Nothing's Easy

A lot of people couldn't believe that such idiocy would take place at CVS. It was as though CVS was known as some bastion of wisdom and customer care, and I just burst that whole bubble. It really upset some folks. Sadly, if you had the same high opinions of city employees, you might want to skip this entry, too. Because I can tell you that I spoke to one and a half competent people in my quest this afternoon. I say one and a half because it was really one person, and his sidekick was competent and helpful only in so much as he was not incompetent and unhelpful. And regarding the idiots I spoke to today, that was saying a lot.

I arrived downtown admittedly a little late. It was already almost 4:30 when I pushed open the doors at the human resources office, and I realized that at 4:30 PM, most people are ending their day and don't really want to begin dealing with anyone. So I already was apologetic, even though the truth is, I was just as tired as I was sure they were, and I didn't want to be there just as much as I was sure they didn't want me there. My point is, I wasn't expecting stellar customer service or anything. (And really, given my experience over the past few months, that's really an act of self-preservation.)

To give some background briefly, I had to bring my transcript downtown, sign my contract, and get my health insurance set up. The last two weren't a problem because it was something everyone had to go through, but the first one struck me as odd because I had already brought my transcript to them twice (on separate occassions) and had made them fill out a form checking-off that they had, indeed, received my transcript. Well, now they were missing page 2.

I went through the whole "but you have my transcript, it says so right here on your own form," but that ended quickly when I realized I had to be downtown to take care of the latter two items anyway and I had a transcript on hand. I'll give in to your nonsense. Fine.

Well, today I had brought everything I could think of: my license, certification, transcript, contract, lip gloss, social security card, license, you name it, I had every piece of important paperwork I could think of. The guy at the desk looked about as thrilled to see me as I thought he'd be.

I told him why I was there.

"For transcripts, you have to go to the third floor. For contract, you can sign that here. For health insurance, you gotta go to city hall. Here's the form to fill out." His name was Jamal. I find it helpful to get their names, even if it's just looking at a nametag. I like making the personal connection. That way, I can say "Jamal is a moron," rather than "the idiot at the front desk downtown is a moron," which just seems redundant.

"Okay. Well, should I sign the contract now then?" I was still hopeful about Jamal.

"No." There went that hope.

"I can't?"

"No. You have to bring the transcript to the third floor. They verify it, stamp it. Then you can come back and sign the contract."

"Ohhkay." I didn't really get this, but I'd dealt with January and Nina from CVS and a bunch of faceless assholes from Comcast, so I don't ask questions anymore because there's very little point or satisfaction and I find that no matter how deserving, you never do get those precious moments of your life back.

"The thing is," Jamal said, but not apologetically in the slightest, "it's already 4:30. I don't print anything past 4:45, and they take about fifteen minutes upstairs to get the transcript stamped. So you're probably going to have to do the transcript stamp today and then come back."

Well, now, Jamal, that just isn't happening.

The thing is, he made it sort of difficult to argue with him because he went back to playing Minesweeper on his computer.

"Umm, sir?" I asked.

He looked up and paused his game.

"Is there any way that I can get this all taken care of today? I realize it's 4:30, but I really don't have time this week to come back, and the deadline for having the health insurance start next month - meaning December - is tomorrow, and I have to have a signed contract for that to kick in."

He seemed to consider this.

"I make it a policy not to print contracts after 4:45 PM."

"Right."

"It takes 15 minutes to have them stamp the transcript."

"What do you mean by 'stamp the transcript'? It sounds like they just have to literally put a stamp on my transcript."

"They do."

"And that takes 15 minutes, for sure?"

"Wanda takes a while. She's fat."

(Umm, okay?)

"Well, what if I hurry and come back within the 15 minutes?"

He looked at the clock doubtfully. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Well, let me ask you this. Can you print a copy of the contract right now, and then I'll come back as soon as I can, and then even if it's just a little after 4:45, I can still sign it, but you won't have to break your rule of not printing it?" (I swear, do they put the government bigshots who negotiate with other government bigshots to these tests? Because I feel like if I could get Jamal to do this, and if I got Nina to get Eduardo to price check something at CVS, I might have a future career in this.)

