The joys of calling customer service

You know how when you call the credit card company or your insurance agency, the automated system usually tells you, this call may be monitored or recorded for quality purposes?

I always assumed those purposes were quality service.

Yesterday I called my insurance company to find out their policy on covering vaccinations (for Nepal). I knew it was highly unlikely, but wanted to cover all my bases. So I asked.

Insurance rep: “No, we don’t usually cover vaccines. Which ones are you looking for?“

Me: “Well, one is rabies…“

Insurance rep: “Oh, you were bitten?“

Me: “No, it’s preventative.“

IR: “They don’t do preventative.“

Me: “Oh, well, I actually just talked to my doctor, and he said that they do.“

IR: “No. They don’t do preventative rabies shots around here.“

Me: “It’s for international travel.“

IR: “Ha!* Well now this call is recorded as you saying it’s for travel and we definitely don’t cover shots for international travel.“

*It might have been more “ah!” than “ha!” but there was no mistaking the excitement in her voice. 

At this point, I knew it was a done deal, but I was curious about one more thing.

Me: “Oh, okay. So…you don’t even cover polio boosters? I thought I read something about getting a booster every 10 years.“

IR: “Ma’am, I’ve already recorded you saying it’s for international travel, so, no.“

Me: “Listen, I’m not trying to be sneaky. I was just looking for information. But thanks for your help.“

And I hung up.

Perhaps that wasn’t the mature way to handle it.

But at that point I was done being recorded.

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A horse of a different color

The other night I went to the salon to test out a hairstyle for my wedding day. The stylist worked her magic and I knew, immediately, that this was what I wanted. I had curls cascading down my back and I couldn’t stop grinning as I walked home – even in the rain.

I waited eagerly for BNF to get home so he could see it, and I may have kept bouncing the curls around, as they’re so very different from (and much more fun than) my usually pin-straight hair.

Finally I heard the key in the lock, I saw BNF evaluate my hair, and saw the smile on his face.

“I like it, baby,” he told me. “It looks great! It looks like a beautiful horse’s mane!“

I was too surprised to come up with anything better than, “Did you just call me a horse?“

I thought about it more, and came up with a better conclusion: BNF was simply channeling is inner Sir Ulrich von Leichtenstein.

In A Knight’s Tale, if you’re unfamiliar with the classic, Sir Ulrich attempts to hit on Jocelyn with the line, “Your beauty will be reflected in the power of my arm and my horse’s flanks.“

Needless to say, it does not go over so well, and Jocelyn only barely listens when her friend and maid tells her, “Maybe where he comes from it means love.“

Sure. Let’s go with that.

Horse comparison=love.

In these two cases, anyway. And these two only, I hope.

Though, now I wonder if it would be appropriate to trot down the aisle.

Decisions decisions.

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I love me some unsolicited advice

Back in September, BNF joined a baseball league and last night I finally got the chance to go to one of his games. One of the first things he told me about when he started was the coach. “He’s really anti-marriage,” he told me. “He actually sent me an article about how marriage is bad for you after I told him I was engaged.“

So, naturally, I couldn’t wait to meet this guy, and I was certain that I’d be welcome at the game.

Coach did not disappoint.

I introduced myself when we got to the field, before the guys started warming up.

“So you’re going to try that marriage thing?” he asked me. “It’s a mistake. You’ll be so bored. Can you really imagine spending the rest of your life with the same person? God, that’s awful.“

When I told him that not only was I excited about my upcoming marriage, but that I was inspired by my parents (who will be celebrating 35 years in November!), it prompted him to ask me how old I was.

“You’re only 26? And you can really imagine spending the next 20 to 30 years with the same person?“

I’m not really sure how we got from “the rest of your life” to “20 to 30 years,” unless he thinks that everyone dies before 60. What an optimist.

After Coach left the bleachers to go warm up with the team, another guy who had been sitting there the entire time, unassociated with the team, turned to me.

“That guy is a piece of work! He’s really something else.“

I assured him that I’d been warned and we laughed and chatted a bit. And when he stood up to leave he joked, “Well, I guess I’ll just go back to my “boring” wife of 21 years. I’ll tell her, ‘you know, honey, I thought things were great until I heard this unsolicited advice from a guy at the field – guess we’ll have to change things up.‘”

The real kicker, though, aside from the reaction of complete strangers, came at the end of the game, when Coach started a sentence with, “My girlfriend…“

Well, now. I definitely did not see that one coming.

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Slightly more in depth than lather, rinse, repeat (but it shouldn’t be)

BNF caught me taking this photo as we were on our way back from L.A. yesterday.

Quite honestly, I’d never taken the time to look at the back of my pretzel bag, and had no idea I was missing out on such comprehensive instructions. Or that I was skipping so many steps as I enjoyed my snack.

My favorite, though?

“Keep empty packet to remind yourself to book at airtran.com, where you’ll always find our lowest fares.“

In other words, “keep your trash so you remember our website, where you may not find the lowest fares ever, but at least they’ll be our lowest.“

Oh, AirTran. This ploy just reeks of desperation.

Try a little subtlety next time; it’s become extremely underrated.

