Got the Ol' Lawnmower Blues

When I was a lad I earned money by going about talking neighbors into letting me mow their yard or wash their car. I had those as chores at home  too. To my mind I didn't get paid to mow my own backyard, although I got a quarter allowance every week. Somehow the idea of that quarter being earned income didn't compute in my pee-wee brain. I was a notorious procrastinator when it came to chores, except burning the trash in the big 55 gallon drum out back. I liked to light a fire and pretend it was a burning city.

Sometimes on those really hot days of August washing the car wasn't so bad either.

But I had little fondness for lawn mowing then or ever after. I considered it one of the great flukes of mankind or was it one of the curses placed on Adam after the fall. What a brilliant idea this, shave down the grasses and create a perpetual labor to be repeated ad nauseum during the hottest months of the year.

Nonetheless, through the decades I have managed to manicure my own grounds to the satisfaction of county codes, if not always to the particulars of some of my more green-thumb cursed neighbors.

As a boy, of course, I used a push mower, you know, no motor, all elbow grease. Very few people around had a power mower in those days, except those some where above the average blue collar families such as mine. Despite the fact that power mowers became to eventually outnumber the old muscle powered devices throughout suburbia, I continued to use such devices halfway into the 1990s.

I probably wouldn't have stopped then if my thyroid hadn't blown it circuits. When that gland decided to go rogue it sapped away my strength, even to the point I could barely walk. I certainly wasn't in shape to force a mower over our less than even grounds. I broke down and bought my first power mower. That was some time around 1995.

I think it ran pretty well for several years, but everything breaks eventually and one day I found it lying still behind the shed, four wheels motionless toward the sky. I tried CPR (crank, pull, repeat), but it was too little too late. It was gone. I went out and bought a replacement.

This time I got one of those self-propelled babies with the big bag on back. Man, it was just more ease on a task I despised, and we found we could suck up autumn leaves in that bag. If there was something I disliked more than mowing, it was leaf raking. Hey, you were dumb enough to jump off that tree, so just lay there and rot!

My wife never quite shared my attitude. She believed in a proper disposal of departed leaves, so crunching up dead leaves in a bag was a blessing.

That mower went belly up as well after a few seasons. It didn't seem to last as long as the former one

actually. The problem was in the self-propulsion. Something kind of went off track there and I couldn't get it back where it should be and the machine became a bear to push. I shoved it aside into the lawnmower graveyard (pictured right) and went out and bought another of its kin, only with more power and bigger bag.

Well, this did me well until two years ago and suddenly it got temperamental. It'd start up instantly, but after I mowed several rows it would sputter out. It would rest a bit and then stubbornly not start until about the time pulling cord had turned my arm into a rubber band. Over the course of summer these rests grew longer and the starts grew harder and finally it gave up the ghost.

I thought this sounded like a clogged fuel filter. I went to Sears and found a fuel filter that I though was for my machine. I even asked the clerk and he agreed, so I bought it. I went home and torn the thing apart and what to my surprise did I find? This model mower did not have a fuel filter.

Thus last year I went up to Home Depot and got a new mower. I stood there and stared at an old-time push
mower for a long time, but since my wife often chooses to go out and mow the front yard (before neighbors begin throwing things), I figured she would prefer an engine. Our budget is an ever shrinking commodity anymore, so I went for the cheapest power mower on display, just over a hundred buck. (I think the non-powered push mower actually cost more.)  This was your basic basic. It had wheels and it had a blade and it had a motor, but you supplied the push. There was no bag. It simply mulched up the grass and spit it out over the lot. It was a cool black.

It was wonderful. Without those self-propellant gears and no bag growing fuller by the row it proved light and fast. I mean I could blaze through all my yards and even do the east side of the house where none of my other mowers choose to go. We use to have to go hack that stuff down with weedwackers and sling blades.

But not real long into the season something odd happened. I was racing along in the back yard with the mower roaring when suddenly it started going put-put-put. It kept running and it kept cutting, but at a snails pace. I tiptoed along behind. If I sped too fast into high grass it would stall. But then after several more rows of this turtle speed it would kick up into high gear again and we would be back whizzing along lopping off their heads. And then again back to put-put-put. We nursed this thing through the summer and fall, but then it too gasped out one last put-put and died.

Wednesday I was back in Sears looking at lawn mowers. It isn't that I wanted to buy a new mower and my budget is even worse than last year, but the grass is inching up and we must do what we must do. I admit, I stood again drooling over the old powerless push mower, but because of recent health issues I have once again grown weak and need the motorized help.

I next turned my sights on a battery powered mower. Wouldn't that be nice if it could do the job? There
would be no more running to the gas station and no more of that terrible noise. I could be environmentally friendly mowing away in peace and quiet. I inquired of the clerk about this machine. She was very nice, very helpful. It seemed it would do my sized lot, but battery charge (6 hours to fully charge) would depend on length of grass (keep it under 2 inches), and how wet the grass is (keep it pretty dry). I was tempted, but still didn't want to spend the money on something that might not do the job.

I turned and pointed to the cheapest gas-guzzling, plain vanilla, bagless animal and said, "Ill take that one." After paying the $170 (oh yeah this was the absolute cheapest one and on sale no less), I went down to the pickup area to receive my purchase. I dutifully pulled my car up along the loading zone. Inside I ran my receipt over a scanner and my name popped up on a status screen above my head. Shouldn't take long, I was the only one there.

As I waited in my queue of one a stock person came out the flappy doors of the warehouse and passed by me.

What a downcast face he had. His chin was so low it was in danger of being bumped off by his shoe. He looked like the dead walking.  I got the feeling he wasn't overly thrilled with his lot in life, but he was quickly gone before I could offer him any solace. He would have probably eaten my brain if I had anyway.

A time or so later the warehouse doors flopped outward again and another glum young man came out behind a flat cart on which perched a large box. He said nothing. As he angled forward I could see "Lawn Mower" in big black letters on the side of the box. Ah, this must be mine!

He continued mutely pass me and out the door to the sidewalk, then down a ramp in the curb and around my car. Still not a word, no, "Are you Mr. Meredith?", no, "You waiting for a lawnmower?", no simple, "Hello". I walked to the rear of my car and opened the truck. He lifted the box off the hand truck and slid it in. Still not a word. I think Sears has Zombies manning their customer service pickup.  I think he might have mumbled something when I said, "Thank you," but I couldn't make it out. He never even asked to check my receipt. He never even looked my in the eyes. I could have been anyone just snatching up a free lawnmower and he wouldn't have cared.

I worked as a stock person most of the last decade. This is not how I ever dealt with customers. This is not the way any store should want to be represented by their employees. I don't get these young men. With where the unemployment rate is these days (and it is understated to boot) any one having a job should be grateful to have it. If you don't like your job, then look for something else, but don't take your frustration out on the client.