He considered this for a moment.

"Please?" I asked. "I'd really appreciate you making the exception."

"Fine," he sighed. Jamal, not an asshole. A moron, yes. An asshole? No. I'd take that.

So I went upstairs and met Wanda.

Jamal turned out to be right: Wanda was fat. She was also very, very slow. I didn't necessarily think that one had to do with the other, and I didn't care that she was fat, but that she was slow was going to be a problem. I imagined if I went back to Jamal at 4:55, he'd be long gone.

"Hi, are you Wanda?" I asked.

"Yup."

"Jamal sent me upstairs."

"Why?"

"For a stamp on my transcript."

She looked over my paperwork. "Says here we got your transcript."

"I know," I said, sighing in relief that someone understood their own paperwork. "That's what I told the woman on the phone last week, but she insisted that my check mark was a mistake and that I had to bring my transcript downtown, because you were missing page 2."

"Doesn't indicate that here," she said.

"Right. But, well, I guess that doesn't matter now that I'm here, huh? Not that big a deal, I mean, I had to come down anyway for my contract. So this is minor."

"Well, you can go back downstairs."

"I need the stamp on my transcript, though, or Jamal won't give me my contract."

"Show him this sheet," she said.

"He saw it. He wants the transcript stamp. And, honestly, I'd feel better if we just made the copy, got the stamp, did the whole thing for my file now that I'm here."

Wanda did not like this. Wanda did not like this so much that I actually found myself wishing for Nina from CVS.

"Do you think I have a job for a reason?" she asked me, dripping with sarcasm. Normally I'm the sarcastic one. If the other person in the equation is more sarcastic than I am, I'm in trouble. Never a good sign.

"Umm..."

"Because contrary to your belief, I'm not paid to do pointless tasks like make extra copies of papers we already have for people who think they deserve several copies! You're not entitled to come in here and just demand copies for copies' sake."

"Oh, no I know, it's just that - "

"I mean, take a look around!" she continued to shout, pointing at the stacks of papers and envelopes unopened. "See how many papers we have here? This place is crawling with papers. Just crawling. They might get up and walk around, we got so many papers! Do you think we need another copy of - " she took her glasses down to her nose and read my name - "your transcript from hoity-toity Boston University (hoity-toity BU?!) lying around?"

"No."

"Well then, why would I make a copy of something we already have?!"

Wanda was right in theory. It made absolutely no sense to make copies of something they already had. In actuality, they were probably creating more papers than necessary, like she was saying. It occurred to me momentarily that maybe Wanda was slow and mean because she was worn down from the idiots she worked with who insisted on making multiple copies of everything rather than taking five minutes to locate already existing copies.

I told her as much, in fewer and nicer words. Then, thankfully, this guy Glen got up and had heard me begging for help and said, "Wanda, I have to make a copy anyway. Why don't I just take hers and put it in the "to be filed" bin for Lydia tomorrow?"

Wanda seemd okay with this. "That girl doesn't do anything anyway," she said. "Fine." She turned back to me. "Don't come back asking for any more copies, you understand?"

Umm, yes. I will never, ever, EVER come back to make copies again.

Glen made the copy. Wanda stamped my transcript. I went downstairs. Jamal gave me my contract, waiting for me in the print tray. I signed the contract, without any ceremony. Not even a congratulatory pin or pen or anything.

Then I asked about the health insurance. "Fill out this form. Since it's time sensitive - the deadline's tomorrow - you gotta bring it to City Hall yourself. Across the street. I'd hurry though, because they close in 10 minutes."

"I thought I just dropped off the form with you."

"Normally, yes. But it's almost 5:00, and I only go over on my lunch hour, when I'm on my way to the food court in Faneuil Hall. I get my ham sandwich and drop off the health insurance forms."

"Okay, so can you bring mine tomorrow with the rest?"

"Nope."

"Is the deadline today or something?"

"No. But tomorrow's Tuesday, and I bring my lunch on Tuesdays because I eat with Al and Jennifer from upstairs."