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The difference a year makes

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Every so often I’ll use this little blog to look back and see where I was a year ago. And I pray to God that I’ve made at least some progress since then. It’s often hit or miss. But this time, looking back, it was obvious.

One year ago today, I was taking the GRE. I was stuck in a room with about 10 other people, at any given time, slowly plodding away at questions that were going to decide where (or, whether or not) I went to grad school. I’d been studying for the previous four months; I was nervous as hell; I, of course, had a bit of a head cold and wasn’t allowed to bring my own tissues in (what was I going to do, write the answers on them?); and I was still thrown off by the fact that at one point during my studying I’d forgotten how many degrees were in a triangle.

Now, as of this July 1st (and, speaking of, how is it July already?) not only have I gotten into the program I’d been dreaming about, but I’ll be starting this fall. I’ve already signed up for my classes, and been in touch with one of my future professors. And I’m excited.

I realize, of course, that this makes me sound like a huge dork. And that, perhaps, I won’t be quite as excited when I’m working on a paper all weekend while my friends are out having fun, or when the boyfriend has to come visit me in the library, because that’s the only time we’ll see each other that week. (I’ve already apologized to him in advance for this.)

But it is still exciting to be taking that next step. And to see something I’ve worked so hard for come to fruition.

And that’s enough to make my soon-to-be lack of a social life almost completely worth it.

Wait, what?

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What my profile says about me (behind my back)

When I started running with my group I signed up with their page on Meetup.com to get the alerts and stay connected and whatnot. I didn’t fill out a whole lot of information about other interests – preferring to keep it simple – but I did agree to get an email once a week, letting me know about other Meetup groups in the area. Up until recently, I nearly always deleted those emails without reading them (unless they were from my specific group). But the other week, one of the groups in the “recommended for you” category caught my attention:

The Baltimore Area Lesbian Singles Meetup Group

Now, I don’t have anything against any of those descriptors, but only one is really applicable. (Unless DC is considered “Baltimore Area”? I don’t think so.) So, I was surprised, to say the least, but I just let it drop.

But then, yesterday, the recommendations made it clear that I need to go back into my profile settings and fix something, because this is what I was given:

1) The DC Indians Meetup Group

Okay, admittedly, this could be fun and interesting. But I’m still at a loss as to how it’s a recommendation for me.

2) FitMommi

This is what I imagine. And, judging from their page, I don't think I'm *too* far off.

FitMommi classes are designed to provide an appropriate work-out for moms who are pregnant, who just had a baby, or whose children are school-age. Classes cater to beginners, and workouts are adjusted to suit advanced attendees.

All FitMommi classes are intended to promote physical health and mental well-being, but most importantly, FitMommi classes offer a support system for moms who are likely to have the same questions, struggles, goals and priorities.

And that’s fantastic! Good for them. But, the last time I checked, I was neither pregnant, nor had recently given birth. I’m pretty sure that’s something I would notice.

3) Healthy Family Weight Loss

Just in case I didn’t get the memo from the FitMommi group, this one’s here to assure me that I can keep both myself and my family in shape. And there’s complementary daycare while the group meets. Thank goodness. Because I wouldn’t want to have to find a sitter for my imaginary children.

Now I’m kind of torn. There’s a part of me that wants to examine why I’ve been getting recommendations like these – and possibly make it stop.

But the other part is just wondering what they’ll recommend next.

It certainly makes Mondays just a little more interesting.

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Okay, now it’s just ridiculous

This still isn’t a sports blog, but after watching a handful of football games yesterday (and one VERY important and amazing baseball game last night), I couldn’t resist.

Yeah, my Eagles lost, and that sucks. And they had a fair amount of injuries, which, knowing them, doesn’t bode well for next week’s game.

But then again, next week’s game is against the Redskins – who I’ve almost started to feel bad for. They can’t seem to catch any breaks – or, rather, to do anything right. Although, in professional sports, I’ve never been quite sure who the responsibility lies with, when the team is doing poorly.

• Some blame the coach. He is, theoretically, the one in charge, who has a handle on the strengths and weaknesses. But what if the team doesn’t have talent in the first place? Or if, for whatever reason, they just don’t mesh? Sometimes the coach can only do so much.

• Some blame the players, themselves. They clearly have (some of) the necessary skills, otherwise they wouldn’t even be on the professional level. And if the coaching is that bad, shouldn’t the team, in theory, be able to organize itself? Maybe take a stand against poor leadership? A novel idea, I know.

• And then there are some who blame the owner. And, of the Redskins fans I know, several have taken this route. One, who, during games, has his children chanting, “Fire Snyder! *clap clap clapclapclap*,” even passed along this website, with the same sentiment. I don’t know if you can actually impeach an owner, but if there is a way, I’m sure Washington fans will find it.

Quite honestly, I’m not so concerned with whose *fault* this poor performance is. Intrigued is a better word for what I am. And as much pity as I have for the them, I just hope that they don’t get their act together too much before next week’s Monday night game.

Because I’d really hate to lose to a team whose coach isn’t even allowed to call the shots anymore. That would just be embarrassing.

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My last post about running…

…until next time. Sorry – it’s just that season.

