Bubble wrap

I know that I may come across as more of a Rat than a Pig at times, but I like people in general.  It's people in specific that get to me sometimes.  Our first mortgage guy is an excellent example.

We'll call him Timmy.  It suits him.  We were referred to Timmy by a friend.  I have now vowed never to take mortgage advice from friends or family.

Timmy was aware that we were going to The South for two days to choose and make an offer on a house.  Because of the short time frame we had to choose the house, we needed to get pre-approval before we left.  He assured us this wouldn't be a problem since we had three weeks until we flew out.

He didn't call us for a week.

After we repeatedly called, he made an appointment for us to meet two weeks before we had to leave. He apologized briefly and explained he had been in training all week, but assured us we had plenty of time to get pre-approved.  He then explained that even though DH will be employed past the time I will start my job, he wanted to only use my salary for the pre-approval.  This seemed odd to me, but I'm not a mortgage broker. 

I handed over my five year contract and salary to Timmy the Wonder Broker. 

He read it.

Timmy reads really slow.

"So, you're sure you're going to be working there for five years."

Well, it is a contract that has dates equaling five years written on the front page, so yeah, Timmy, I'm pretty sure.  

"Yes, that is correct."

"This salary says that it's correct starting July 25, 2009.  What will you be getting paid?"

Since it's correct starting in 2009, and we are now in 2010, odds are that I'll be getting paid that amount Timmy. 

"That's the listed salary for my position."

"But what will you do for income after five years?"

Maybe he doesn't understand medicine.  I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. 

"I'll probably do a fellowship for three years.  I get paid for that too."

"But then what will you do for income?"

Nope, he's just a doofus.  

 "Then I'll be a surgeon.  I get paid for that too."

"But are you guaranteed a job then?"

You have to be joking. I have a five year contract, and he's worried about what I will be doing for work eight years from now.  Does everyone applying for a mortgage have to prove they will have work for the next ten years?  My job is more secure than his job right now.  I'm willing to bet you don't have a five year contract Timmy-boy.

"I'm not guaranteed a job, but the odds are very good that I will be working somewhere.

"You guys are great on everything else, but this is highly unusual.  I'll have to talk to my manager about this.  It shouldn't be a problem."

That's the last we heard from Tim-Tim-Cheree.  We called.  We emailed.  No response.

We found a house I loved.  The only problem was another couple loved it too. We had our bid in first, but we needed one more thing.

A pre-approval letter.

We called Timmy-poo.  He said he was working on it, but that it was unusual and no one he worked with had ever seen a salary like mine. I found this hard to believe as thousands of people graduate medical school every year,  a large portion of them get mortgages during their residency, and he worked for a large bank.  Niche market, maybe. Unusual, no.

So I gave his number to our real estate agent.  She is a Southern woman through and through.  Sweet as sugar with a backbone of steel.  She talked to him for about five minutes.  He told her he was trying but that it was a very unusual case, and that he would have the letter to her in 30 minutes.  Three hours later, we had the approval letter and Timmy had really ticked me off.

We were easy money. He hadn't been forced to expend any effort to find us.  We came to him.  We gave him all the documentation before he even met with us.  We had a 20% down payment.  We were both employed. We had rock star credit scores.  All he had to do to get his commission was put the paperwork into the system.    He just blew us off.  I guess I'm just used to people thinking doctors make too much money instead of worrying that they won't make any money.

When we made it back to The North we switched to another broker at the same bank. Let's call him Tommy.  He entered a new request and had everything ready to go in two days. Tommy also used part of DH's income because 'we assume you will be working somewhere when you move since you have had stable employment for the past five years.' Tommy is awesome.

Timmy....well Timmy makes me feel a bit more like Rat.

*Pearls Before Swine is copyrighted by Stephan Pastis and is my absolute favorite comic strip.

New Year's Freeze

New Year's Eve is probably the most over-hyped holiday we celebrate. Rushing from one party to the next, drinking bad sparkling wine while avoiding sloshing glasses threatening your outfit, crushing rooms full of sweaty strangers shouting resolutions for the next year which they will promptly break the next day. It's an exhausting night that usually has only a thin veneer of glamour left after the clock strikes twelve.

