A quick word of CAUTION:
If you ever wear slacks or trousers that have a button to do up on the inside.
Like this
And then two little metal hooks on the other side.
Like this.
In other words, if undoing your pants is a three step process.
Don't ever,
EVER,
wait until the very last minute to go to the bathroom!
Enough Said.
I realized that I better get the fine paid ASAP. I wasn't too worried since I knew that I had payment options. I could use either the internet or phone
Silly innocent me.
I decided to go the phone version first. I hate paying things on-line. You can't do anything unless you open an account.
I HATE opening accounts.
I hate having to type in all of my information for each new place. Plus I can't help but wonder if this is REALLY a legitimate sight.
I live in absolute terror of identity theft.
It hasn't happened yet. And I am extremely careful. But it still feels like it's just a matter of time.
Small example : No matter where I am, or who I'm with, or who is around me, if I have to punch in my PIN number anywhere, I cover it completely with my other hand. It has offended people before, ie, cashiers, people behind me in line, family members even.
But I DON'T CARE! I am just that cautious.
So here I am calling the provided 1-800 number. It answers. I wade through the five minutes (minimum) of pre-screening crap. You know the stuff you must endure to get to the just as monotonous official crap?
And yes, I always choose the English Option.
I make it to the place where I can start the procedure to pay my fine. This is where I am informed that there will be a charge for the comfort of paying my penalty by phone.
An amount is NOT given however.
I hate any kind of "Trust Us" it won't be too bad, approach. I do the only thing that makes sense at the moment.
I hang up.
The internet it will have to be.
In my experience if there is an extra charge involved for paying by phone, that fee is usually not in place if you use the internet to pay.
Could I possibly be more wrong. I am informed almost immediately that there WILL be a charge. By this point I realize that I'm screwed whichever way I choose to go. I grit my teeth and start to fill out the volumes of paperless, paperwork required to set up the hated "account".
I make my way through at least three screens, typing as I go. I am required to fill in my name, address, and e-mail at least two seperate times.
All this, and I haven't even gotten to the part where I pay yet.
Finally, they start to ask the same questions again with the promise that this is the serious info gathering. This, THIS, is to set up my account so I can have the privledge of paying my fine on line. About halfway through, I am told that the information I am punching in is incorrect.
How do THEY know that.
For Heaven's sakes, if they know enough of my information to know that what I am giving them is not accurate, then why the **** (children might be reading this you know) do they need this information in the FIRST PLACE?????
It suddenly occurs that Don was the offending driver. He must be the one who's information they want. Not mine. But again. If they already have it, then why do I have to give it to them? At this point, I am getting madder and madder.
I go back and start all over.
Typing in all of Don's information instead of mine.
I realize that this is a part of the punishment. They want this info, even though they already have it, because obviously the 52 dollars is not enough of a punishment in their eyes. No, of course not.
This proccess needs to be as painful as possible.
I am soon to find out that this little realization is even more true than I first figured.
I finally get to the last "Fill it all in" screen.
Sweet relief.
Hah! I couldn't have been more wrong!
They want Don's Birthdate. I know that they don't really need it. I know that they already have any personal information about Don there could possibly be. They just want to play with me. They want me to know who's boss.
By now I am completely broken down. They have humbled me. I am a mere shadow of my former, confident, self. I am bruised, beaten. I will give them whatever it is they want. Just please let it end.
Please. I'll be good.
But no. These "people" are without mercy.
I come to the space for Don's birthdate. I type in 2-2-56. This being the last thing they say they need I hit the continue button.
ERRORR! ERRORR! I have failed to please them. I should have realized that they would only be satisfied with two numbers for the day and two numbers for the month and ALL four numbers for the year.
OK, OK, I'll do it. I'm so, so, sorry to have further upset you, dear benevolant higher Government entitiy.
I obediantly type in 02-02-1956.
With the greatest of relief I hit the continue button.
Alas. It is not to be.
ERROR, ERROR. Do not use the ? or the > keys, I am sternly told. I look over my humble little attempts to give them the correct information that they have demanded.
There isn't a ?, or a >, anywhere. I'm confused. Everything I have typed in by now is flawless. Absolutely flawless. I push the continue button again.