Enough preaching, I drove home to assemble my new acquisition. I soon learned what a sad state I am

in these days. I cut open the box and lifted it out. Construction was not complicated. You know, hook a cable on the handle as well as the pull cord. Pull the handles to full height by loosing and tightening some large wing nuts. Attach the mulch guard and the rear wheels. Adjust the front wheels. Put in oil.

I couldn't even finish. By the time I got to attaching the mulch guard I was too tired to stand. I packed up my tools and called it a day.  I went out this morning and finished up. I still need to get gas, but that's okay. I wasn't going to pull the cord and start mowing today in this heat anyway broke the record by 3 degrees today at 88). The grass isn't that bad yet that it can't wait for a cooler day for its execution.

So I tell the little woman I got a new mower. "Does it have a bag," she asked.

"You thinking about the leaves," I asked.

"Yes."

"That's the fall. Let's worry about the leaves when the leaves fall."

Sneak Thieves in the Cyber Night

"Some will rob you with a six-gun,And some with a fountain pen." - Woody Guthrie, "Pretty Boy Floyd"

And some do it with a keystroke and mouse click - Larry Meredith, just now.

I'd say these curs lay about in the bushes at night waiting for the unaware prey to amble unsuspectingly by, but they probably figured out some robotic way of doing their dirty deed.

Well, everybody's out to make a living, I guess or at least a couple bucks. It's just some of us have been willing to work for our bread and butter at something that gives a benefit to somebody in some small way, stockbrokers, insurance companies and politicians exempted of course. Even phony beggars have the guts and decency to show their faces on the streets and put on a show.

These people are basically worthless mold, useless fungi, boot scrapings marring the pathways of our lives. They are practitioners of virtual kidnapping and extortion. They are domain snatchers. I suppose we have to grant them being a step or two above hackers who poison the web world with vicious viruses and identity thieves, but that doesn't make them nice people. Probably what they do is perfectly legal, but it shouldn't be.

Can anyone give me any justification for what they do?

Here is what they do. They troll about somehow looking for domain names that they think have a value to someone and then they snatch the name and offer to sell it for a higher price. They seem to come in two flavors, both about as tasteless as the other.

One kind of buys up domain names they think will be wanted, such as a product name, business or person gaining fame. Hey, you're an emerging singer named Sandy Songbird fresh off American Idol, just gaining some rep and you want a domain to promote your blossoming career. You want people to be able to search for sandy songbird.com and have you pop up, but you discover some mud-encrusted bottom feeder has already snatched up "songbird", "sandysongbird", "songbird", "songbirdsandy" and any other convolution of your name they can think of, and they have done it for .com., net, .org, .info and every other dot whatever out there. However, they'' be happy to sell you the right to your own name for a few thousand dollars.

Then there is the other form of these germs. These watch the registries of existing names about to expire and if the holder doesn't renew on the tick of the deadline, they snatch up the name. Then they can offer it back to that holder for a high price because they believe the person has established their whereabouts and won't want to lose that domain.

Yeah, that's what just befell your's truly. I had three domain names kidnapped this past summer, www.nitewrit.com, www.nitewrit.info and www.lemeredith. They were my oldest Blogs, including my first, "Night Writing in the Morning Light". They other two were my "Nitewrit's Own Companion and Commentary of the Gospels" and "Write On; The Official Website of The Kid and The Old Goat". 

It's my own fault for not keeping on top of things. But I have been dealing with a major family crisis the last six months and not doing much else. Anyone ever following me, if there still are, will have noticed my absents from the blogging scene for mucho weeks recently. Thus, I wasn't thinking about my domain renewals coming up in July.

In normal times I wouldn't have had to. You see, I had my domain's set for automatic renewal against my credit card. Should have been seamless, really; except my bank was acquired by another bank at the end of last year and that bank replaced all my previous cards, including THAT credit card with new ones of their own brand and so when automatic renewal time came about, the domain keeper couldn't find my bank anymore and my domain was quickly snatched up by these bottom feeders.

I tried at first to simply change the domain to one at Blogspot, but they had barred any domain change. Fortunately in Blogger you can retain all your previous posts and comments by a simple download and then upload to a new Blog, so my Blogs still exist, just at different domain names. I'm not going to charge someone some ridiculous fee just to get my old domain names back. Having your own private domain is kind of a pride thing anyway, not really all that important.

I did lose my statistics and, sadly, my followers. So I have the challenge of building new followers or hope some of those who liked those Blogs will find me again. I am planning to be actively scribbling my thoughts and opinions regularly once more at "Night Writing in the Morning Light," now at www.lemnite.blogspot.com and add to "Nitewrit's New Own Companion and Commentary of the Gospels" at www.lemcompanion.blogspot.com. 

I just hope whoever gloms on to my old domain addresses doesn't post anything salacious or scandalous in case an old reader stumbles upon them thinking I have turned to the dark side.

Part Four: Follow the Golden Years Road of the Last

                       

nce upon a time, a not so young man was swept away by the sudden swirl of events into the Land of the Last.

There he was sent on a quest to find the Magical Nursing Home that would rescue his mother from the evil witches of Sunset City. It was to seem a daunting task, but he had a plan for following the Golden Years Road, although after a while it seemed more a maze of dead ends.

There were in this particular county 24 such places sometimes called Skilled Nursing Centers and sometimes called Long Term Residences. It would seem a lot of choices, but not so much for a poor boy.

Although it was not strictly a matter of cost, that certainly played some minor part. Throwing aside the Veteran's Administration Facilities, of which there were two, neither ranking well on the Medicare 5-Star Ranking System (1 Star for each or much below average), the average yearly cost for a home was $8,219 a month for a semi-private room (slightly more for a private room at $9,223 a month). These ranged from a high of $14,752 a month (a place that rated 4-Stars or Above Average) to a low of $5,627 a month (and a rating of 1-Star or Much below Average).  Cost did not always correlate with the ranking. A home that charged $9,794 a month, the sixth highest, only received 2-Stars or Below Average, while the second cheapest (not counting the VA Homes) at $7,300 a month got 4-Stars or Above Average.

The place where the not-so-young man's mother was imprisoned ranked eleventh in cost, about the middle of the pack, at $9,277 a month, but was one of only two in the county to receive but 1-Star, or Much below Average.

Do you see why he needed to rescue her?

If cost was not a real criteria, the fact his parents had no real resources was. They would have to go into a home under Medical Assistance or not at all, and not every home accepted Medicaid. He could eliminate eight immediately for this reason.

Of course, Sunset City was where his mother lay, so it was subtracted from the mix. So could one home because his mother had insisted from the beginning he must stay away from there, although he never understood why since several people recommended it and the home had a 4-Star rating. Also eliminated was one of the two VA facilities, because his dad said he never wanted to go there.

That left 14 facilities that would accept Medicaid.