However, we are developing a new New Year's tradition. A dear friend of mine currently living in the Northwest has a darling island cabin in a lake near Canada. It is remote, secluded, and incredibly peaceful. It is also a two mile kayak or ski to get there from shore, depending on the season. In the summer, it's a delightful trip across cool glassy waters. In the winter, it can be a peaceful ski across expanses of white ice and snow. It can also be a bitter ski with howling winds, cracking ice, and dangerous conditions. My favorite New Year's was spent skiing across the lake, building a roaring fire in the cabin, making and eating a delicious meal, taking a sauna, and drinking champagne.

So when C. called and said, "Hey, I think I can fly in for three days. Do you want to do New Year's at the cabin?" it was the easiest yes I have said in awhile. Bear in mind that the weather forecast for the weekend was a balmy -17 F.

Groceries were bought, skis were borrowed, and we were set. I picked up C. from the airport and DH from his work. We got a slightly later start to the day than planned, so it was decidedly dark by the time we got to the lake. Not a problem. I've skied across this lake in the dark before. It was also -27 F without windchill. Slightly more of a problem seeing how I am a total wimp when it comes to the cold.

Three pairs of pants. Four shirts. Two pairs of gloves and a pair of mittens. Long underwear. Two hats. One scarf. Three pairs of socks. I was ready.

Fifteen minutes and about 1/2 of mile later, I was so not ready. Did I mention that it was FREEZING? Or that there was no wind block since we were skiing across a lake? Or that we had brilliantly decided to bring the dog with us, but the boots we picked up at Cabelas for her were too large, fell off, and filled with snow? Or that she was now refusing to walk because her paws were freezing and she was shaking? Or that we had to pull a sled across the lake with all of our supplies on it? Or that the lake was apparently only partially frozen so that every few steps you broke through the top layer of ice to water underneath which promptly froze when you pulled your ski out of the water? Or that this quickly built up to two inches of ice on the bottom of your skis? Or that it is difficult to ski with two inches of ice on the bottom of your skis?

I was pretty sure I was going to die.

However, I was not going to let anyone else know this. I refused to be the weeny who quit halfway across the lake. When my friend turned and asked if I was okay, I said, "Sure, keep going." At this point DH and I were taking turns carrying the dog inside our coats to help keep her warm. Thank goodness she's small for her breed.

We had made it about a mile and a half across when my fingers and toes stopped hurting. This was a big problem. For all you Southerners, pain is a good thing when you are cold. When the pain goes away, you have to start worrying more about frostbite. It's significantly harder to be a surgeon when you have no finger tips. I stopped to put in another set of hand warmers and check the color of my fingers. Still red, not black.

C. turned and started yelling at me. "We cannot stop again. You will die. Do you understand me? People die when it is this cold. YOU WILL DIE."

It is not good when someone else tells you what you have secretly been thinking for the past mile, particularly when it concerns your imminent demise. We pushed on. In my mind, I cursed her father for picking the island that was farthest away from shore. Remote is fine and dandy in the summer, but in the winter is a whole different story. We finally made it to the cabin, almost 2 hours after we started. Fire was built, cocoa was drunk, and heaters were lit. We found out the next day that the temperature got down to -40 F that night.

It was a heck of a start to the weekend.

What's in a PIN?

I don't know my PIN number.

This has had very little effect on my life because I hate carrying cash. The germ load on money skeeves me out a bit. I haven't used my debit card in months. DH needed me to bring him some cash a few days ago. Not a problem.

Except I don't know my PIN number.

I knew how to solve this. I would have my bank change my PIN over the phone. 'Why not just pop into a nearby branch and do it in person?' you might be wondering.

Because I am stubborn. I memorized my account number eight years ago (which by the way, is way longer than a PIN). I refuse to learn a new account number. Thus, I refuse to change banks. This is despite the fact the closest branch of my bank is two states away.

So I pull out my phone, google the bank, and am quickly connected with Tim. He suggests I come into a branch. I tell him I don't have time for a 400 mile road trip.

"Okay," says Tim," we just have to ask some security questions, then I can ask my manager for approval, then I can call you back in a couple hours."

This is not helpful for my 'need cash now' problem, but I reason I should probably know my PIN in general, so I agree.