ERROR, ERROR, Do NOT use the ?, or >, keys.
And I thought I had been humbled before. By now I am practicaly in tears. I know that there have been plenty of "non-filling out important forms" times where I have definitely used the ? key, but I have never even once used the >, key.
To be honest I've never really even known what it's for.
I try to get them to accept my correctly filled out work but every time I am thwarted by the ERROR message.
I realize that the only thing to do is to admit defeat. I realize that a phone payment is, by default, my new, best, option. I also realize how much they have me over a barrel. They might just charge me 20 dollars or more for the privilege of paying by phone. And I know that whatever amount it is, that I will PAY it.
So here I am back to doing the pay by phone option.
I call the 1-800 number again.
I am told (again) that there will be a charge (to be determined at a later time) for using this service.
Yes, Yes, I will pay. I will pay whatever you say I must pay.
Alright. They have me by the hair and they know it. I am forced to wait on hold for several minutes.
On Hold? For an automated system? I told you I was in Hell. Are you starting to believe me now?
Finally, an almost friendly sounding automated voice picks up. Don't worry, I'm not fooled. I know that they just want me to drop any bit of dignity I have left.
I am thus directed to punch in the citation number.
Let me just mention, that nowhere on the notice does it say "Citation Number" it also doesn't say "Case Number" either. I can only assume that they are referring to the "Notice Number". In calmer times I would have figured this one out easily. But since this whole procedure was obviously set up to make me fail, I couldn't be sure.
I took a chance and started to punch in the "Notice Number".
I was stopped almost immediately by the "almost friendly" automated voice.
This is where things are going to get REALLY unbelievable.
The first of the number is actually NOT a number but a letter. The letter L I think it was. I punch in 5 which is the corresponding number on the phone touch pad. I am immediately, challenged by the, by now, not quite so friendly sounding automated voice.
For real and for true this is what I was told.
If the number (yes, it said NUMBER) you punched in was an L push the # button. If the number you punched in was a T push the 3 button. If the number you punched in was W push the 6 button.
What?!? WHAT?!?! To put it bluntly I was completely thrown off and confused. One of the problems was that the voice started to talk almost immediately after I pushed any number. The result being that no matter how quickly I put the phone back to my ear I had missed a part of the message.
I tried to fix the problem but there was no option for that. So I did the only thing I could think of.
I hung up and called back.
That's right. I called back and had to start ALL over again.
At least this time I was armed with the knowledge that I would have to punch another number for each number or letter I punched in. Nevertheless, I still messed it up and had to hang up, call back and try it again.
I'm not sure if I was even human anymore. I felt like a practical joke come to life.
Finally the golden moment came. I successfully had punched in the "Notice Number" correctly. "Whew". I thought, it's all downhill from here.
Not so fast.
Now I was being told to punch in the first 4 letters of the defendant's last name. And of course it was the same system of listening to each number or # key to push after each letter. "I can do this", I told myself.
And I'm sure if I had spent another 10 hours trying I probably would have too. Instead I got as far as S O R and then made a mistake. The system had NO option to fix a mistake. The only thing to do was to either hang up AGAIN, or to try the Internet option one more time.
NO, NO, NO! I won't do it!! YOU CAN"T MAKE ME!!! I won't I won't I won't. That's right. I was having a temper tantrum that would have put "Herman Munster" to shame.
I grabbed that hated notice and started to scour it for phone numbers. Someone was going to listen to me if it took all day.
The automated number I had just called was printed on there a few times. Then I noticed a number to call for Transponder problems.
The Transponder being the electronic, digital, device that Tacoma people have in their cars that pays the toll every time they use the bridge.
I knew that it wasn't the proper number for me to call, but I was pretty sure that I would get a hold of a real live person.
And after a 12 minute wait I actually did!
He was a very nice young man. I was more or less in tears as I told him my whole long tragic story. In fact to be honest, even if I hadn't been in tears, I would have summoned them up so as to be as wretched sounding as possible.
He listened quite patiently to me.
When I was all done, he told me that he was going to help me. There wasn't anything that he could personally do for me, but he could give me the way to talk to someone who could help me.