The Not-so-young Man eliminated three as being tucked away in a bewitched far corner of the county. They would be places of last resort.

He then contacted the remaining 11 Skilled Nursing Facilities and it began to seem to no avail. He toured four and was placed on the waiting list at three (these included Mushmouth Manor). He did not apply at the fourth because it was the only one in the county to require an application fee. The fee was $250 and since he was now applying for both parents (explanation will be in following posts) that would have cost $500 just to risk being rejected, another last resort home.

He learned from another source that his parents would never get accepted by Mushmouth Manor with their lack of money, confirming his earlier impression of the place.

He was advised at the first home he contacted that he should put them on at least four waiting lists and if one offered a bed to snatch it up. "Demand is high," the lady said, "and everyone has long waiting lists." This was proving true as he searched on.

Two quickly let him know they would not take his parents, one or the other, and the remaining five were not returning his calls (including the one VA facility he had contacted) and as time passed it seemed they never would.

He had reached out even beyond that county, but it was going the same elsewhere. He even went back to PassingGo Home, begging them to reconsider since they did accept Medicaid and that was now what his folks were applying under.

And just when it seemed his plight could not get more desperate, it did. His mother's insurance company dropped her coverage.

Indeed, he wasn't in Kansas anymore.



(Photo on left is from the 1925 silent version of The Wizard of Oz, co-wrote and directed by Larry Semon, who also stared as the Scarecrow [he is on the left]. The Tin Man in the middle is Oliver Hardy, who gained much greater fame later when partnered with Stan Laurel. The actor on the right is O. Howe Black [you read it right], who not too surprisingly was cast as the Cowardly Lion.)

Part Two: In the Land of PassingGo

Ever since the subject of a Nursing Home reared its ugly roof, I was hearing Mushmouth Manor. It was becoming pretty apparent that wasn't going to happen.

But somehow around this time a new mantra appeared, PassingGo Home. I can't remember who said it first, I just remember I got asked about it and told it was nice. Mom's Speech Therapist also spoke about it to her.

Why an employee of one Nursing Home would bring up another I don't know for sure. My guess is it was an indirect comment and came about from some casual conversation. My mother one time years ago worked for the Valley Maid Potato Chip Company. They really made the best chips around, but eventually they were acquired by Bachman and after that the chips were so-so. One of mom's fellow workers who she had befriended was now a resident in PassingGo Home. Apparently, the Speech Therapist had some business at that Home and when mother mentioned this lady's name told her the woman was in PassingGo.

Now my mother was fixated on that place.

I decided to visit PassingGo next time I went to visit mom. I skipped dad that day and went early, going what I considered a more direct route. It was at least one that took you to PassingGo -- eventually. It twisted and turned about the fields above This City, where my mom was, and I was almost certain I was lost when it popped into vision ahead. A tall building with a curvaceous parking lot and long path up to the front doors.

I went to the receptionist and told her I wanted to get some information about the place.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked.

"No."

"You should have called and made an appointment," she snapped.

She picked up the phone and called someone. She hung up and pointed me down a hallway.

"Go to the third door on the left and see Maude."

I did as I was told. I came to the third door, which was half open and I saw a couple women inside. One was a somewhat stocky lady with a stern face. Turned out this was Maude, the Admissions Director.

I began to tell my tale of woe when she abruptly stopped me. She took me to meet Madeline Mild, her assistant. Madeline was very sweet. An older lady with a gentle voice. She gave me the ten-dollar tour and then we sat while she showed me the admittance form to be filled out and returned. As we parted she asked me to send her a copy of my mother's insurance cards so they could see if it was acceptable. I said I would.

I then went back to This City and visited mother. At least I could tell her I was at PassingGo.

From that moment on I was to hear PassingGo every visit and then within emails from her friends. I had to get her into PassingGo. When would we hear from PassingGo? How much longer until she went to PassingGo?

But as usual these things took time. I emailed a copy of her insurance card to Madeline Mild the very night of my visit. I waited a week and heard nothing. I called her on the phone. It was her day off, she wasn't there. I called the next day. No, she never got the email. She had been out, she said, and perhaps someone else got it and didn't know what it was. Could I send it again?

I sent it again and then called her again. She was not there; she had left for the day. It was very difficult to establish when this lady actually worked. Finally I got ahold of her and yes she had received the email. She had forwarded the copy of the Insurance Card to the business office. We would have to wait until the business office found out if they accepted that insurance.

I waited a week and called Madeline Mild again.  Gloryoski, she was in, but she didn't have the answer. This time the Business Manager had been gone, all week on vacation. She had just returned and Madeline Mild didn't want to bother her until she got caught up. So I waited some more.

After another week I finally got my answer. Sorry, but PassingGo Home would not accept that insurance. Do not pass GO; do not collect your mother and try to bring her here. Go directly to jail in Sunset City.

I now began a search in earnest. I looked first at the sheet the This City Hospital Social Worker had originally given me and saw I could have saved myself a lot of time and trouble. PassingGo Home was one of those crossed out because it didn't take my mom's insurance.

But even so, my mom and her friends kept up the chants for PassingGo Home as if constantly repeating its name would overcome reality.

As it were, I wasn't quite completely done with the place, but the rest of that story will come later. I had a lot of other stops in-between this end and that end.

TO BE CONTINUED

Mitt Gives me Fits

I have always avoided writing anything political in my Blogs. For one, I don’t like politics. For two, I think it is a good way to lose friends. For three, no one seems able to discuss issues rationally. All people do is stick some brand on your hide and then they tell you what YOU supposedly think on every issue, whether you do or not. For four, I usually let anything these windbags of any and all parties say roll off my back blow away in the breeze.

But for some reason this Romney guy gets under my skin.

When asked recently if he thought he had the best chance to beat Obama, he said, “I don't think if I have the best chance, I think I have the only chance."

Maybe its just hubris, but we already have an egomaniac in the White House we don’t need another. He says things in a stupid way that can be used against him, maybe that’s why? A man running for President should know better how to phrase his remarks. “I just love firing people…”, “I don’t care about the poor…”, “I don’t think people want their President [paying more taxes than he owes…”

Opponents and Press took these out of context of what he meant, except the last statement where he was preparing everybody to hear just how little he pays in taxes compared to what he makes, yet he seems too dumb to understand that is the way his remarks will get played.

Now he tells us he is the only person in the whole wide world great enough to beat Obama. This guy doesn’t even know how to fake humility.

But he should learn or he shouldn’t give speeches in stadiums that make it look like nobody showed up to hear him. Maybe his ego told him 65,000 people would actually show up and fill the seats.

Personally, I don’t know why anyone wants to be President, but I really don’t know why this guy does. I can’t see where he has any strong convictions about anything. I get the sense of a salesman selling whatever is hot at the moment, but ready to switch his pitch as soon as it wanes. But his faulty marketing sense tells me he doesn’t understand the market he’s pitching too.