"Mother's maiden name. Grandfather's name. Last four of your social. Birthday. Account number. Favorite cartoon character. Number of siblings. "

Easiest quiz I've ever taken.

"Great, just two more. At what branch did you open this account?"

"When I was 16? That's over ten years ago. It was one of three." I named all three.

"So we can't accept that as a correct answer." He paused. "Moving on, what was the last thing you used your debit card for?"

"Oh, I paid my X credit card bill from that account yesterday."

"That wasn't a debit transaction. You did do that, but it doesn't count. What was the last debit transaction?"

"Do you mean something I had to use my PIN for?"

"Yes."

"You do realize we're doing this because I don't know my PIN. The one you guys reset last spring when my card was stolen in Spain and you sent me this new card. Which I have never used as a debit card...... because I don't know the PIN. "

"Yes. "

He didn't reset the PIN for me. Seems I failed the security check. Yet people used my old card with no trouble in Spain. Thieves apparently know more about me than me.

Maybe they can tell me my PIN.

I wish you hadn't asked me that.

I hate answering questions for people.

Because then other people feel the need to answer the questions too.

And I think the other people are wrong.

And then another murder gets tacked onto my rap sheet.

Which invites more questions.

It's a vicious cycle.

Stupid ducks

There are days when I feel that I am on top of everything. My cute yellow ducks are lined up in a nice neat circle, paddling like mad under the surface, all headed the appropriate direction. That was yesterday. Then there are days when my ducks have lost the ability to stay in line - some are flying away, some are paddling off, and a couple are drowning. That was more today.

I requested an official copy of my transcript for my application. For the privilege of looking at the grades I earned in classes I had to pay for, I was charged ten American dollars. The registrar office sent out the official grades on fancy blue paper. Unbeknownst to me, I needed it on plain white paper. Now I have to pay another ten American dollars so an undergraduate in a work study program can hit the print key in the registrar's office and give me a copy on white paper - the color of paper one normally would print upon.

A few minutes after I received this notice, I headed out for class. My professor told us yesterday that we had the option of taking the class on 'campus 2' via live video stream. I thought this was awesome news since campus 2 is much closer to my house. It's about a twenty minute walk to the building on campus 2, but it was a beautiful day. I walked. The classroom was suspiciously empty when I arrived, but I was a few minutes early. I emailed my professor to thank him for the option. He wrote back three minutes before class was supposed to start.

"Oh, I have bad news. I canceled that classroom this morning. Sorry. Can you make it to campus 1?"

No, I cannot bloody well make it to campus 1! I have a twenty minute walk to my house to get my car, a ten minute drive to campus, and at least ten minutes to find parking, pay for parking, and get to the classroom. The class is only an hour long! Are you serious, Mr. Professor? Could you not have sent out an email when you decided this?

I dislike you Mr. Professor.

I remembered the inter-campus bus and started running. Breathless, glistening (because girls should avoid sweating, or at least calling it sweating), and late, I flagged him down. I snuck into the classroom on campus 1 twenty minutes later. Slid into a seat, flipped open my laptop, and looked up at the prof and screens ... only to see three students on live video feed in the campus 2 classroom.

I really dislike you Mr. Professor.

Why did the man cross the road?

The night started out a little later than I had planned since I left my license at a friend’s apartment. I know the law says they must card everyone, but seriously. I’m quite sure I no longer look under twenty-one, and I had no plans of drinking since I had an early date with a lumberjack the next day. On the plus side, being greeted with resounding cheers when you arrive at the pub does make you feel appreciated.

I was sipping my whiskey and Coke, minus the whiskey, and half listening to my new pseudo-British composer friend. The man is essentially getting a PhD in creativity. I'm not sure how one teaches (or studies) creativity, but I'm also not a liberal arts grad.

I was gazing out the window, pondering the terrible fashion choices of the girls waiting to get in, when I noticed a double decker party bus pull up across the street. Men started pouring out. My interest was peaked. A rather large man in a striped polo started weaving his way across the street - the very traffic intense four lane street. I had faith in him though, because he was holding up his hand to halt the traffic. Who wouldn't stop for that?