I know I mentioned it in an earlier post, but I have a race coming up this weekend that I’m ridiculously excited for.

Officially called the ING Philadelphia Distance Run, it’s a half-marathon in Philly that offers a beautiful (supposedly flat) course, with lots of crowd support and bands every few miles as encouragement. And not only am I excited about running in Philly (I may technically be a suburbs girl, but it’s still home), but I’m excited that this will be my first half-marathon where I’m officially timed.

You see, my last half-marathon was a bit of a debacle. You’d think, that for an annual event, they’d have the logistics down. But that proved to not be the case. We found out, right before our starting time, that the race permit obtained by the directors was for about 300 runners. And that they had allowed about 1000 to register. You see the discrepancy there?

And so the park rangers stepped in and removed the timing pad and the official clock. Excuse me? We were then informed that we could still run, but we had to remove our numbers, because this couldn’t be an actual race.

It would have been very easy to quit. To turn around, get in the car, and go back to bed.

BUT:

1) We were already there and ready and could, technically, time ourselves.

2) My parents had come down to watch me race, and I felt guilty about making them wake up at such an ungodly hour.

Pre-race. What a trooper. I don't know where Daddy was for this one.

3) We were told that we’d still receive our medals.

That was really the selling point.

And so we ran, timed ourselves, and got our medals. But it didn’t feel the way a first half-marathon should feel. So I’m calling this weekend a do-over. The first one was just practice. On Sunday we’ll have actual crowds, water stops, clocks and official scores.

And, of course, a medal. Because that’s really the reason we do these anyway.

Success!

Happy Friday!

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Not something you hear every day

Having spent four years in Baltimore for undergrad, I’ve always considered myself lucky that I escaped relatively unscathed. I was never mugged; my car was never stolen (or damaged, in any way); no one ever broke into my apartment. You might think these things are a given, but when you see new notices every morning about muggings, break-ins, and students being pistol-whipped you start to reconsider.

Regardless, during those four years (and even now, occasionally, when I walk home alone in DC), I thought about how I would/should react to a threat. And, while it’s a lesser threat now due to the security in my building, I’ve also thought about what course of action to take should I encounter someone in my apartment.

A samurai sword is not the first thing that comes to mind – and not just because I don’t own one.

Confused? I understand. Here’s where that came from:

“A Johns Hopkins University student armed with a samurai sword killed a man who broke into the garage of his off-campus residence early Tuesday, a Baltimore police spokesman said.”

“The student told police that he heard a commotion in the house and went downstairs armed with a samurai sword, Guglielmi said. He saw the side door to the garage had been pried open and found a man inside, who lunged at the student.”

Now, I don’t want to make light of this at all. I would be terrified if someone entered my home. If I came into contact with them and had a weapon of some sort, I can’t say that I wouldn’t use it in self-defense.

But, two things jump out here:

1) You’re an undergrad living in Baltimore. And, if you’re living off campus, you’re an upperclassman – which means that you have experience with this city. So why investigate a suspicious noise on your own? I know the police were called, but I’m unclear on the time line. Maybe it’s just me, but my first instinct would be to get out.

2) Who has a sword? Or even, who has a sword that’s sharp enough to nearly sever a hand? It could be my own ignorance, but I always thought a) if you had a samurai sword (especially at this age), it was probably a collector’s item, and b) that those blades were fairly dull. Because who would ever have to actually use them?

In the end, like everyone else, I’m curious to see how this will turn out. How will the student be charged? Or will he?

Maybe it’s a clear case of self-defense. Maybe not.

But I’m still thrown by the sword.

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Excuse me, but what are you?

I love making new friends at bars. It yields some of the most interesting conversations and often ridiculous questions.  This past weekend did not disappoint.

It started off innocently enough – a guy came over to our table to borrow a light and then started chatting. We all talked sports and DC living; he told us about his upcoming wedding. And then he asked me:

“Can I ask you a question? I’m not sure if I’m really allowed to say this, I don’t know if it’s okay, but what ethnicity are you?“

I have to kind of admire his boldness (read: drunkenness), as I’ve occasionally wanted to ask the same question, but never dared. But it’s more the fact that he asked me. I laughed at the question and before I could even respond, one of the friends I was with told him that I was “white as white could be, the epitome of Caucasian.”

So he explained. “I’m sorry, I just asked because, well, and I’m still not sure if this is all right to say, but, I mean, it’s your eyes. They look a little Asian. Are you Asian at all?“

Thoughts? Based on eyes alone?

Really? Not that I’d mind, actually, I think it’d be pretty cool, but it’s still not something I hear every day. He assured me that I did, in fact, have great eyes, he was just curious. In the meantime, his fiancee was standing there shaking her head and apologizing to me. And she apologized even more profusely when his friends all came out on to the patio (at his urging), and started whispering, “Is that the one? Is she really Asian?“

If I had a better poker face, I may have tried to play along and tell them that yes, actually, my grandmother was Asian, and wow, you’re very observant and usually nobody picks up on that.

But even as I thought about it, I knew I couldn’t lie without laughing.

Maybe, though, I’ll work on my story and my poker face. You know, for next time.

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