Professor Lutkus

I attended the State University of New York at Geneseo, where I received my Bachelor of Arts (It's the best school you've never heard of, thank you very much.). My first semester I took a writing class with Professor Alan Lutkus. He was a smoking addict with a Harvard degree that had a reputation for ruining the GPA of more than one honor student. Still, as a first year, I didn't have a lot of knowledge, or choice, so I signed up. He quickly became my favorite prof. After all, he was eccentric in his way. Particularly the way he could not make it 1.25 hours without a ciggy. He was particular. He was demanding. He was amazing. He talked about the value of being deliberately pedantic, erudite, and pretentious (important for particular cover letters, and job interviews, but not so good for regular life). At one point in the semester Professor Lutkus told the class the importance of expressing gratitude in the moment because the moment passes. Like most things at that time, I wrote it down, studied it for the final exam, and promptly forgot it. Recently I've thought alot about Professor Lutkus and thought that I really should thank him. He was the only professor that told me that I had skill in writing and should pursue it. So I Googled him. As if to make his point all the more profound,I learned the moment had passed - that Professor Lutkus had passed away. I am sad to learn this. He was a phenom professor and an inspiring man. Thank you Professor Lutkus. I cannot write a modifying phrase without thinking of you. And you are the only non-family member that has given me praise and made me believe it. Thank you.

So are we like girl friends or guy friends

I once studied the difference between guy friendships and girl friendships. (Yes, there are advanced degrees in that. No, you can't have mine. They actually take more work to earn than you think.) I wouldn't say that I uncovered anything surprising, but sometimes having the obvious pointed out in quantitative measure is startling none the same. It turns out that girl friends relate to each other through conversation. That's right. Girls-talk makes the relationship. SPOILER ALERT: Guys don't relate that way. They connect through activities. As a result, if a girl hasn't talked to a girl friend in a while, well, that friendship is O-V-E-R. But guys? Guys take a different approach. They, like Dwayne Wade, take the inbound pass like no time has passed. They are just one pick-up game away from renewed understanding and connection. They can pick up right where they left off. That leaves this question: Are we "guy friends" or "girl friends?" Can we pick up right where we left off? Or will we hold a grudge, and say nice things but secretly devise the demise of this blog? Time, or passive aggressive behavior, will tell.

What happens to a blog deferred?

What happens to a blog deferred?

Does lavender waft in its ear,
Or does is sleep like a princess waiting for a kiss or
Does it die, with the pitty of a still birth,
Or does it fade like a sustained note on a guitar?

perhaps it formally resigns. Very respectful. Thank you.

A Euology For Customer Service

I've never considered myself a high maintenance person. I prefer to do things for myself. I carry my own groceries, pump my own gasoline and I favor the self-checkout (barring that unwitting customer in front of me in line that can't figure out how to scan their groceries of course). But when I have a problem that I rely on a customer service professional to solve . . . well, I find myself in the uncomfortably impotent position of asking for help.

I find this position particularly frightening because I know it won't go well. It never does.

Recently I had a run in with my bank. I received a letter that they needed a W-9 for my account. I had opened the account 4 years ago, but apparently there was something wrong with the paperwork - something unsigned or lost or something. (I've asked exactly what the problem was, and even though I was told perhaps the government did change my social security number and not tell me, I have yet to receive a credible answer.)

So I filled out the form and went to the bank where I was told it was a formality and it would all be taken care of without incident. Oh, and the interest the bank had forfeited that belonged to me - I'd be getting that back also. They were sorry for the inconvenience and no, they couldn't explain why I had received the letter the day before, why the dated letter had said I had 30 days to provide a w-9 or I would forfeit interest and interest had already been forfeited less than 10 days from the date of the letter. But, clearly I was entitled to my interest back and could they interest me in purchasing any C.D.'s with an attractive interest rate?

Fast forward a week and the interest has not been returned to my account, and in fact additional interest has been pinched from my account. I consider this nothing less than stealing at this point. The letter clearly states 30 DAYS - I've now filled out the w-9 3 separate times for this bank. What more can I do? I know the letter directs me to call . . . what else, a dreaded 800 number . . .

