Green Is Not My Color

I have decided to become more green. I recycle, I bought those reusable tote bags at the grocery store, I pay bills online. And it is the last one that has come back to bite me.

About a year ago, I signed up for Comcast's automatic bill pay. Each month, they charge my credit card, and I don't have to do a thing. Easy and good for the environment, right?

Not with Comcast.

First, they said it would take a month or more to kick in, so I should pay the bill until that happened.

So you notify me when it happens? Nope.

I can check online and see when it happens? Nope.

I can't see when my bill is paid?

Well, yes, but only after the due date. You see, payment is due on the 19th, but we don't bill credit cards until the 23rd.

So I'm late every month?

Only technically, but it doesn't count since you have a grace period of ten days.

Okay, so basically what you are telling me is that I should pay until...what, I see a credit for a double payment, and then not worry about late fees? Yep.

All right, and your name again? Just so I know what to call the voodoo doll I will be sticking pins in.

But finally, the day came when billing and payments caught up with each other. Ahhh. for once, someone at Comcast knew what they were talking about. Sort of. And yet, not really, because I was still receiving a paper statement each month. So how exactly was this being green?

Once again, I got online and found out that they were now offering an "Ecco bill" option where you could choose not to receive the paper statement.

So I signed up and had a few months of living the dream of being green.

Until the other day when I got a call from Comcast telling me they were going to shut off service for non-payment.

Excuse me? If I wasn't paying why was I seeing a charge on my credit card statement? What was that, a donation to the Comcast TGIF party fund?

Maybe there was a problem with my card, the woman in the billing department at Comcast suggested. Nope

Had I changed any info on the account lately? Nope.

Did I forget to update my account info when my old credit card expired? Nope.

Well then, why wasn't my bill paid?

Gee, I don't know. This is a real puzzler. If only I could speak to someone in the billing department at Comcast, maybe we could figure this out. Oh, wait a minute. You work in the billing department at Comcast. You have all my credit card info. You people choose when to bill me (or not as the case may be). I don't get to choose when you bill me, it is just supposed to happen every month. Automatically. Hence the "automatic payment option" on your website.

Oh, yes. I get what you are saying, she finally admitted. We bill your credit card, so there is no reason why this shouldn't have been paid last month.

Hey, you graduated top of your class from Harvard, didn't you?

After the Hallelujah chorus from the heavenly choir died down, we got a supervisor involved who came up with an explanation--sort of.

Comcast recently switched to a third-party billing system, and apparently, I got caught in a "glitch" where it was only going to bill me every other month.

Oh, so what you're saying is that Comcast, not satisfied that they were screwing people's lives up enough with their total disregard for any customer service whatsoever had decided to get help in that department by bringing in another totally inept organization. Good call.

And the best part? This new organization goes by the name "Smart Zone". Ha!!!

So, how do you fix this, I inquired.

"Well, we don't," she said. "You do."

I do? I do? I do? And just how am I supposed to do that? Write a check every month, perhaps? Or maybe I should just call these "smart" people every month and remind them to charge my card?

"Oh no," she said, obviously missing the sarcasm dripping from each syllable. "Just go online and sign up again for the automatic bill payment each month. That should fix it."

Should? You don't know how to fix it? You're guessing here? And how do I know if this will work?

Will you notify me? Nope.

Will I be able to see it online? Nope

I can't see if my bill is being paid? Well.....

Okay, and your name again...

Kermit was right. It's not easy being green.

Chivalry Is Dead

According to legend, Sir Walter Raleigh, upon seeing Queen Elizabeth heading for a puddle, gallantly whipped off his cloak and threw it over the puddle to keep her from getting her delicate little feet even the slightest bit damp. Where is Walt when you need him?

On a recent trip to Florida, I practically drowned and wasn't even offered so much as a Kleenex.

It all started with a trip to the grocery store on a rainy day and the foolish mistake of leaving my umbrella in the car.

Tim and I were not in the store more than two seconds when the sky opened up and let loose a torrential downpour. Watching the poor unfortunate souls still outside scurrying frantically for cover, we congratulated ourselves on being warm and dry. As we headed off down the first aisle, we snickered, thinking that by the time we were done, the rain would have stopped. After all, it never rains that hard for that long.

Wrong. Apparently, no one had ever told Mother Nature of that rule, and so , ten minutes later, it was still coming down cats and dogs.

Still sure it wouldn't last much longer, we stepped out under the overhang and huddled with the other miserable, sodden people there, killing the next five minutes or so reassuring each other that this was all going to blow over any second now.

Wrong again. If anything, it started to rain even harder. Rivers began to form in the loading lane and I think I caught a glimpse of Nessie somewhere out in the middle of the lake that had sprung up halfway down aisle three.

Reaching the end of his patience a whole five seconds later, Tim decided to make a run for it and get the car. I wished him well and reminded him that the umbrella was tucked in the door on the passenger side. I offered to hold down the fort until he could ride to my rescue.

He looked at me incredulously. Wasn't I going to go with him? Did I truly expect him to make that mad dash on his own?