I think he wants to be President as a resume enhancement.

Now he is campaigning on rising both the age for receiving Medicare and Social Security. Well, isn’t that cute. If I had a quintillion dollars stashed away in the Cayman Island and a Swiss bank Account where I could avoid income tax maybe I wouldn’t care what age I got Social Security either.

To tell the truth, I think we might have all been better off never having the Social Security System. We would have been better off knowing it was up to us to set aside for our old age and as a society to look after each other within communities rather than ending up at the mercy of Washington politicians. But we DO have Social Security and just about every person living in the U.S. today has grown up under this system. It is what it is and I think we’re stuck with it. They promised us this would be there for us and forced by law to contribute to it all our working life. I am in my seventies collecting it, but also still paying into it when I work, and then paying some income tax on the portion I receive.

I remind those such as Mitt, rhymes with Nitwit, that I paid into this. I made premiums as I would into any annuity promising an investment to provide for my old age. I am sick and tired of politicians talking as if we are getting some kind of welfare. We are simply collecting what we paid for.  It was the politicians who cheated and took from the fund; it wasn’t my fellow seniors or I who not paying our premiums. We met our obligation; now the government must meet its own.

Mitt can run out there and talk about how everybody lives longer and therefore the age of payout should be later. Mitt finds that easy to say when he doesn’t have any worry about whether his car breaks down or the roof leaks or he gets sick, because he has a quintillion dollars. If I hadn’t been able to get Social Security when I did, I would have been in a world of hurt, maybe I really would be on welfare…and homeless. Mitt doesn’t have to worry about being homeless.

If you rich politicians, which is most of them and most of whom never did an honest days work in their lives, want to raise the age people can receive Social Security and Medicare, you better darn well do something on the other side of the equation.

You better tell those businesses out there not to terminate us old people. My friends and I talked about the fact that we don’t know anyone – NOT A PERSON – who managed to stay with a company and retire at 65. They could save a little in salary and benefits so bounced me out at age 60 after 21 years.

We can’t all get elected to the Senate and leach off the public until we die, now can we?

Many I know, including me, started working early in life. I began working in Grade School. I’ve worked continually ever since. I continued working after at 60. My jobs have been physical part time labor paying just above minimum wage. They keep laying me off because of the economy. You know, the ones on the bottom go first when the CEOs sees his or her stock options tail off. And you know at 70 it gets a little harder to get hired and a little harder to keep the body in working shape.

So, give me somebody with some positive ideas that help everyone, not the typical Corporate-think of let’s cut costs by cutting the employee health care and wages. Give me somebody who says what he means both today and tomorrow, and knows how to say it correctly so it isn’t misunderstood. And give me somebody who isn’t so rich they know knowing about the real world where most of us survive.

It is so sad if Romney is the best we can come up with.

Anger at How They Pick Your Pockets

Now where were we? Ah yes, the Little Woman had accidentally overdraw one of our bank accounts resulting in a $37 dollar fee of 131% on $28.

(To understand how this happened go to my previous post, "Anger from One Year to the Next".)

We do not keep much money in this particular account. There is a large deposit on the First of each month (more about that to come) and by the last week of the month little remains. It's a special purpose account. So there was only $8 remaining when my wife pulled out the wrong debit card to pay a $36 purchase (prescriptions),

I asked a question. Why did the bank allow this overdraft to happen?

Obviously when the card was swiped the computer noted there were insufficient funds and one would expect the transaction to be denied. Isn't that what you have always been told about a debit card? You had to have money in your account for it to be used?

One of the dirty little secrets, among many, is the banks encourage overdrafts. This is one of their most profitable services. This is not what they tell you, of course.

They will give you three reasons to justify this usury interest rate, the overdraft fee.

1.  They don't want you to be inconvenienced by rejecting a transaction over such a low sum. Thus, you are paying for not being embarrassed by public rejection. They are doing it for you!

2.  Overdrafts cost the bank a lot of money.

3.  They impose the fee to encourage customers to be more financially responsible.

They leave out the fourth and most important reason: it's easy and lucrative revenue for the bank. The other three reasons are basically bogus. Only Reason Number 2 has any iota to truth to it, but even that is distorted from reality and should not be considered a valid reason for these high fees.


What kinds of overdrafts do we have? We have accidental ones, such as my wife using the wrong bank card or someone thinks they have a higher balance than they have. It is difficult in these times to sometimes know your balance if you have a joint account. You take some cash from an ATM and mean time your joint partner is buying a new pair of shoes unaware of your withdrawal and voila, accidental overdraft.

We have the knowing overdraft for an emergency situation. This is where the person knows they don't have enough in the account to cover a transaction, but are willing to absorb a fee for a perceived necessity. "If I don't take twenty dollars out of the bank today, my children will have nothing to eat tonight." The person knows money will be in the account in a day or so to cover both what they took out and the greedy fee.

These are overdrafts made by basically honest persons who are good customers of the bank. The bank knows they will get that money back and their fee. If the bank thought otherwise, these people would NOT have been able to overdraw.

That's another of the dirty little secrets, you are coded.  As a new customer you may be coded 1 and this tells the system to allow up to a $50 overdraft. This will change over time as you build a reputation and profile with the bank. Each code will bring a higher allowance of overdraft, maybe as much as $200, maybe more if you are wealthy. (I know of cases of wealthy people having no limits and even when they overdrew their account by thousands of dollars paid no fees. You will find in most situations if you are rich enough to afford the fees, you never are charged any.) Naturally, if you become known as a risk or have a very minimal average balance, you may be coded down to a zero and no overdraft allowed.

So there goes Reason Number 3, because if they really wanted to encourage you to be financially responsible, they wouldn't allow you to overdraw at all. But then they wouldn't be able to charge you a fat fee and make money.

And let's forget Reason Number 1, that's just PR. They couldn't care less about you being embarrassed. It's a convenience all right; a convenient way for them to make more money.

What about Reason Number 2, overdrafts cost the bank? It may cost them interest on money borrowed overnight at the Fed Fund Rate of interest. The current Fed Fund Rate is .25%. That is the annualized rate. Banks generally borrow overnight, just as we basically borrowed $28 overnight. So the bank paid a use fee of .000007% (rounded up) for a total cost of $0.00019. We paid a use fee of $37 at a rate of 48,180% annualized. See how they turned a microscopic lost into a big fat profit?

"How about processing costs caused by an overdraft?" you ask.

First of all, there is no direct cost caused by the overdraft, except that minuscule interest rate.  The bigger extra cost was having an OverDraft Unit to prepare those notices mailed to the miscreants and the postage to send it. I don't know how big those units are these days. Most of the notice preparation and mailing is probably pretty much automated by now. The costs are a nanosecond of computer time, a bit of paper and postage; and the postage is probably the highest expense. Does this add up to anywhere near $37? I rather think not. Maybe a buck-thirty-seven.