Dreaded is right. After holding for what feels like 10 minutes, listening to the worst possible music (I'd really rather have silence) I am greeted by a call center customer service rep. She can't tell me why the interest is still being forfeited or when I'll be getting it back. She can't tell me anything except that her department doesn't really deal with matters like this. WHAT?! Doesn't deal with this - well then, who does? Because the letter (which I am so grateful I saved) states at the bottom that if I have ANY questions in this matter to call this number. She'll check with her manager . . . please hold.

While on hold, the call drops. There's more to the story but I think this ending really sums it up. Customer Service, we will all miss you. Muzak, a monotone read "I'm sorry that happened to you", and the automated "please key in your account number followed by the pound symbol" will never replace accountable people with follow through.

Rest in peace Customer Service, rest in peace.

Revive or DNR?

I missed my 10 year high school reunion last year. (Well, I wouldn't say I "missed" it . . . ) I was buying a house and we closed the weekend of the reunion.  The reunion was back in NY and I really didn't have the time to fly back home.  But the invitation did get me to thinking. 

Perhaps it's because I'm from a small town where the 60 or so people that go to Kindergarten with you graduate with you 13 years later.  There are so many cousins in the class that you wonder how the town can manage to pro-create without resorting to a (albeit infrequent) blind eye and if your family doesn't go back at least three generations in that town, then you're not to be trusted, as you are an "outsider." Regardless of the reason, after I graduated high school, I really didn't give much thought to my old classmates.  After all somethings (like penny loafers and scrunchies) should remain in the past, right?

The very premise of the high school reunion has me perplexed? I wonder whose brain-child it was to bring together a group of people that knew each other at their absolute worst. (Yeah. that sounds like fun.)  I've never encountered meaner people than I did in high school.  Perhaps social decorum doesn't guide adolescents yet, or perhaps we're painfully aware of how unsure of ourselves we are, and as a result things just sting a bit more.  I don't know.  

Add to the mix that there really isn't anything that binds the group together outside of the fact that we graduated together 10 years prior, and it seems inevitable that old habits will re-emerge.  I can't help but think there will be the dark gossip of who's the greatest failure, who gained the most weight, who's in rehab (or should be) and a sick competition from people vying for titles like most successful, most happy, most well-adjusted, most envied; it all contributes to a pretty awkward situation.  I really don't know what I'd say to the guy that called me boring during an in-class discussion, or the girl I thought was fake that ended up marrying one of my best high school pals.  I guess you're supposed to just forget about the hateful things that were said, the efforts to exclude others, the unfortunate clothing choices and focus on the field hockey games you won.  Or perhaps you're supposed to talk about what you're up to now and hope others find it interesting and can relate.  Do people fall right back into the people they were in high school?  

When I see my parents, there's always a slight regression to a time when I lived with them.  Do reunions work that way too?  Do people regress back to who they were then? If so, who would want to be that person (or with those people again).  I think for most people High School is something to be survived. I was vice-president of my class, and I don't look back fondly on the experience. Maybe the President of the class or the prom queen do, but I'm skeptical.

Given all this I think, while a blog may need reviving, when it comes to high school, one's best practice may be to squash morbid curiosity and wisely Do Not Resuscitate.  

U-haul or not U-haul, that is the question

It takes a special breed of humor to appreciate mother nature's jokes. As if unemployment, freakishly high energy bills and the full knowledge that carbs (of all delicious varieties) are bad for me isn't enough! Apparently there is no limit to life's little challenges and the bizarre sense of humor that hussy mother nature inflicts on we mere mortals.

Recently I helped my boyfriend move from San Diego to Dallas. Now here is a trip that on the surface seems like it would not be too difficult. After all packing up the truck with someone who's an engineer and enjoys things neat and tidy should make things . . . um, efficient (not challenging, efficient, that's it) a nice 26 hour ride of quality time sounds just perfect doesn't it? and when is the weather bad in San Diego?! Hold up. Not so fast answering that last one! It seems the city known for imposing a deserving sunshine tax experiences a little rain sometimes, and sometimes, a lot of rain . . . a whole lot.

That's fine. I'm a trooper. I'm not going to let some inclement weather get me down. At least, not right away. So on to the next, small (literally) problem - the truck is a wee bit short, so packing takes some creativity and patience. Now I ask you, do I strike you as a person that possesses either of these qualities?!. The entire ordeal (and yes, at this point it is already an ordeal) is prolonged as we unscrew all furniture and break everything down to its constituting parts. We haul a 220 pound television, boxes upon boxes, bed, dresser, desk, (did I mention the boxes?), all while the rain beats down on the furniture, our clothes, even our morale. At one point I wanted to shake my fist in the air and scream "Bite me El Nino!" but really, what would going all "King Lear" get me? All it got him was some betraying daughters, an over-developed sense of paranoia, and a small bout with insanity! But I digress.

