Paranoia Strikes Deep

Last week I decided to clean our home office. No business gets done in here, but it’s where we pay the bills, the computers in here and it’s got a big desk and filing cabinets. Over the past year I noticed a giant pile of papers was stacking up in a corner. Since it was my wife’s doing I left it alone for a long, long time. And last week, in an effort to clean up and find our tax receipts I took a look at the papers. They were credit card statements, water bills, electric bill, et cetera. They all had a date written on them of when they had been paid. It seems my wife is good at paying bills on time, but not so good at filing the records.

I flipped through and saw they went all the way back to 2005. Then I looked in the filing cabinets and saw why they weren’t filed. Every folder was completely jam packed. And you can’t just throw that shit away because of account numbers, social security numbers, et. al.

Since our shredder is so old I thought I’d upgrade to a level 3 shredder because I’m a paranoid and I always assume the worst. So I empty out all the files, make new folders and whatnot and by the time I’m done I have a stack of papers waist high that all need shredding. The new shredder supposedly takes ten sheets at a time so I load in five and it almost grinds to a fucking halt. Come to find when they say ten sheets at a time they’re reffering to tissue paper. So I start loading these things in and the machine starts cagging and shutting itself down after every fifteen sheets or so and you have to wait thirty minutes for it to cool down. So while I’m waiting for it to cool down I start looking in the closet and I find these boxes and when I open them up I see that they are all documents that need to be shredded. Six boxes in all. I was almost in tears by then, because the whole process is so painfully slow and once I start something there’s no stopping me.

After a brief analysis I realized that we had every bank statement, investment portfolio statement and retire fund statement since 1992. They were fairly thick and every page had a social on it. In addition we had saved every single credit card statement, water bill, electric bill, insurance, mortgage, cable, cars—you name it—going back for fifteen years or so. Every single pay stub I ever got as an adult, plus two because the wife saved hers as well. Fifteen years, times two statements per month is over 700 pay stubs to shred. Not including all the credit card convenience checks that we would never use and those things come in the mail every day.

I had the shredder cranked up like a lawn mower. In fact, I got the old one out was using two at a time. It sounded like I was mulching fucking trees up here. And every time I emptied the bin on the shredder I was engulfed in a huge cloud of paper dust. Soon the dust was everywhere. I had to change the all the filters in the house once a day. I was sneezing and coughing paper dust. Meanwhile the shredders kept running and I kept pouring oil in and when they overheated I would use the time to lug big plastic bags of the confetti down to the garage and line them up against the wall.
Yesterday I shredded the last document. And in today’s mail I received a bunch of credit card checks that I’ll never use. Now I’ve got the shredder set up right there in the kitchen. 90% of the mail will go directly in the damned thing. I never, ever want to go through this again. It was a shitty, shitty ordeal.

When I say this story is true, I'm saying it's true. Not only factually true, but universally true. Sometimes you have to make decisions immediately. Sometimes you make good ones, and sometimes you burn the living room carpet. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Yes, it's American Idol season again. You know, I usually don't watch the whole season, but I always tune in for the first few episodes. Maybe it's because I'm evil, and I have a soul that's blacker than sin itself; but at least I know I'm not alone: millions of people are watching with me.

I mean, the beginning is the best part. You get to watch all these people line up, illusions clutched tightly to their tuneless breasts; and sing at the top of their horribly cacophonous lungs. My God, and when they're told they suck; we get to witness one of two events:
1) The condescending insults of industry professionals who shatter said illusion in the immensely public arena of national television, somehow to the surprise of the contestant and/or
2) The determination to cling to said illusion and persist in now obvious and inarguable suckitude.
The whole thing is truly a testament to the hilarious depths to which a person will plunge themselves because, for no reason other than they believe, they believe.