"Okay..."

"So I don't bring any forms over on Tuesdays. So tomorrow's the deadline, so if you left it with me, I'd bring it over on Wednesday, past the deadline, and you'd have to wait until January to get the coverage."

"Wait a minute," I said. "Are you seriously telling me that because you bring lunch on Tuesdays I'm going to have to wait an extra thirty days for my health insurance to kick in?"

"I go to my aunt's every Monday night and bring the leftovers on Tuesday. If I don't bring them on Tuesday, they'll go bad. Tonight's pot roast."

"Okay, well, I have to go then," I said. "I mean, I only have five minutes to get across the street and all."

"Good luck," he said. "I hear they don't accept things past 4:30."

Of course. Why would they?

It was at this point that I ran into the one and a half competent people. These two security guys at City Hall, the first who made a little joke that my bag was too heavy to be carrying around and the second who gave me correct directions to the office I was looking for and wished me luck. These were the nicest gentlemen I've met in a while, and it occurred to me that it might be because they seemed to enjoy their job of greeting people as they came into the building. That's the key, really. Find someone who likes what they do. They'll be decent to others.

Anyway, I went upstairs and met Cheryl who wasn't nice at all but wasn't horrible, and I signed up for health insurance and I'll be set for December 1st start date. And then I came back here and did laundry and I have to now make dinner and plan for tomorrow's classes, but I take comfort in knowing that somewhere, Jamal is enjoying his pot roast, and that tomorrow, he'll have it for lunch.

(And in December, goddamnit, I'll have health insurance.)

CVS Morons

A few weeks ago, I decided to be a nice person. I decided to buy some Halloween candy for my kids at school and bring it in, doing the whole plastic pumpkin on a Friday deal. A Sunday circular (yes, I'm old, I read those now) had drawn my attention to the fact that CVS was having a special - buy 2 for 1 - of Halloween candy between October 15-21. I went on October 19th. I put in ten bags of candy, the good stuff, the stuff that was advertised as 2 for 1. I went to the cash register and this is what happened.

"Aren't those two for one?" I asked the woman, January, behind the counter.

Shrug.

"Well, umm, they are."

Shrug.

"No, really, you even have a sign up right over there. Here's my CVS care card. Two. For one."

"You got your CVS care card?"

"Umm, yes." (Didn't I just say this?) I hand her the card.

She swipes it. Still no discount goes through.

"Must not be two for one." She actually says, "twofahne," like it's all one word.

"It says it is, right on the crate with the candy."

"Well, it's not coming up on the register."

"Fair enough, but it says it right on the crates of candy, so that's what should be honored at the register. It only makes sense." You'd think that saying "It only makes sense" would get January here thinking that it WOULD only make sense, but then again, this is a woman named January. Not sure how much sense January can make in October.

Apparently, she couldn't make much. "Look. I have to do what the register says."

"And you also have to do what your stores advertise. Your store. Advertises. Two. FOR ONE. It's like ten feet away from where you're standing."

"I can't leave my register."

"I'm getting the two for one deal."

"The register's ringing them all up, I'm not sure what's wrong."

"Well, that's not really my fault, is it?" This sounds like I was really sarcastic, but I swear, it was absolutely sincere. The truth was, I wasn't sure whether January knew that this wasn't my fault.

"It's not my fault, either." Huh.

"Well, I know that, but I also know you have the ability to give me the two for one deal, or to at least get someone who can."

"Nina doesn't like to come out to help customers," was her reply to this.

"Who's Nina?"

"The manager."

Oh, nice. The MANAGER of CVS doesn't like to come out for customers. What does she come out for, just Halloween? (Well, actually, apparently not. Humbug.)

I insisted that we get Nina. This aggravated January because January felt that I shouldn't make a big deal about only a few bucks (Umm, about 15, but whatever, January.) and felt that I was not being courteous to the customers behind me who were waiting to ring up their purchases. When I suggested that I could move to the side while waiting for Nina, so that January could continue to ring up said customers, January got upset and said that I shouldn't do that because that was not taking into account that she would have to void out the entries already, which looks "funny" and makes Nina "question" her. She was further unimpressed when I suggested that the other employee I saw, a young man sitting reading "Star" magazine, could take a turn behind the register to pitch in. "Eduardo doesn't like the register."