After working through the night, we nap for two hours, get up finish loading the truck and get ready to depart. I know what you're thinking. Two people, two hours of sleep, twenty-six hours of quality time . . . recipe for good times. Well, I'm happy to report we didn't kill each other. (Yup. It's true love folks!) Of course that's probably because I could continue to direct all my ire toward el nino as the entire night we drove through Arizona and New Mexico in the rain. It wasn't until we reached El Paso that the kid finally gave up! Persistant little bugger!

As in all great tales this one has a lesson: I think that one can never know how they feel about someone until they move together. And I'm not talkin' about one of those across town moves, no sir. (Those are for the teenage sweethearts and match.com couples.) I'm talking about packing stuff into a too small truck, driving for too long on too little sleep and still having two people standing at the end. It's more than an accomplishment; it's a miracle! I'm talking about packing up gifts from ex-girlfriends and not killing him, or finding pictures of old flames and not comparing yourself to them, or if you do, not coming up short. I'm talking about the ultimate test of the couple experience! When faced with the dilemma it is not for the faint of heart or weak of arm to confidently choose "U-Haul!"

American Made

I've recently been exposed to the underbelly of the grease monkey culture. Yes, this group of individuals who manage to blame you for everything, take longer than expected, bring new meaning to the word "estimate" (after all "it could take one hour; it could take three" . . . oh, okay then.) and leave your car with just a hint of smoke have managed to some how cause this college educated woman to feel inadequet. Ridiculous. Even dumb.

The problem is this I KNOW I'M BEING TAKEN, I just don't know what to do about it. Take my recent experience. My car was having an issue with the blinker. (Granted this issue was recalled by the manufacturer for my model and year, but not my VIN so translation is I get to pay . . . but I digress) Not only has this experience brought me to the dramatic conclusion to buy foreign cars in the future, but it also left me with a severe disdain for my service shop. In the span of less than an hour, these yahoos managed to take over a hundred dollars of my money and return to me a car that while it resembles the one I dropped off, isn't quite the same. Now let me say that yes, the blinker works now and I guess that was all I specifically asked them to do. In the future I will have to be more careful and explain to them NOT TO BREAK anything while fixing said problem.

(Here's where I get a little picky I guess.) My vent is cracked. They had to take it out to reach the thingy-bobber they were replacing and when they ever so gently put it back it broke. Now here's where I'm at. They've broken something small and they call and tell me that it's broken. If I'd like to get it fixed it will only cost me an hour of labor and the part! WHAT?! Moreover I'm told that this is my fault because yes, when I first dropped the car off I told him I would need it back for the weekend and when they couldn't get the part, I still needed it back so they had to put the dashboard back together. I don't feel bad about this given that when I dropped the car off I told them not to do anything to it that day if it was going to mean I couldn't have my car back because I needed it that evening! So they took it apart and couldn't fix it that day and because I still needed my car it was MY FAULT that the second time they addressed the issue the vent cover broke. I don't understand grease monkey logic.

To top things off I think either the mechanic is a heavy smoker and his pores just deposit the stench or he actually smoked in my car!

Humorless

Have you ever awoken from a day dream of your life and realized that you've lost your sense of humor? Not in an ol' faux-gee kind of way, where kids don't make sense, the music is too loud and the sense of style is even louder. (It hurts my ears!)No, I'm talking about in the quite literal sense. It's like you've misplaced your humor and can't find it. You used to be funny, but now you can't tell a joke to save your sanity and you're longing for the person you were before . . . but before what? What the heck happened to you?

Losing your humor is worse than losing your hair because when you lose your hair a horrible wig can at least make people laugh. When you lose humor, well . . . not even a chuckle. You might think the loss of humor is a sign of maturity; that I've gained a perspective that accompanies responsibility and growth, but I don't think I've gained any of these things. Furthermore, why would I want to? Especially at this price! Maybe I'm harping too much on the importance of making people laugh. Maybe I'm evolving and in the end I'll be grateful to have shed my dry sarcasm like last year's bad Uggs trend . . . but somehow I don't quite think so.