However, there is a legitimate cost from overdrafts of a higher nature. This doesn't come because of those accidental overdrafts or the deliberate emergency of the moment ones. No, there is a third kind of overdraft, theft.

Yeah, there are people who overdraw an account with no intension of ever making it good. They not only aren't going to make a deposit to cover the overdraft, they aren't going to pay the fee either. Now some of these thieves know how to milk the system for all its worth. (They would probably make valuable advisers working for the bank actually. They think alike when it comes to maximizing undeserved profit.) They will make overdrafts here, there and everywhere in a short period of time before the previous overdrafts are noted and their withdrawing spree ended.  With the speed of today's systems, though, the banks have probably cut down on this.

But these thieves have nothing to do with our little miscues and small overdrafts. Those people are not going to be encouraged to be more financially responsible. And they can cost the bank a hunk of change, but you and I shouldn't be punished for this. Higher overdraft fees won't stop these crooks.

I am not against the banks charging a reasonable fee for an overdraft. We are using their funds in what could be called a small, temporary loan. When I initially began in banking (40 plus years ago) such fees were kind of reasonable. Our overdraft fee was $10. If you were over from one cent to $9.99 you were not charged. We did not charge anything if under the fee amount. From $10 to $19.99 you were charged half the fee, $5.00 and $20 or above you paid the full fee. Given the minimal cost to banks when the average depositor overdraws this would still seem a reasonably excessive profit for the bank.

However, I would be inclined to say they should be restricted to charging the same rate as their small personal loans on overdrafts. I see that rate  is somewhere around 15% currently. That would mean for my wife's little one day loan of $28, I would have paid a fee of one and one-tenth cent. Bank still made a profit, and if the overdraft remained another day, then another one and one-tenth cent. Okay, I can be reasonable. Let them charge a minimum fee, but no more than $12. $12 would be equivalent to a small personal loan of $1,000 for a month (31 days) at 15% annual interest. They still make a huge profit.

But banks shouldn't be living off the backs of honest people making small overdrafts, because every time they want to raise their bottom line, they raise the overdraft fee while they continue to encourage this behavior. As I stated earlier, if they truly wished to stop this behavior, they would allow no overdraft, which they do with some riskier people, so it is possible.

But that overdraft fee, despite how it sounds, was not the true source of my anger. My anger came from that combined with the same bank depositing my pension late. This is why I have an account there to begin with, my monthly pension payment is deposited there and then I have specific payments dedicated to that account monthly, which is why it shrinks almost to nothing by month end just before another infusion of my pension.

My pension check is due on the first of every month. Now usually if the first falls on a weekend, they deposit it on the Friday before. However, the first of January fell on both a Sunday and a holiday and the holiday extended through Monday and they didn't deposit my pension until Tuesday. I guess because I get a yearly pension they have to keep that amount isolated to each calendar year, but still, make it on the due date. If I am late paying something on the due date, I get charged a late fee, usually as outrageous as the overdraft fee. Not having my pension on the First caused me untold worry and aggregation and inconvenience. I am not a well-off guy, I depend on deposits being there when they should be. Not being there could cause me to make a late payment on something and incur more bloated fees.

There is no reason why it could not have been done automatically on a Sunday. They would have put a charge to my account on Sunday if I incurred one. They cancelled an automatic payment I had setup for the Second, even though that was a holiday, so why not make my deposit.

What I should do is bill the bank a $37 late fee. Fair is fair.

What Happened to Easy?

A company named Philips has a slogan, "Sense and Simplicity". Well, good for them, I hope they do what they say, but it seems every other business has dropped simple from their vocabulary. I recall once hearing that technology would make life easier. So, why does my most mundane tasks get more complicated?

Like what, you ask?

I'm going to tell you, but first let me ask you a question. How many people does it take to change a light bulb in an automobile?

Three, with at least one having an engineering degree.

Okay, I exaggerate a little; perhaps. That is my car there on the left, a 2005 Chevrolet Cobalt.  The driver-side headlight burnt out recently. Okay, no biggie, bulbs don't last forever and the car is over 6 years old and has nearly 90,000 miles, much of it drove in dark, rain and other conditions demanding headlight use, like the infernal and eternal road construction zones (don't get me started on that boondoggle or we'll be here all night - with half our road in darkness).

Anyway, what does it take to change a headlight, right? I had a headlight blow out before, of course, that was many-years ago; er...decades ago actually. The headlight bulb looked like this one on the right.

There was a thin rim of chrome around its outer edge. You loosened a screw on the bottom of this rim to loosen it. Then you just popped that headlight out of a socket and pushed the new one in, retightened the screw and let there be light!

Took five minutes and you were good to go.

Okay, here is your modern headlight bulb on the left. Sure doesn't look like that old one, does it? Doesn't look anything like that thing on the front of my driver-side fender either. No, it goes inside that thing.

Nothing to it, you just have to dissemble one-quarter of your car to do it. You don't need your screwdriver, though. No, you need a socket wrench, some kind of prying tool and probably, as I did, a pair of pliers. You can see technology is making life simpler all ready, can't you?

Here we go, first lift the hood, duh! Get your socket wrench, with the proper size socket (in metric units) and loosen two nuts holding the headlight assembly. Find the plug holding the fascia to the front above the grill and pull it out. Fascia? What the heck is a fascia? Well, it's that thin molding they stick over a lot of your vehicle. So we have identified the fascia, where is this plug. It said plug, right. My fascia had two plugs, a little one up front and a larger one toward the engine. I had to pop both of these to loosen my fascia. (You got a loose fascia, sounds like some kind of medical condition to me.)

It said you grip the plug, well plugs, with your finger tips and pull them out like you'd pull a toothpick out of an olive. Yeah, if you have the grip of Superman and your olives aren't painted concrete. This is where the prying tool came into play. I had to loosen those babies up before they would pop. The little plug gave the most resistance.

Be certain by this point you have unplugged the assembly wires from the electrical harness. You don't want to mess up your electrical system during the next steps.

Now with the fascia loosened, pull it back a bit, which actually you can't really do. You just got to let it flap a bit and let it go at that. Grab ahold of the headlight assembly and gently pull out slightly toward the radiator and it will come off the two clamps holding it underneath. Be careful not to break anything or it will get real costly. That last warning was a great tension reducer, yes sir.

Okay I got it clear and out. It was big and awkward to hold. It has more than one lightbulb in it you know. Oh yes, you may have to go through this routine a few more times in the life of the car. There is your hazard light and turn signal to consider.