January was quite the helpful CVS employee. If I were CVS management, I'd be proud of January. She'd win employee of the month for me.

Right after Nina, that is.

Nina barreled out from the back room, looking like she had been involved in some life-altering task and had been asked to come kill a mosquito. She was, to say the least, unhappy to be disturbed. I saw that she still had crumbs on the chest of her sweater. She didn't bother swatting them away, and when a few fell out of her mouth (she was still chewing when she started telling me that she'd been on an important phone call and I'd better be important), she still didn't bother to brush them out of her hair. Nina was lovely. Nina didn't understand what the fuss was about.

"You want two for one deal?"

"Yes."

"Are we doing that now?"

"Yes." (Would I make this up? Do people try that? Does it work?)

"It didn't ring up two for one?"

"No."

"Huh. January, what's it ring in as?"

"Regular."

"Regular?"

"Regular."

"So it doesn't come up two for one?"

(Wow, some real deep conversations happen at CVS.)

"Nope."

"But it says two for one?"

January pointed accusingly at me. "She says."

"Maybe you could check," I suggested, for the tenth time. "Maybe you could walk over there, see that it says two for one, and you'll see it says it right on the crate with the candy."

"Can't do that," Nina said.

"You can't check a price in the store? That's impossible!" I mean, really, it seemed totally impossible.

"January can't leave her register. To have someone do a price check, she has to make sure it's authorized. I authorize it. In extreme circumstances. I'm busy, I've got a lot to do." (The CVS, by the way, is one of the smallest ones I've seen. I'd like this woman to see if she can hold her own in, say, the Copley CVS that has TWO floors. I'd put my money on... no.)

"So, now that she has you here, can you do the price check?"

This seemed to be the highest of insults becaus she huffed and puffed and almost blew the counter down. "I do NOT do price checks. The MANAGER does not do price checks."

"Oh, sorry," I said, more shocked than truly sorry. "So what's the next step?" I wasn't sure there was one.

"Hold on," said Nina. She went behind the counter, next to January, and said, without touching anything or doing anything that she couldn't have done on the other side of the counter, "Page Eduardo."

This struck me as hilarious because Eduardo was about three inches away and clearly heard Nina and January. But the charade continued.

"Price check. Eduardo to the front counter. Price check. Eduardo to the front counter. Price check."

And so Eduardo came to the front counter.

And he checked, and it became clear that I had been telling the truth all along.

I got my two for one deal. And for $15, I got an education in the morons who run CVS.

Follow-Up Fact

Just as an FYI, a few people were concerned about the "Pimp My Life" entry. I thought it was a rather clever adaptation of "Pimp My Ride," but alas, not everyone agreed.

Well, I was just online at Oprah's website (I know, I know, it took me a while to decide that I was even going to WRITE slash ADMIT that, but whatever. I sacrifice my dignity for the greater good, I suppose) and on Oprah's site, there's this link to "Upgrade Your Life." Now, look, wouldn't you be more enticed to click "Pimp My Life," than "Upgrade Your Life"? For one, as I've learned as a middle school teacher, it's important to put the audience in the first-person to make it more urget and relatable. "My" already beats out "Your." And really, there's no contest between "Pimp" and "Upgrade." "Upgrade" sounds so technical, and "Pimp" is just full of life and energy and fun. Most important, and so Oprah-like, "Upgrade" implies that YOU are doing the work; you, in fact, are doing the upgrading. "Pimp" is more of a command. It's demanding someone do it for you. I vote a definitive yes for my version over Oprah's. I seriously think I beat her at something. That's gotta be worth something.