I mean, do parents not tell their kids to 'Quit acting like a moron and grow up' anymore? Thank god my parents said that to me, or I'd probably be in my underwear on that damn show playing a set of LeCruset cookware with a pair of wooden spoons. I sure thought I was good at it as a child, until my parents told me to 'Quit acting like a moron and grow up'.

I mean, I'm sure most of us like the sound of our voice. Who doesn't sing to themselves every now and again, right? But just because I sound like Pavofrickinratti when I'm in the car with the windows rolled up and the stereo at 11, doesn't mean I'm going to get up on stage and start singing show tunes. Here's the thing - if you're really and truly good at some trade or another, then you've probably made money doing it. If you've never been on stage, never performed even at a local bar for tips, then you probably haven't got an infidel's chance in paradise of ever making it past the humiliation of the show's first episode.

In closing, I'll steal a quote:
"Life is hard. But it's harder when you're stupid."

There’s a phenomena in my neighborhood that I just don’t understand. I see it every day driving in and out. People open their garage doors, set a lawn chair just inside the open door, and stare into the street. Are they on patrol? Whatever, I wish they would go inside and seal themselves in like I do. I don’t like a lot of activity near my abode. Perhaps the cold weather will drive them in where they belong.

I get run off the road at least three times a week. When I finally chase the culprits down, without exception, they are all talking on a cell phone.

On a similar but different note, I’m finding it more difficult every day to merge onto the freeway. It seems that people would just as soon run you into the concrete wall or off an embankment rather than let you just get on the road. I’ve noticed that people speed up to 75 or 85 MPH just to make sure you don’t get on in front of them. Because I don’t relish dying in a burning car wreck, I am forced to speed up and get in anyway, only to find that they then back off to their usual 50 MPH after you’ve safely managed to merge. They must be horribly disappointed.

I recently started watching Dog, The Bounty Hunter. I’m absolutely fascinated by it. I’ve always been interested in freak shows and it qualifies. There is so much wrong with this on so many levels.

Grilled cheese sandwiches rock.

My kid got walkie-talkies for Christmas and they have been commandeered by me and my wife. If one of us is upstairs and one is downstairs we usually have to scream to be heard. Even if she’s in the bedroom downstairs and I’m in the living room it used to be a screaming match. Now it’s a thing of beauty.

“Momma Bear, you got your ears on?”

Exasperated: “What now?”

“What’s the status of those cookies I’m waiting for?”

“Shut up, I’m bringing the damned things now.”

When The Wife and I were travelling in November for my brother's wedding, we ended up losing our Wachovia debit card. Well, to be honest, I ended up losing our Wachovia debit card because I left it at a bar. I know, you're thinking that was a pretty neat trick. Anyways, we departed the next morning at 7am, and didn't realize we'd left the card until we were 350 miles away.

So we promptly call Wachovia and have them send us a new card. While we had them on the phone, we also told them about our new address (since that was to take effect within the next day or so). Everybody says 'Thank you for your business', 'Have a nice day', and all this other great stuff.

Three weeks goes by and I call Wachovia, asking about the status of my new card. Whilst reconfirming the address, I realize they've mispelled the street name. We correct this problem, and I double check. "It's H as in Harry, A as in Albert...". Everybody says 'Thank you for your business', 'Have a nice day', and all this other cheesy stuff.

Another three weeks goes by and I call Wachovia, asking about the status of my second new card. Whilst reconfirming the address, I realize they've mispelled the street name. Again. We correct this problem, and I double check. "It's H as in Highly, A as in Annoying...". They promise to overnight the third new debit card. Everybody says 'Thank you for your business', 'Have a nice day', and all this other bullshit. That was Thursday.

I called Wachovia this afternoon, asking about the status of my third new card. Whilst reconfirming the address, I realize they've mispelled the street name. Again, again. (I mean, this time it wasn't like they had transposed or misheard a letter; there were actually letters added to the name. It was like an extra two syllables too long. I look over at The Wife and choke the imaginary chicken. This is unbelievable) We correct this problem, and I double check. "It's H as in You're a Fucking Moron, A as in Do You Speak English...". They promise to overnight the fourth new debit card and then proceed to give me a tracking number. Everybody says 'Thank you for your business', 'Have a nice day', and all this other compulsory language to avoid me mailing them a flaming bag of my own shit.