Well, duh. Of course I wasn't going with him. It was raining. Did he not know after all these years that my one, unbreakable rule (okay, actually it is unbreakable rule 435) is, "Never get the hair wet unless you are within one hundred yards of a hot shower and a blow dryer"? I mean, seriously, was he new in town?

As I watched him sprint through the parking lot, dodging the great lakes somewhat successfully and the raindrops less successfully, one of the other poor unfortunates turned to me and commented wistfully about how lucky I was to have such an attentive and caring husband.

Before I could get too smug though, Tim pulled up in a great tidal wave of water, unlocked the door and gestured for me to get into the car.

Um. Did he miss the part where I told him where the umbrella was? It was at least five feet from the overhang to the car. Five feet and about five hundred gallons of cascading water. Why didn't he just ask me to swim back to the condo?

Not believing he was actually serious, I shook my head and pointed skyward.

Not believing I was actually serious, he rolled down the window and bellowed, er, gently requested, for me to get into the car.

Once again, I shook my head. I ever-so-sweetly suggested that since he was already wet, he might consider bringing me the umbrella. After all, there was no sense in both of us getting soaked, and did he not remember the hair rule?

His response to my politely and lovingly phrased request? He chucked the umbrella out the window in my general direction only to have it land about six inches from the car in what was quickly becoming the Erie Canal.

Fascinated, everyone on the sidewalk swiveled their heads back and forth like bobble-head dolls trying to see what my reaction would be.

Smiling beatifically, I crossed my arms over my chest and glared, I mean gazed, lovingly back at him, willing him to GET OUT OF THE CAR THIS INSTANT!!!

And still he sat. Check and mate is what he was thinking. Dead mate is what was running through my mind.

Finally unable to deal with the stress of the standoff any longer, a young girl threw up the hood of her sweatshirt, darted out into the monsoon, and retrieved the umbrella for me, obviously thinking to make things right and avoid a homicide. Ahh. To be that young and naive again.

Snapping open the water-logged umbrella, I threw myself into the car as quickly as possible, which means I was only half-drowned, while creating at least half a dozen scenarios involving Tim and said umbrella, none of them pretty.

Sir Walter Raleigh he isn't. But then again, I guess I'm no Queen Elizabeth.

Different Strokes for Different Folks

I was talking to my sister the other day while she was in Florida visiting my parents. Since the weather was not conducive to sitting at the pool or going to the beach, they had instead gone to the mall. God help them all.

For my mother and I, shopping is necessary for survival. Like the hunter/gatherers of old, we can spend hours ferreting out a good sale, pouncing on the perfect shirt to go with a certain skirt or pair of pants. The poor thing doesn't stand a chance.

We dig through massive racks of end of season clothing for that one bargain that will be the envy of shoppers everywhere, then head off to the dressing rooms clutching our prizes all marked: fifty percent off the lowest ticket price!

The smell of new shoe leather makes us dizzy with delight and an expensive bowl hiding on a clearance table sends us into spasms of joy. It is all we can do to contain ourselves when we spot a dollar store or outlet mall.

My sister shares some of these traits...as long as she is shopping for jeans, T-shirts or outdoor type clothing. Take her into Ann Taylor or Sephora and her eyes glaze over faster than you can say "free makeover". Within seconds, she is searching for the nearest exit and/or easy chair and googling "Foot Locker" on her iphone. Our best shopping trip together was when she came with me to a great little boutique and they offered her a glass of wine to kill the pain of watching me try on dresses.

Conversely, when she gets into an L.L. Bean or Hudson Trail Outfitters, you need a crowbar to get her out. Her goal there is to try on one of everything and fill as many shopping bags as she can carry and then order the rest online. Searching for the ultimate sneaker or work shoe with her can suck hours out of your life and make you want to run screaming into the night.

My father, on the other hand, views any shopping expedition as more or less a seek-and-destroy military operation.

He interrogates you on what stores you expect to try and visit while at the mall so he can park the car in the optimal spot for a quick invasion and an even quicker getaway. Before leaving the car, there is the mandatory synchronization of watches so that you don't go over your extimated time and cut into lunch hour.Then, using the mall directory which he keeps in the car for planning purposes, he maps out the plan of attack highlighting the quickest route from store A to store B.

Once in the mall, he forges ahead, calling out directions such as, "Left at Williams-Sonoma and then a right at Starbucks!" like a general leading the invasion on Normandy. Although he has factored in some time for a few side trips to stores that were not previously run through the appropriate channels, the quickest way to drive him crazy is to tell him you just want to browse. It just throws the whole battle plan off.

Now this is not to say that he doesn't try to be gracious about things. He amiably agrees to wait outside any store you want to go into and he will even follow you right through the larger department stores. Sometimes you can even get him to browse through the men's section on his own or stop by a gadget store to check out the latest guy toys...for about three minutes. But the whole time you are shopping, you are aware that you are on the clock. And the longer you take, the less like General Paton he becomes and the more like the Rain Man.

"It's getting near lunchtime," he'll say. "It's almost noon." "If we don't eat lunch soon, we'll be running into dinnertime and then we won't be hungry for dinner." "Maybe we should just eat a small lunch." "We could eat at the food court, but a restaurant would be better." "Maybe we should leave the mall and go to that place down the road before it gets too crowded." "Did you get what you needed?" "We can come back, if you want, but right now, it's getting near lunchtime."

