for the final form. To meet the accounting policies, she explained, I would have to write a memo explaining why the receipt was missing. Once again, the blood rushed to my head. “The receipt’s not missing, because there was never a receipt to begin with!” I nearly shout into the phone. Why was I being forced to admit I had a missing receipt when the receipt that was never issued? It was a freakin’ Spanish Inquisition. She was insistent, however, even after she once again pleasantly put me on hold to discuss my ancestry and profession with her supervisor. I realized that if I didn’t do it, someone else in my department would probably be made to do it. So I agreed. She reminded me that I needed to sign it. Like a good child, I promised I would. Before she hung up, she asked me if there was anything else she could help me with. I bit my tongue instead of saying that I didn’t have time for any more of her help.

I wrote out the note explaining why there was no receipt, and resisted the temptation to write a paragraph about the asinine system they were using, reasoning that no one would read that part of the note anyway. All they wanted was a confession, and I delivered. After I signed it, I took it to the student secretary to get it scanned. She informed me that we could email the scanned image directly to the travel office if I knew what the email address was. I told her it is was satan@university.edu. “Wait! Don’t do that!” I continued, “That would probably end up in the traffic office.” She laughed and suggested lucifer666@university.edu. We came up with a couple of other equally appropriate addresses, then finally entered the correct email address and sent it off. I glanced at the clock and congratulated myself that it had only taken 45 minutes to resolve such a difficult accounting issue.

Smoking under the gun

Lately I've had a lot of writing projects, and with those projects have come many deadlines. Like all good writers, I've been forced to take up smoking to reduce the stress and to help me get through writer's block. It's not the healthiest habit, and I've noticed that it's taken a toll on my general overall appearance.

Of course, smoking is strictly forbidden at my place of employment, so I've had to stick to the only brand of cigs that are tolerated by my employer.

Ooh, I feel all of my Spidey senses tingling.

Hope of America

This year’s Hope of America was more eventful than usual. Here are some of the things that happened and what I learned from them.

• We had to have Little J there at 6:15, but the performance didn’t start until 7:30. While we waited, they had different groups of students perform Mexican dances to music that was loud enough to crack my molars. What I learned: the US is now Mexico.
• When I went to the bathroom before the program started, I turned the corner just in time to hear a father ask his son if he was sure he didn’t need to go poo-poo. Then he asked him if he had to go pee-pee. What I learned: raising children is disgusting.
• I thought that since I had to sit through the Hope of America for the third time, I deserved a treat. I ended up paying $6 for a bag of kettle corn. What I learned: we didn’t get Mexican prices when we became Mexico.
• They began the program by presenting the Boy Scout Organization with this year’s service award. The children even sang a song about the Boy Scouts during the program. I asked Little J if she wanted to be a Boy Scout now. She didn’t even bother to answer. What I learned: Little J may be as cynical as I am.
• I tried to take a picture of Little J during the program, but she was too far away—that and I had no idea where she was in the sea of 5th graders. Then I tried to take a picture of the human flag (made up of 5th grade students wearing strategically colored t-shirts), but from my seat in the nose-bleed section, I couldn't get a shot that didn't involve the scoreboard blocking the upper middle of the flag. What I learned: the commemorative photo they make parents buy if they want their children to participate in the program may actually have been a good idea. Now I have to take back my comment about the organizers being something that rhymes with "mapitalist twine." 
• During the middle of the show, they had a drill team made up of women who were 50+ years old perform two dance numbers. What the heck?! We got old folk competing with children for attention? What I learned: the 93-year-old woman who kicked higher than her head and did the splits could probably beat the crap out of me. Little J's quote: “It was impressive, and weird, and creepy all at the same time.”
• Toward the end of the performance, a strong, rank odor wafted over us. Minutes later, the mom in front of us grabbed diaper-changing stuff and lugged her toddler away. What I learned: raising kids is really disgusting.

I was overwhelmed with gratitude by the end of the program for all the things I had learned. The program not only swept us all up in a nationalistic fervor, but also left me with a real hope for Mexico, er, I mean, America. Long live the burrito!