He pointed out the proper 1-800 number to call. Then he told me to NOT hit the number 1 that I would be prompted to push. He said that only those people who waited through the whole long message would get the magic number to punch to get to a live person.
The number, he informed me was 6.
I called the new 1-800 number. When prompted (at the beginning) I hit 6.
Miracle of miracles, I was told that I was number 3 in line to talk to a real person. I had to wait about 10 minutes, but I was HAPPY to wait. Thrilled, to wait. I was suddenly the happiest and most patient person on the face of the whole Earth.
I was finally hooked up to Sally.
I again poured out my whole sad story. I even threw in the tears to make myself, even more believable. Sally listened. Then she told me the best words I have heard in years.
Don't worry about it. There is actually a grace period. As long as you get it mailed in today or tomorrow you should be just fine.
SWEET SWEET RELIEF!!!!!
I told Sally how very, VERY grateful I was. I hung up. I saw that I had been at this impossible task for more than an hour and a half. I started to feel angry that the powers that be should make something as simple as paying off a fine so **** hard.
I stopped the anger in it's tracks. I decided that I was not going to waste one more minute being stressed out about something that turned out to not be, even a fraction, of the problem I thought it had been.
I wrote out a check. I included the signed notice. I licked the envelope. I put on the stamp. I drove to Yokes Supermarket,(closest mail slot). I mailed that stupid thing.
I was free. The stress was completely gone. The stress was gone, but not the need to tell someone, anyone, about my brief little sojourn in Hell. So that dear readers is where YOU come in.
I have now told my story. I hope that someone out there will get something helpful from it. I don't really know what that could be, but who knows? One day you might inadvertently run through an unknown Toll Booth without paying.
If you do, please learn from my experience. Forget about mitigating. Forget about how wronged you feel. Forget about how mean and unfair the whole thing is.
And just pay the **** FINE!
As I was saying, I really should have gone with my best instincts and just mailed off that stupid fine.
As a matter of fact I had decided to do just that.
We had another trip to the Seattle area coming up and I wanted the fine taken care of before we went.
We were going up on the 17th.
Early.
I had planned to mail it off before we left, but with the stress of packing, and just plain owing to my forgetful nature, it didn't get done. We were about 30 miles out of the Tri-Cities when Don asked me about "that Gig Harbor thing".
I was a little annoyed since HE had wanted to be in charge of it.
I let it slide though because I've done more things like that to him than he has ever done to me.
I told him that I just now realized I hadn't mailed it in. I told him it wasn't due until the 19th and that it could be paid over the phone or on the Internet.
At this point I wasn't terribly nervous, just a little perturbed with both of us.
Well we got to Seattle. Actually to Bellevue, but if you aren't familiar with the area Seattle will do.
We checked into our Hotel. (which was great btw another post on it later!) From there we preceded to have a nice time, which I won't go into because it doesn't pertain to my little story.
We came home on the 19th. Cutting it close. Thank goodness for the Internet and electronic phone option.
Well. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Guess what????
I got the notice, I went upstairs to pay it and vanish it from my life FOREVER.
It was only then when I happened to look at the date-to-be-paid-by.
It wasn't the 19th.
It had been due on the 16th.
Silent inner SCREAMING!!!!!!!
I knew right then that I should have known. After all the 19th was a Sunday. I had been wondering about that little curiosity all week end long. Why on earth would the Pierce County District Court have a final date- to- be- paid on a Sunday?
Suddenly things seemed a lot more ominous.
I went from being annoyed with the situation to being panic struck.
I have a thing about not getting things done after a deadline. At least for important government type stuff.
You know how things like that can really mess up your life.
So yes. You could safely say that I was in a state of panic. Unfortunately for me, it was only going to get worse!
To be continued yet again. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I visited Hell this morning.
It has definitely earned it's reputation.
My little corner of Hell was called "The Pierce County District Court". If there are slums in Hell then I surely was cruising through one of the worst.
It all started three weeks ago (give or take). When we had the happy occasion to go over to what my brother Mike calls the "Wet Side". In other words the greater Seattle Tacoma area.