And so he marshals the troops and marches everyone back to the car.

Yeah. God help them all.

Ten Years of Ballet, Down the Drain

As a child, my mother would schlepp me back and forth once a week to ballet classes, which sadly turned out to be a complete waste of money. Graceful, I am not.

First of all, I run like I am doing an imitation of Jerry Lewis in the Nutty Professor , with arms and legs flailing. And that is how I broke my toe...twice. Not the big toe, not even the little end toe, but the little piggie that had none.

The first time is a dim childhood memory, involving cousins who were chasing me and a really, really well-made dining room chair (darn Amish). The second time was more recent and involved a door frame which jumped in front of me, I swear. One minute it was quietly sitting there doing its job, and the next it was trying to maim me as I ran for the phone (I don't actually remember who was on the other end, but I'm pretty sure they learned some new and creative uses for several four-letter words--I'm hoping it was a solicitor).

Then there was the time I cut off the tip of my finger while trying to slice potatoes with a mandolin. Aggravated with the way the potato kept slipping out from under the finger guard (duh--guard), I decided to do without it. Not a good decision, which I realized the minute I saw a pinkish piece of potato on the cutting board surrounded by a mysterious red liquid. Ewww, oh and ouch too! (Now I know why manufacturers feel it necessary to put seemingly obvious directions on things like the "Do Not Boil" on my plastic butter dish).

And most recently, I gave myself several lovely contusions on my leg by walking into an open drawer. In my defense, this one was not my fault. Tim had pulled out the drawer a few minutes before and failed to push it back in and, honestly, after twenty-eight years, does he not know that I can't be trusted not to kill myself on inanimate objects with protruding parts (or inanimate objects without protruding parts)? I am, after all, my mother's daughter, and this was the woman who daily stubbed her toes and banged up her shins by walking into a dishwasher that had not changed location in fifteen years. Hellooooooo.

While I normally am only a danger to myself, this week I decided to branch out and try to injure an innocent bystander.

It all started out innocuously enough in yoga class where we were doing twists. The teacher was not happy enough that we were contorting ourselves into something resembling a cross between a pretzel and a corkscrew, she actually wanted us to roll over onto the floor and then back up like huge Weeble dolls while keeping the twist!

"Let gravity just pull you down," she encouraged.

Okay. And what is going to pull me back up? A crane, perhaps?

"Just let your arms and legs flow naturally where they want to go," she offered, when it became clear that this was not going to work out quite as she had planned. (I believe her first clue was when most of us lay gasping on the floor like beached whales, but I could be wrong.)

And so I let my legs flow. Unfortunately, they happened to flow right into the head of the woman next to me.

Luckily for her, she bobbed just at the moment I weaved and we averted a trip to the emergency room (who knew Yoga was a contact sport?). Although she forgave me, I noticed she did place her mat at the opposite end of the room the next time we had class. Probably for the best.

When I told Tim this story, he was not really surprised, just grateful that it wasn't him.

Maybe one more year of ballet would have made a difference. Or not.

The Princess

Tim likes to tell me that I am a princess...and not in a good way. He insists that I am spoiled by things like freshly ground coffee every morning at the touch of a button, heated car seats and, of course, automatic car windows.

He particularly points to this last item and an incident that happened several years ago as proof.

My friend and I were visiting her family back in Idaho one summer and had borrowed her father's car for the day in order to visit her sister who lived some distance away. Upon getting into the car, I immediately reached for the button to lower the window and let out some of the heat.

Unable to find the button easily and not wanting to appear slow-witted, I surreptitiously began to search the door, the dashboard, the panel between the seats, even the seat itself, but alas, I was unable to find the button for the window. By this time, the heat inside the car had reached oven-like status and I could feel the sweat pouring off me. No longer caring how dumb I looked, I began an active search for the stupid button, before I began clawing at the window and gasping like a fish out of water.

After watching my machinations for a few moments, my friend finally asked me what I was looking for. Had I dropped something, or was I perhaps practicing for Cirque du Soliel?

I admitted to her that I had spent the last several minutes trying to figure out how to open the window, and asked what the trick was.

Fighting to keep a straight face, she leaned over me, grasped the big handle with the huge knob on it sticking out of the door conveniently located at hand level and cranked the window down.

Tim, of course has not let me forget this, and until recently, I really had no legitimate comeback.

However...

Awhile back, we were out someplace and Tim excused himself to go to the men's room. When he finally returned, I was teasing him about how long it had taken him and he admitted, rather shamefacedly, that he had had a bit of trouble washing his hands.

Apparently, he had been standing at the sink, holding his hands under the automatic faucet waiting for the water to come on, but to no avail. He waved his hands in front of the sensor, still no water. He tried the other sink, but that one seemed to be out of order too. As luck would have it, the janitor happened to enter the restroom just then and Tim turned to him in frustration and asked him how to get the sink to work.

The janitor leaned over...are you ready for this...and turned the knob next to the faucet, causing water to gush forth.

Who's the princess now?