I carried this thing into the kitchen to replace the bulb. It probably does get simple at this point - you'd think. You got the assembly and you're new bulb and it goes in a socket. Trouble is, you have to get to the socket, which is buried in there somewhere. First there is a plastic locking collar around the bulb. You press down and turn counter clock wise, but you better have eaten your spinach before hand. There is a lot of grunting on this step, plus a lot of fear you'll break the dang collar or bulb. Oh man, don't break the bulb 'cause it says it could explode. Anyway, this is where I got my trusty pliers. Yeah, carefully trying to turn this sucker. It's been soldered in there by time, but I did succeed and got this out. Now I had to wrestle the old bulb up from its hole.  Once this was out, there is a socket to unplug.

Now you take your new bulb, which at first doesn't seem to want to settle down all the way in the socket (and remember whatever you do you don't want to break this gas filled little bulb). Next refasten the socket to the back of the bulb and replace the locking collar. Un huh, the locking collar doesn't want to go back in either. Women push babies out easier than this thing pushes back in place. And you got to turn it clockwise when and if you ever get it down far enough. Once that thing turned under it's holding ridges I felt I had conquered Everest.

I carried the reassembled assembly back outside to my car with some trepidation. I had to push this baby back in making certain the bottom lined up with the clamps I can't see. Well, I did it. It was in my fender and the bolt holes in the fender lined up with the bolt holes in the assembly and I got the bolts back it and then the plugs back in the fascia.

All done, so I get in the car, turn on the engine and the headlight on the driver's side does not come on. My car has those automatic headlights. My passenger side came on, but not my new bulb. I turned the lever from auto to on and now both headlights on both side worked. Odd, maybe the auto required a special bulb that I didn't buy? I don't care. I am not tearing that thing apart again. It won't kill me to manually switch on my lights, as long as I remember to manually switch them off when I park.

However, the next day when I went out, both my headlights were coming on automatically and all was well.

And you see how simple it all was.

Dark at the Edge of the Road

The call came about 9:30 Labor Day night. I didn't hear the phone, but the id flashed up on the bottom of the TV screen. t didn't recognize the number, but it was a cell phone with a local exchange. I thought I should answer it. I headed to the computer room where the main phone resides.

My oldest daughter was in there working on her novel. She answered the phone.

"It's Darryl," she said. "His car broke down."

I took the receiver. "Where are you?"

"Along Route 1 heading up. I'm between the toll booths."

Between the toll booths covers a wide territory. I told him I was on my way, but it may take awhile.

My daughter asked if I wanted her to come along. "Sure, if you want."

We rushed out. She had to move her car so I could get mine out of the drive. She pulled her car back into the driveway and then we headed south. It was dark, drizzling off and on. We weren't thinking clearly. I should have written my son's cell phone number down, but didn't. I thought my daughter had told her mother what happened, but she didn't, so now my wife got worried when we were gone so long since she didn't know where we went.

Oh well, I didn't know where I was going anyway, not exactly.

We went via I-495. I almost missed my exit lane. I had gotten in the habit of passing it every day I went to work, except I didn't have that job now, did I, and I had to make a last minute swerve to make the exit.

We were on Route 13 and my daughter said I needed to get over a lane. I did so and Ker-blang, something heavy and solid hit the undercarriage of my car. My daughter said their was debris in the road, car parts or some such thing. Now I am concerned if the object did any damage to my car. What if I break down, too.

My daughter asks, "Do you have a spare tire?"

"Yes, but don't even think it."

Of course now that is in my head as well.

We make it onto Route 1 south. We cross the fancy bridge and we go through the first toll booth. Now it is a mystery of where he might be. We are trying to see across the highway and medial strip for any white car parked on the opposing shoulder. It is hard to see that side of the highway.

We keep driving.

There are several cars along the highway as we pass mile after mile. None of them his. Oh, wait, on our side was a white car. Was that him. Didn't he say he was heading up, maybe I misheard. I'm too far past, man, I hope that wasn't him.

"I don't think there was anyone in that car," says my daughter.

We drive. We see some cars along the opposing lanes, but none are white. The second tollbooth is in Dover, maybe we will have to go all the way there.

Then we see a car the other way, parked with its hazard lights blinking. Behind it is a police car with all its flashers flashing. It's a white car, that's him.

Now we need a way to get around to the northbound lanes. We have to go to the next exit, Smryna, three miles. Three miles never felt so far. We exit and must now get to the other side of another decided highway. We drive awhile to a turn with left turn arrow lights on red. We wait. There is no other traffic, but these red lights won't change. Are they broke? Come on, change, before I am tempted to run you. We wait. Finally they change and I make a U-turn the other way. (U-turns are legal in delaware, in case you are wondering.) I have to drive quite the distance for the entry back onto Route 1 north. There are several false left turns before the real one.

Now the three miles north and then we pull onto the shoulder just ahead of my son and the cop. We get out and walk back to his car. My daughter gets in. I lean in the passenger side window fishing my AAA card out of my wallet.

The cop strolls up beside me.

"Callin' AAA, eh?"

"Yes."

"They take their time down here. Usually takes them a couple, two hours to come."

"Oh,well,"I say.

"You gonna wait here?" he asks. "Maybe they'll tell you you don't have to wait for the tow." He paused a moment, thinking. "Course maybe you shouldn't just leave it. You wouldn't want to leave it here. Somebody'd hit it sure enough."

I'm giving my son the number. he's dialing. Hands me the phone.

"They probably won't come for a couple hours. You gonna stay for that"

"You got any suggestions?" I say.

"Yeah, better stay though. Wouldn't want anybody to hit you."

I am talking to AAA, the lady says they are putting me on priority because of where we are. A tow will be there in about 30 minutes. I tell the cop this.

"Okay then. Well, probably be longer. I'll leave you. I'm gonna put a couple flares back here."

He lit a couple flares and stuck them in the shoulder behind us. He left and I pulled my car further up the shoulder so the tow truck would have room to pull in front of my son's car.

We sat in his car and waited. His phone rang. It was the two driver, said he would be there in 10 to 20 minutes.

We waited. It a dark and lonely stretch of Route 1. Every few moments a car or an 18-wheeler would road by. The big trucks shook our car. It was a bit scary being stranded there in what was now late night. We kept stretching our necks back, looking for the tow. False alarm, just a car, that's a semi, where was the tow?

It seemed a long time, but finally some blinking lights, a turn single, a tow truck pulled in front. The driver told us we didn't have to hang around  we could go. We left him fixing to hoist the car and we drove north.

It was raining steadily. I hate driving at night, especially in the rain. The further we went, the harder the rain. We finally reached our home grounds, got off the interstates into town.

 My son was hungry, he hadn't had dinner. We hit a McDonalds.

The tow truck we left behind working to secure the car had beaten us home. He was waiting two door up the street. He dropped off the car in front of our house.

My hands were shaking. I was too pumped to sleep. My son and I watched Pawn Stars repeats for while. I finally grew sleepy enough to go to bed.

This morning he took my car to go to work. I drove down to a mechanic in town. Then I called AAA once more to have it towed the couple miles from our place to the garage. They said the policy was one tow per breakdown, but since it was labor day and late night when it happened, they would wave that and give the tow for no charge.