Mike and Cindy live in the most beautiful and charming little, Dick and Jane, town you've ever seen. It has things like Bowling night, Swim night, Halloween activities, even Town Meetings. You are always welcome in FirCrest Washington.
A little slice of Paradise.
In fact if Don and I had just stayed in FirCrest everything would have been just fine.
We didn't of course.
We decided to go exploring. For some inane reason I wanted to check out some of the stores that Tacoma has that we can only dream of here in the Tri-Cities.
What we got, was lost.
At one point in our state of motoring confusion we ended up crossing the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. A nice enough bridge. A bridge that you would never suspect harbors a nasty little surprise.
It is a TOLL BRIDGE!
Now I knew that there was a Toll Bridge somewhere around there. I was so frustrated at the whole mess of having no idea where we were, and so worried if I had the cash on me to pay the toll in case this was "THAT" bridge, that I didn't even see the Toll Booth. Don ( who was the one driving) apparently saw it but said that he didn't know what to do because there didn't appear to be anyone there to take our money.
Enough background. About a week after we got home, we received an official looking envelope with a Gig Harbour Stamp on it.
Gig Harbour being one of the other little communities in the general Tacoma area.
I knew it had to be something bad.
I'm smart enough to know that it wasn't a nice little survey saying something like,
"We are so happy that you visited our little town, please fill this out to let us know what you liked and what you think could use some improvement."
Yeah right!
It turned out to be a nasty little notice that we had been photographed "in the act." Our little crime spree, that consisted of "sneaking" right past the toll booth. Oh yes, Don and I are such hard core criminals.
We were assessed with a 52 dollar fine.
"Alright" I thought. "This really sucks, and I would love to scream at somebody about how MEAN and UNFAIR it is". I knew though, that it would be best to just cut a check and mail it off as soon as possible.
I had every intention of doing just that too. Then I make the mistake of showing it to Don.
He was even more offended by it than me.
The problem though, was that he told me NOT to pay it just yet. He wanted to mitigate in the hopes that it would be thrown out or at least reduced. I told him it was only 52 dollars and it would be better to just pay the stupid thing so we wouldn't need to worry about it.
But no. As far as Don was concerned his pride couldn't let him just cave in, he wanted to fight.
Weird.
Usually I'm the aggressive one in the relationship.
So very reluctantly, I let it go. I was uneasy about the whole business though. I am almost always the one who handles these kinds of sordid little affairs.
But, Don wanted to handle it so I let him handle it.
I couldn't stop myself though, from asking him every other day if he had taken care of our little problem. "No." "Not yet." "But don't WORRY."
" I'm going to take care of it. "
Did I mention that the deadline was April 19th and that the 19th was coming closer and closer? Well it was. I thought about just paying the dumb thing and getting it over with. I should have, I should have, I SHOULD have.
. . . . . . . .To be continued. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Was there ever really a time when I didn't believe it possible to have nothing to blog about?
I knew that my one year blogging anniversary was coming up. I didn't know the exact date.
I just now checked and April 21st is the big day.
Almost one year of blogging for me.
Funny how a year of just about anything goes by so darn fast.
But contrary wise, if you tell someone they will have to wait a year for something, it will seem like an eternity.
The longest time I can remember waiting for something was nine months.
Anyone care to guess what I was waiting for?
It is true. The longer you have to wait for something the more you appreciate it when you get it.
Which brings me to a question.
Really more of a musing I think.
There has been a special recently, shown on TV,
TLC to be exact.
You have probably either watched it or heard similar stories.
I didn't watch it because I have heard enough similar stories to get the gist of the whole thing.
You know what I'm referring to I bet.
The women who had no idea that they were pregnant until they had a really bad day.
It would classify as a bad day. At least to my way of thinking.
Hours and hours of horrible unexplained pain, along with the, just as unexplained, leakage of bodily fluids. All to be followed by the unintended birth of a baby.
Can you imagine that? I really don't think I can.
Here you go Mrs Sorenson. I finally have a diagnoses for you.
Here is your new baby.
How on earth do you come to terms with something that completely unexpected?
I have had five children. I was aware of each of them growing in my body.
I had the morning sickness to prove it.
Also the cramps and several different kinds of pains. As well as several different uncomfortablenesses.