Five minutes ago I tracked the package. According to the UPS itinerary, the tracking number Wachovia gave me was for the package they sent out with my third new card in it; not the fourth new card that I just requested. Reading down further I see notes about the address being messed up, and then being corrected prior to delivery. Then I notice something odd about the tracking detail: My package status is 'DELIVERED' at 9:39am this morning. Which is funny since The Wife was home all day.

I call UPS, and they tell me that it was delivered to X address, a place I haven't lived in at least three years. I shit a brick that weighs two tons and smells of sulfur. Why the hell they sent it there I have no idea. I mean, I didn't even have this bank account then! So here I am, on the phone with UPS. They promise me that they'll run out there and get my package. Tomorrow. Hey, great. How about I just bend over, grab my ankles like so, and you drive one of those big brown trucks right up my stupid asshole! Yee-Haw!

I hang up with them thoroughly convinced that I am starring in my very own Donald fucking Duck cartoon, while some lucky moron is out spending our money on a lifetime supply of Slim Jims and back-issues of Guns 'n Ammo.

I call Wachovia back to make sure all of the cards that have been sent (except for the one I requested today) are listed as lost/stolen. They confirm that they are listed as such; but what little faith I have left in Wachovia right now doesn't even permit me to believe that they exist, let alone have control over this comedy of errors.

Can you believe this shit? I'm so glad this bank account is not our main checking account, and as soon as it is no longer useful (as of tonight I use that term loosely) we're cutting all ties with Wachovia. I mean, it's one fucking checking account you guys; it's not rocket science. To put this in perspective, all of our other banking activities (home/auto insurance, credit, checking, investment, savings) are all through one bank. Through all the years of relocation, lost cards, new car/home purchases, all that stuff; this bank has never missed a step. They're spinning all these plates and have never managed to plumb this depth of bumbling fuckstickery.

Therefore, in light of the experience of the past six weeks, I rest my case against Wachovia as The Worst Bank Ever. If you work for them and do not consider yourself a drooling idiot, you might want to find a new job. I'm sorry, I really am, because I realize Wachovia may have been a step up for you after working the Tilt-a-Whirl for all those years in the travelling carnival; but you're a fucking moron, and that's pretty much the only place a society can afford put its morons.

The Wife and I went out and bought our Christmas/promotion gift the other night: a 42" plasma HDTV. It's glorious. I can't wait until the cable guy comes tomorrow and hooks up the digital/HD so that we may worship at the altar, enveloped in the warm glow of millions and millions of pixels.

At the end of the month, I'm going to this convention on my employer's tab. It's to a decent locale, one of my favorites actually. But the material is so specific to my industry/sector, that it's fated to be the most boring three days in recent memory. It's got all the elements too: corny consultant to kick the thing off, garanteed to be full of this empowerment/7 Habits type of shit that people make millions of dollars on simply by regurgitating someone elses schtick every two years; a day of breakaway sessions that have titles like 'Watching the Grass Grow' and 'Underwater Basketweaving', and social breaks mixed in. Those are the worst, the networking sessions. It's like 'Here, have some finger food and join the meat market. You can peddle your business card, or simply whore yourself out to your peers!'

Seriously, my boss was turned down by two other people (more appropriate candidates, IMO) before she asked me. I said yes because 1) I love going to this particular city, 2) I have friends there, and 3) I get to go solo. Under normal circumstances, I'd bring The Wife; but she's got a full schedule during that particular time. Still though, going alone is better than being accompanied by some snivelling ass-kisser from Middle Management No-Man's Land who's way too eager to impress someone. Those types are never ever any fun on these kinds of things.