The new tow truck guy called. He was on his way and fifteen minutes later he arrived. He was a nice guy. He tried to jump start the car, but that failed, so he winched it up on his truck bed. Of course it began to pour rain at that point. I felt bad, he had to get down and under with the chains in that downpour, leaning in the gutter. He wished my a better day and he was off.

Now we wait to see what this will set my son back. Sometimes I hate cars.

Rite Back to the Past

Some of you, whose memories may be working at a higher par than my own, may recall a mention of my blood pressure among all the waiting I previously posted about. All the waiting may have help escalate that blood pressure in fact. It may also come to mind I spoke of visiting my doctor. Whether you do or not, that is the case. My doctor insisted she get a chance to look under my hood before she prescribed anymore pills for my engine pump. I complied.

After my run in with the berserk testing machine at a pharmacy, which held me prisoner within its cuff well beyond the minute it had promised for the reading, I entered my Doctor's back lair with some apprehension. That machine had said my pressure was 220 over 140, which I believed was somewhere outside the normal scale. I had come home and did my due diligence by Googling "extreme hypertension". I got an article that said a pressure like mine (actual a shade lower than mine) was called malignant hypertension and suggested if I wasn't already dead that I should be in a hospital. So-o-o-o what was the Doc going to say?

My weight was down 12 pounds since my last visit, so that was good. I wasn't having any plumbing issues, not really, except when I had to go, I HAD to GO! The technician and the Doctor both slapped the sphygmomanometer cuff about my arm in turn and my reading was 147/80. A little up, but not too bad. Doc had me take a cardiogram. It was the same as a year ago and quite normal.  After all was said and done, I was ruled reasonably healthy and destined for longevity. She then pulled out her iPad and zapped my new refill prescriptions directly to my pharmacy.

It is important to note this was at midday of Wednesday last. Now a couple hours past midday on this Friday I went to that pharmacy to retrieve my freshly minted pill packets. Will I experience the same long lines as the last three times I have visited there in the past week?

Well play me a German Folk Dance and slap me silly, there were a mere two people in line ahead of me. I should be through in a whistle. The first customer seemed to be getting quiet a few bags. He must have received a separate pill for each organ of his body and then one to counteract the interaction between this melange. Finally they loaded his purchase on a forklift and hauled him to his car.

The gentlemen directly ahead of me stepped to the counter. The clerk went to the wall then to the computer empty-handed. Ut oh, been there, done that. "Sir," says the clerk, your insurance company won't allow us to do another refill of that prescription until the 23rd."

"I don't understand," says the man.

"Your insurance company won't pay any portion of this prescription until the 23rd."

"Ah," says the man. "What do I do on the 23rd?"

"We will just fill it on the 23rd, sir."

"Oh, will you call me like before then?"

"Yes sir?"

With this the man walked away and I was up to bat.

"Name?"

I gave it. The clerk walked to the wall of plastic bags. He shuffled about. He came and looked in the computer. He walked back and began speaking to a pharmacists. Haven't I played in this scene before? If they come and tell me it wasn't sent it I think I will become a bit unkind. I sat there when the Doctor wrote it out and emailed it over.

The clerk comes back. "The doctor hasn't finished counting the pills for verification of a controlled substance. She will be finished shortly (there is that shortly again). In the meantime, just have a seat over there.

Oh, I suppose I will have the old, "Larry, you may get in line now" moment coming. Okay, I wonder, does it take two days...and as I sit my eyes wander to a large poster on a far wall: "The 15 Minute Prescription Guarantee* 15 Minutes, or you get a $5 Gift card." That is not the only such placard, there is another by the counter and another on the side wall and there is a tiny one by the register. The same thing is printed on the face of the pamphlets that come with each vial of pills you receive. You know, those foldout papers telling you of all the varied and sundry side-effects that just may kill you before your medication cures you. "If when taking this medication your leg falls off or your eyes pop out or you experience sudden death, immediately call your primary physician."

I waited much longer than 15 minutes the last three times (in the last week, need I repeat that as well) I stood here for prescriptions. Nobody dropped any $5 Gift Card in my bag. Maybe I should ask about this. At that moment the pharmacist called me up to the counter and rang me up on another register. I didn't have to get back in line this time. I didn't demand any gift card. I don't think it was 15 minutes this time and the pharmacist was so nice and pleasant I couldn't keep my anger.

It took me back a moment when she said, "$42." Whoa, Nelly, shouldn't it be $14. I stuttered out, "F-f-forty-t-t-two d-d-dollars?"

"Ninety day supply," she said. "Is that all right?"

Yes, it was. I had forgotten the Doctor told me she was doing that if my insurance company allowed. Fine with me, I hate running back every month.

Still, I wondered about that 15 minute business.  But you see, it read: "The 15 Minute Prescription Guarantee.*" You see there is an asterisk. That means, what you think you just read is not at all what you read. That asterisk means in the end they are going to bite you in the asterisk.

I read the fine print: * (see asterisk at the beginning means this is what you should have read and then you'd know why you'll never ever received a gift card in your bag, sucker) "Guarantee applies to prescriptions dropped off in-store and at drive through only." (I was right, the Johnny-come-latelies got preferential treatment over we nice, considerate people who allowed the pharmacy time to prepare our goods.) "Certain exclusions apply..." (That generally means you're the exclusion.) "Certain exclusions apply including prescriptions requiring ordering, prescriber contact, third party assistance, professional services, or prescriptions presented immediately before or during Pharmacist lunch break." Good luck getting that gift card, Charlie!

Oh, I better pop a pill, I think my blood pressure is rising.

You Can Bank on Waiting

Once upon a time there was a strong and fiercely independent Family who dwelt in the land of the great Baron duPont in the village of Bankingshire. There were several proud families very like them striving there, but one by one they disappeared into the clutches of great and powerful Lords of Grab and Grasp from outside the realm. All these once noble names of Bankingshire disappeared, their legacies but memories. Except for this one family and somehow they resisted and fought and retained their name and history.

But like many a family empires preceding and surely many to come, discontentment with what they had seeped in and they began to overreach, growing careless and casual in their dealings. As a result, weakness was found within their house and soon they too fell to outsiders from a distant land.

And because of this I found myself having another change forced upon me late in life. My bank, The Bank, where I had served for many years, until they unceremoniously cast me overboard a decade ago, had fallen under a shadow that wouldn't pass. Instead it only grew darker, until they had no choice but to abandon ship. I now faced a transition of not only my financial services, but my pension as well. Do not think I did not worry.

Especially when between an earthquake and a hurricane, I lost my job. But what could I do about it except wait things out. (I'm sorry. I just looked at my photograph and two images came to mind and I don't want to mention either. Use your imagination.)