You try being five one with a short little torso and no room for the baby to grow after the first six months.
I've heard women talking about carrying a baby high, as well as low. Carrying it up front or having it become more of a pain in the back type thing.
Well if someone ever was to ask me how I carried my babies, low or high, front or back, my very brief answer would have to be YES.
As in yes to all of the above.
At the same time.
But at least I knew that there was a baby in there.
Would it take me, or you, longer to love and feel connected to an unheard of and unplanned for, baby?
What do you say to your husband when they finally track him down at work?
Surprise?
Or would you go with the universal solution,
Guess What?
Boy, would that be the Mother of all Guess Whats?
I certainly hope that after a few moments of utter and complete confusion that I would welcome my new baby and try to find the obvious humor in the situation.
You would certainly never be at a loss for an ice breaker at parties.
That's for darn sure.
Well, I guess that's all I have for now.
What do you think David? How's this for another short post.
Let me know your thoughts on the matter.
I'd also be interested how many times you have had absolutely nothing to blog about and just dived right in and ended up 180 degrees from where you though you were going.
What should I call this?
How about "Blogging without Borders"?
Oh my, and as luck would have it, I am finished just in time for American Idol.
Go Adam!!!!
Catch you all later!
Something cute just happened, I don't know if any of you remember my writing about my grandaughter Lindsay and the boy two houses down that she is good friends with, you can read a couple of Lindsay and Michael posts here, and here .
So I'm sitting upstairs trying to come up with an idea for a post when someone knocks on the door downstairs.
I get up, go downstairs and for a change, I don't even ask who it is before I open the door.
Risky business, I know.
Anyway, it turned out to be Lindsay's friend Michael. He is just the cutest little eight year old boy. He could even be nine now, further research I guess.
The good news is, that he wasn't asking me to buy anything.
He had an assignment from school, where he was required to poll at least ten people and see how many of them are right handed and how many are left.
Did I mention how cute he is?
Well I informed him that I am most definitely a rightie. I thought that with my answer our little interview would be over.
Not so quick.
Without losing a beat, Michael quickly asked what hand Lindsay is.
Should I admit that I'm not sure?
I told him that I was almost positive that Little Miss Lindsay was right handed as well.
"I thought so." Michael answered. Then said thank you and good bye and went on his merry way.
See? Nothing earth shattering or really important.
Just a sweet, fun and cute little moment to break up the otherwise monotony of a typical Tuesday early evening.
Do you have a Michael in your neighborhood? I'm glad I do.
And I know that Lindsay will agree.
Okay,
good bye now!
First of all, I guess I should apologize to those who have been patiently waiting for me to do a new post. Last weekend was very busy. We were out of town and I didn't get a chance to do any blogging, and then it started to feel okay to not blog when I got home.
I never realized how easily I could fall out of the blogging habit.
Fortunately, I really enjoy all of my blogging buddies so I decided to come back.
I was thinking about my father yesterday. This May 20th will be his second birthday since he died.
I miss him.
Anyway, this last weekend while I was surrounded by family, we spent some time reminiscing about dad and some of his funny little quirks.
My father was an extremely intelligent man. I know that a lot of people can say that about their dads, but for my father, whose measured IQ was comfortably in Genius territory, his intellect defined a large part of who he was.
Not in the way you would think though.
Dad was an engineer. He was an inventor. He was an innovator. He had an exquisitley complex mind. And because of his mind he did things differently than most people.
He was a perfectionist.
Almost everything he did was slow and methodical. He had the infinite patience required to stick with an idea, to work it any number of ways and through countless trials and errors, to eventually come up with a mind blowing innovation.
In his early days, when I was young, he worked for Boeing.
He was happy there for a while but it was also the first of many experiences where he put in the hours and brainpower, only to see the credit for his work, taken by his superiors.
He did NOT have a mind for business.
He proved this with the times he decided to start his own companies, so as to be able to work for, and answer, only to himself.
He was too trusting and because of that he misjudged quite a few business "partners" who ended up cheating him out of his own intellectual property.
As smart as he was when it came to just plain understanding how everything in the world worked, and how to manipulate it to his will, he could be pretty clueless when it came to everyday life.