Apparently, a Prius will not. It must have been in hybrid mode and snuck up on him, 'cause it knocked the poor guy flat. He bounced back up like one of those clown punching dolls and slammed his hands on the hood of the Prius. It appeared that words were exchanged, then he continued his treacherous journey across the street. He made it just in time to meet up with his not-much-less intoxicated friends who had used the crosswalk.

The whole crew came pouring into the pub. It was a bachelor party. I love bachelor parties. I know some women go off on the whole "demoralizing, sexist, ridiculous, acting like teenagers, if you love me you won't" rant, but I think they are hilarious.

Where else will you find a grown man dancing with a half-inflated blow-up doll that he has managed to get glued onto his jeans? If you know the answer to that question, please, do not share.

Showdown

I was driving to the park a couple of days ago and noticed a flash of baby powder blue out of the corner of my eye. It was a rather Rubenesque woman on a Vespa scooter cruising along in the wrong direction in the bike lane. Her matching helmet was strapped snugly beneath her chins. Her pink t-shirt read "fat people are harder to kidnap". In her right hand was a 44 oz Coke. Her left hand was clutching the handlebar and a leash. Her Golden Retriever was trotting along on the sidewalk next to her.

I sighed to myself over the sad state of the American obesity problem and waited for the light to turn green. Gazing ahead, I noticed a man coming the correct direction in the bike lane. He was driving a motorized wheelchair. Not a boring black one - a blue one, swathed in Veteran bumper stickers, a little American flag waving from one handle bar, and an orange wind tunnel flag flapping from the other. He had on one of those floppy round fishing hats and huge black sun glasses.

I shot off a quick prayer for the light to stay red and rolled down my window. It was the weirdest game of chicken I have ever seen. Five miles an hour tops, and neither one of them would give.

They both rolled to a stop inches from each other. The screaming began, obscenities were hurled, and the Vespa lady started getting pretty red and out of breath. She was waving her arms, yelling that he needed to move his blankety blank wheelchair out of her way because she wasn't driving in traffic. He yelled back that his wheelchair couldn't jump the curb, and he couldn't very well get out and push it over the bump so she should move her ....large bottom. The dog started barking, circled the wheelchair guy a couple of times, and got his leash hopelessly tangled in the wheel spokes. Her helmet started sliding forward into her eyes.

The light turned green. No cars moved. Everyone was watching the battle of the bike lane. Someone from the back started honking (they obviously couldn't see the drama), and we all drove away.

We came back from the park and there was a spilled Coke and what looked like a piece of orange flag on the side of the road.

Happy Hours

We went to a will-not-be-named chain restaurant this past week because I refuse to turn on the air conditioning. I just don't think eighty is hot enough. The people up here can live with thirty degrees below zero, but if the mercury rises a few marks above seventy they think they will suffocate. I miss the South.

Anyway, this place makes the best Southwest eggrolls besides mine. It was still early evening, so we thought we might make happy hour. We shouldn't have been concerned, as this chain advertises that they have "Happy Hour All Day Every Day! 2 for 1 Drinks!"

DH is a marketing guy at heart, so he took exception to the fraud they were perpetrating upon hapless consumers. Our waitress bounced up.

"If happy hour is all day every day, isn't that just the regular price?"

She looked puzzled. "No, it's happy hour."

"But if the price is, say, five dollars for one ten ounce drink, and you have two for one drinks every day all day, isn't that just the regular price? Five dollars for twenty ounces?"

Her smile didn't dim. "No. It's happy hour. The second drink is free."

DH looked at me beseechingly. I was not going to help. He got himself into the argument with the bubble head, he could get himself out.

"Okay, but it's not a sale. See the food prices are the same every day all day, but they aren't a happy hour special. It's just the regular price. Because it's every day."

Waitress looked at me beseechingly, then tried again. "The drinks are the happy hour. Two for one." She smiled tightly. "Do you need a minute?"

I spoke. "Coke and eggrolls please. He's being difficult. You're being dense. This happy hour stinks. And I'm too hungry to listen to you two."

DH ordered. "Was I being difficult?"

"No, love. She was just definitely not over qualified for her job."

It's like I tell the grandkids (future me) - don't argue with an idiot. People watching may not be able to tell who is who.