As fickle fate would have it, the Great Conversion fell on the dates Ms Irene choose to make an impression upon our little state. Just on the eve of when the new rulers of my money were about to rip off the bags over their new signs, Irene ripped down our electric wires and our cable services. Now just as I must call and activate my new access cards, because on that Friday my old had become deactivated, I had no phones. Now when I had to switch my on-line banking service, I had no internet and with no internet and no new on-line banking service, I could not see if my accounts safely made the transition and more importantly, would my pension deposit be deposited.

I've been through many conversions in my life. I have seen few (make that none) without a glitch, hiccup, speed bump or worse. It did not help that over the many months of anticipation as this conversion slowly, but inexorably moved toward completion, my peace of mind when The President said he could not guarantee Social Security Checks would be sent and my job seemed shaky. Amidst these my mind wondered would my pension get lost in translation?

Of course, the politicians made moot the Social Security question in their usual cowardly way. They simply kicked that can of worms down the street for some future gutless politicians to contend with. My shaky job soon collapsed over an abyss and fell from sight on the eve of both the great bank conversion and the hurricane. This left only the banking questions to be resolved.

After the winds blew by and the creeks rose and the power returned and the cable connected I opened a new on-line account at my new bank. Not too difficult to create, but not much to look at once I opened it. I have three accounts and all were supposed to make the trip. I see one, I see two, I see...I see...

I see one and I see two is what I see. Where is three? I look around the screen. I scroll up and down. I click on a few links, maybe it is hidden behind one of these. I do not find account number three. This is not a good thing. This is not a comfort. If they lost a whole account, one in which I OWE them money, what will they do with my pension where THEY owe me money?

I will have to wait a few more days to know the latter answer, but for now my concern is my missing number three. I see a link that says "Add an Account". Perhaps I have to add this one. After all, this one was a credit card and they not only converted banks, they switched credit card companies on me. Maybe that is why this one requires more from me here.

I click the "Add an Account" and begin filling out a form asking for account name and number and vital statistics, but I pause. At the end it has a fill-in blank labeled, "Pay this Amount". Hmmm! This isn't adding an account, this is adding a payee for Bill Pay. I don't want to pay any amount right now. In fact, if my pension deposit doesn't show up a few days hence, I won't be able to pay any amount to account number three, even if I do find it. If I don't see my pension deposit in a few days hence, maybe it'd be better if account number three stay lost. I cancel the form and return to my somewhat skimpy home page.

Then I notice near the bottom, "To add an account call 1-800-And-Wait." (That's not the real number. Don't call that number. There is no number 1-800-And-Wait. It is not a number, it is what you are going to do when you reach the real number.)

It lists the times of day you may call. I have to wait for the proper hour and when the clock strikes the time, I dial. A mechanical female voice answers with a greeting, a welcome, followed by, "All our circuits are tied up at the moment. Please call back later." Hoo ha!

High tide in the anxiety pool.

There's that word again, wait. I must wait until later and later I call again, around four in the afternoon.

Our cheery little mechanical greeter is there with another welcome and instructions: If you want this thing, press 1; if that thing, press 2; if another thing, press three and so on and so forth until, "If you haven't pressed anything because you are so overwhelmed by our 87 choices, then press 88 and we will start all over again. Just for your convenience. This time pay attention and press something."

I didn't know what to press, nothing quite fit my situation. There was no press zero for a real, live, possibly-even-breathing individual. So I did the next best thing, I picked a number at random and pressed. Our cheery greeter was back, but with a difference message. "We are experiencing a higher than usual call volume. Please stay on the line and our first available representative will be with you shortly." Meanwhile I get to enjoy the most sleep-inducing music I have ever heard on hold. I mean, I didn't want to be subjected to be-bop or hip-hop or rap or reggae or some kind of death metal play, but I wasn't ready for lullaby-time either.

Fortunately my dozing was interrupted at frequent intervals, about every other minute, by our digital hostess announcing the lines were still tied in knots, but "our first available representative will be with you shortly." Of course, "shortly" is a relative thing and it obviously was no relative of the bank's. After numerous "short-lies", a man answered.

He introduced himself. "Hi, my name is Peggy." And I introduced myself, "Hi, my name is confused." We were going to get along great. I begin to explain my missing number three account when I hear a click and nothing.

"Hello, is anyone out there?" followed by "did this guy HANG UP ON ME!" followed by my wife walking in the room announcing, "The cable is out."

Oh yes indeed, the cable was once again kerput. Along with my lost number three account was lost TV, lost internet and lost phones. I didn't lose everything. I still retained my sense of futility and frustration.

Our cable service didn't return until later that evening, too late now to call back. In the morning I decided to go to the nearest branch, track down my AWOL account face to face, Mano y Mano or Womano y Womano. Why does optimism ever ring in my heart? I drive to the bank, park my car and amble across the lot then do a U-turn back to car, to road, to home, to phone. Why did I not know the bank branch would be full. It just converted and I was probably not the only owner of a stray account or transaction about town.

I call the 800 number and our computer-generated Matron'd answers. Apparently they are firing on all circuits this morning, so she goes right into the laundry list of press-worthy buttons. They have still not added my particular problem to the menu and I still do not know an appropriate one to select. I choose to select a different one than I did the day before.

"We are experiencing a higher than usual call volume. Please stay on the line and our first available representative will be with you shortly."

I am back with the sleepy-time music and the constant notifications to stay tuned for the next available representative. And eventually the next available representative answers.

"Hi, my name is Peggy."

Wait a minute, this is the same available representative I got yesterday after pushing a different button. No wonder all their circuits are tied up, what do they have -- ONE! I mean, I was kidding about his name being Peggy, but now I'm not so sure, maybe this is Peggy. Or maybe I have entered the Twilight Zone or worse, this is Groundhog Day repeating itself over and over.

I don't want to disparage the man or imply he was anything like "Peggy". He was very nice and turned out to be quiet helpful, but in the beginning as confused about my missing account number three as I was. He also was having some computer glitches of his own. He asked me for some info on my on-line banking screen and I fumbled about seeking it, explaining that I was using a new computer and going through a learning curve.

"I'm going through a learning curve myself," he said. "I'm actually a former Wilmington Trust employee learning this new system."

He then asked if I minded going on hold while he asked his supervisor some questions. Ah, sweet dreamland.

After a couple snores my nap was cut short by the guy. "I'd like to ask you to do something," he says.

"Okay."

"Sign out of your on-line banking."

I did so.

"Now log back in again."

"Okay."

 "You should see your credit card account now."

Yes, I see it, I see it, it has come home. I thanked him for solving my problem and now all I needed to wait on was whether my pension check would show up in a couple of days.

A couple of days later I went back to my on-line banking account full of fear and trepidation. The accounts popped up, all three, and yes, my pension deposit was there. I was so happy, so relieved, that I even made a payment to the credit card.