He could not escape his methodical, engineering mind.
And for simple, day to day, chores and tasks, he wouldn't even try.
It took him forever to do anything. Household jobs were out of the question. Don't think he wasn't willing.
He was more than happy to save my mom from the drudgeries of housework.
The thing is, mom liked things done as quickly and as efficiently as possible. In theory dad agreed with that. But in practice he couldn't hurry to save his life. If he did the dishes, it would take him forever because he would break the task down into the cleaning of each individual dish.
Each cup, saucer, plate or bowl would be thoroughly gone over in such a way as to make sure it was not only clean, but as good as new. If anything happened to be found in want of even the tiniest of repairs, dishwashing would come to an abrupt halt so as to come up with the best solution for restoration.
If vacuuming carpets, dad would be so methodical that he could spend ten minutes on one square yard making sure that it was completely free of dirt, dust, loose threads, or, heaven forbid, crumbs, before moving on to the next three feet.
Needless to say, my father was very seldom pressed into simple housework. To his credit though, he could fix anything.
Our appliances lasted longer than most people's.
Eating was much the same way with my dad. He took his time.
He would be at the table longer than anyone.
And no one was better at getting all of the leftover meat off of a turkey carcass.
As long as you didn't mind waiting an hour or two.
This brings me to one of the most famous "dad" traditions, our family has ever had.
Dad loved toast. There were quite a few other foods as well that he enjoyed, but toast was probably the most iconic.
I wasn't there for the first days of my parent's marriage, having come along in approximately year number two.
But dad and his toast have become so legendary in our family that it feels like I must have been there from the very beginning.
Because from the time I was old enough to notice such things, my father always asked my mom to please come and butter his toast. I must have been at least five or six before it even occurred to me to ask why.
Why on earth didn't my dad ever butter his own toast?
It turns out that there was a very good answer.
When my parents were first married, my dad was a student at the University of Washington.
He was a devout Husky thereafter, his entire life.
As you know, one thing a college student is usually short on is time.
And every morning for breakfast my dad liked to have a couple slices of toast.
The problem was, that buttering his toast, was something that took so long, that he could have eaten ten pieces of the stuff in the time it took him to butter just one piece.
Each quadrant of toast was gone over with a small pattering of butter so as to make sure that there was an equal amount spread from top to bottom.
This.
Took.
Forever!
And it is a fact that very few college professors will accept, toast buttering, as an acceptable excuse for being late to class.
So it became apparent, quite early in my parents' marriage, that if dad was to continue his education it would be vital for my mom to be the toast butterer of the family.
This is generally the accepted reason in my family why from the first years of their life together, through to the very last days of my fathers' life, that if toast was to be eaten, it would always be buttered by my mom.
Like most of these kinds of things, who would butter my fathers' toast became a rite of much greater importance than just a couple of pieces of buttered toast.
Years and years of buttered toast turned into a ritual of love.
I like to think that it became woven into a part of the security blanket of my parents relationship. It had started out as one of those mundane things that my mom did more out of necessity than love.
But as year after year passed, it became a symbol of my parents' interdependence on each other.
Other rituals eventually ended up joining the marriage, just as there were always certain little sore spots that they learned how to walk around.
After all isn't that how a good marriage works?
Two people, no matter how much they love each other, don't just automatically fall into perfect step with each other.
And for my parents, I think it was a slow love.
One that over years of shared history,
of many bumps in the road
and more than a few joys,
grew into something so personal, so unique, so permanent
that there was no force on earth that could have broken them apart.
If it all got started with a little toast buttering, then I guess it just goes to show that mighty things really do come from, what some might consider, the small and almost insignificant.
My mom mourns my dads' passing.
I'm sure she feels stripped of a part of herself.
Couples who love and endure through so much come out so firmly entwined that it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.
I know my mother feels this.
I also know that for over more than fifty years of marriage there were times when she probably felt like telling dad to "butter his own toast".
She would never have meant it of course.
And I like to think that for my father,
there would be no joy found in the eating of a piece of toast that had been buttered by his own hand.
Now call it what you will, but for me, the thought of my mom standing there in the kitchen quickly buttering my dads toast, will always be one of the great symbols of love.
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