Living in excess

As I entered the Einstein Bagel Shop in Downtown Denver, I noticed it was much more crowded than the day before. The tables were mostly full, and there was a cart in the middle of the room. I immediately could tell by its contents that it contained the possessions of someone who was living off the streets, despite its overall tidiness and worn cleanliness. There were many musical instruments on it, so I thought it probably belonged to one of the street musicians that play on the 16th Street Mall. I got into line, and as I waited, I looked over the contents, trying to identify the different musical instruments based upon the shapes of the colorful, handmade cases that covered them. I could clearly identify a guitar and what looked like a drum or two, but the other shapes were too odd for me to guess their contents.

When I got close to the counter, I focused my attention back on preparing to order my breakfast. The person in front of me was counting change, and when it came time for him to order, he asked to buy one of the miniature bagels on the bottom shelf of the display case. The tag on the window advertised the price as 2 for 99 cents. The worker at the counter informed him that he couldn't buy just one, that he had to buy two. He nodded, politely thanked the worker, and left the line. My heart began to ache as he walked over to the cart and carefully maneuvered the cart out of the busy shop. I felt horrible as I realized that he probably would have no breakfast that day, at least not one that included the incredibly delicious bagels from Einsteins.

While the worker prepared my order, I thought about the privileged existence I live. I recognized that some of what I have is based on my own merit—the decades of hard work I put into education and the menial jobs I worked at to support myself and my family while doing it. But that didn't change the fact that I now live a life of excess. Here I was, living on a generous travel allowance and eating much more than I really needed at almost every meal, while someone who was probably much hungrier than I didn't have the few coins necessary to eat even a meager breakfast. My breakfast of excess this morning cost just $2.14. Surely he was worth that much.

I hurried to catch up with him. I tried to give him some money so that he could buy breakfast, but he said he would rather earn it than just take it. He pulled out a small wooden instrument with metal tines and began to play. To me, it sounded like noise, not music, and I have to admit that I felt impatience. I wanted to get back to my hotel so that I could get ready for the meetings I was going to attend that day. I just wanted to hand him the money and be done. He finally finished. I quickly gave him the money, and then I was off. I didn't look back. My heart had shut tight again, and I walked down the street as if nothing had happened. Certainly nothing had really changed.

Worshipping false gods

I arrived for my conference in Denver on Friday night, and I pulled out my computer to do a little work. No matter what I did, I couldn't get the wireless to work in my hotel. I tried the lobby. I tried the room my friend was staying in, setting my computer in the very place that his computer successfully picked up wireless. I turned it on and off a couple of times, each time trying a few new settings. No luck. I called the technical support number, and after waiting a long time to speak to someone, I inadvertently hung up on the guy after five minutes of unsuccessful troubleshooting. When I tried to call back, the help line kept dropping me. I was ready to pull my hair out. I would have donated a kidney to someone who could fix my tech problem.

As I discussed this situation with my friend, I told him my theory about the two different responses people have when a techie helps them solve a computer problem. The first response is even greater anger once the problem is solved, because if the stupid $&!+$ had set up everything correctly to begin with, then there would have been no problem in the first place. The second response is typically my response, and that is to prostrate myself on the ground and worship the person who was smart enough to fix the problem. People who can fix these problems are like gods to me. And what I needed at that moment was a god. Maybe two.

I know that I should have been more loyal to my professed monotheistic religion—I shouldn't seek out strange gods from strange lands (the IT department doesn't get much stranger). Moreover, it is probably a wise practice to retain both of my kidneys. I felt remorse, and I tried to look for the moral I was supposed to learn from the situation. Maybe I was not meant to fix my computer. Perhaps it was heavenly intervention to keep my computer from contracting a deadly virus. Or to keep me from sending my contact information to Mrs. Martha Darling in Tunisia who needs help moving $4.3 million to the US. Or to get me to exercise a little as I jumped up and down in frustration.

Whatever the reason, the curse was mysteriously lifted Saturday morning, when for no reason I can discern, I was suddenly able to gain access to the Internet. 'Oh, how the penitent are blessed and succored,' I gleefully thought. Then I quickly put away my little impromptu shrine to Buddha and checked my email.