I considered this and wrote the following feedback letter to Oprah's minions at Oprah.com:

Dear Oprahs minions,

While perusing your website, I saw that you have a tab entitled "Upgrade Your Life." There's probably someone being paid a lot of money to come up with ways for people to upgrade their lives, but the truth is, you really should have titled it "Pimp My Life" and paid someone to just combine everything that Oprah's already got going on: Nate Berkus's house stuff, the financial woman's financial tips, and whichever therapist-of-the-month Oprah about whose theories Oprah is pontificating. You could basically show all of these people pimping other people's lives. Now, you might say, "But then this is not upgrading the reader's life," and you would be right. But let's face it: the reader won't upgrade his or her (okay, her) life anyway, because your tips will really only help people who have the resources of Nate or those other people I mentioned. Or, you'll just show a bunch of examples of someone's upgraded life (but those examples secretly have the resources of Nate and company) and the person will believe that these changes are done with the things they, too, have, but that's not true. So, they'll fail, and then they'll wish that their lives could have just been upgraded as easily as it seemed to be. This brings me to my real point, that you should have titled it "Pimp My Life," which is my concept, because it asks someone to do the work for you. It recognizes that you probably won't be able to upgrade your life without help of the people who have the resources in the first place. Sure, it's a little wishful thinking, and sure, it's not doing the work yourself, but when it comes down to it, it's hipper and more fun and it's also about as realistic as thinking someone's going to write down and follow all those stupid upgrade tips you have anyway. Please pass my ideas onto Op.

Love,
ESC

PS If you go with the "Pimp My Life" suggestion, I'd like monetary compensation or an invitation to Oprah's Favorite Things show, where she comes closest to pimping everyone's life by giving away thousands of dollars of stuff. Thanks.

Pimp My Life

I'm looking for someone to come and assess my life and then trick it the fuck out.

They have this show on MTV, where they bring in shitbox cars and these genius car guys fix them up and give them all these insane features that are really ridiculous on such shitbox frames of cars. It doesn't matter what kind of shape the car's in when it arrives; when it leaves, it looks mighty good. Mighty good. The key, also, is that it takes about 48 hours and no real time or money on the part of the car owner. That's just it: someone else does the pimping. You just relish the results.

So, pretty much, I need someone to come pimp my life.

Don't get me wrong. My life isn't a total shitbox, but it's most definitely shitting the bed. My father will probably flip out when he sees how much I'm saying shit and fuck all over the stupid place, but when you spend the majority of your days with sixth graders in a place where you can't so much as say "shut up" (when all you really want to say is "shut the fuck up"), your profanity count increases exponentially when not in the company of said children at said location. (And, when you're me, you're starting with a indecently high number already, so this is especially unseemly.) But my point is, I want the disclaimer ahead of time that I'm not saying I have a tragic life or anything close to that. I get that because of my health and my family and friends and all that Hallmark goodness, I have nothing to complain about foundationally. Fine.

To begin my rant, I have discovered that the only thing worse than not having a job is having a job. I'd say more, but then I might be back to not having a job, so I'll end it there.

Also, children are disgusting creatures. They're constantly snotting - which is really a combination of blowing their nose, wiping their nose with their sleeve, having their nose just run, picking their nose - and constantly in need of attention, water, paper, pencils, and a general fucking clue.

Public transportation is a crock. It sounds like a freaking earthquake/torando/lightning storm/apocalypse every morning on the 65 bus as the driver fucking charges through the streets. God help me if I ever try to go to work hungover. (Actually, really, God help me). It's just awful though, the stupid noise. On the way home, the 65 is routinely 10-15 minutes late, unless, of course, it's about five minutes early. That's fun.

Every time I think I make any progress on setting up our apartment, I see another fifty billion things that look heinous or need to be fixed. It stresses me out when I'm just trying to sit around and enjoy my life slash TV shows that I have to look at all the crap that needs to be put away. I need fucking Nate Berkus to show up and whip this house into shape pronto. I'm telling you, the place looks like a before shot if I've ever seen one.

Anyway, I'd write more but that would be just depressing. It would be like describing all the things wrong with your car and then having to take it on a massive road trip. Until those dudes show up to pimp it, it's better to leave it alone.