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This week: Back-Stepping Edited by: Sssssh! I'm not really here.  
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As most of you who follow my Newsletter know by now, I finally broke down and traded in my flip phone for a smart phone. I’ve been doing pretty good, too. And then ... |
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Hello folks! Welcome to another edition of the Comedy Newsletter.
Recapping a bit about smartphone use, I got through the hardest part, which took a few weeks of training -- answering the blasted thing! There is no button to press. It has a swipe and slide, mocking way of making a user feel, well, dumb! I never could get it right, sliding the wrong way and hanging-up or managing to to put somebody on hold, thus being forced to watch the little phone icon stop flashing, and having to dial back the missed call.
Once I got the hang of it, I felt great, smart, in tune with the tech world. I was a tigress!  The one thing about learning something step by step is the possibility of back-stepping a bit ...
The other day, WL and I went to the bank. Mind you, we live out in the country, and we have to drive a bit to get to our bank. WL needed to change his address to our Northern residence, smarty me, did mine a week earlier via online banking. Let your fingers do the walking and talking, right?
Wrong! Read on ...
So, after he changed his address, I just needed to go to the automated cash machine for a deposit. I didn’t need the help of tellers or bank managers or greeters, or whoever is stuck at a desk specifically to answer questions, or change peoples’ addresses, so their debit cards don’t get locked down.
Anyway, after we finished the boring bank stuff, we went on to do some shopping at a local Stop & Shop. I glided gracefully up and down the aisles with my new hip, all broken-in and everything. It was a pleasure shopping without physical pain in each step I take. However, I didn’t imagine the subsequent emotional pain and distress that was to follow.
I get to the checkout line, slide the little chippy thing in the payment card, slot, and a few seconds later so the words “NOT ACCEPTED”. What do you mean, “Not Accepted”? You just took my money, no less than thirty minutes ago. “That’s my money, you’re holding and you will give it to me!” So, I slide the card again, thinking I didn’t put the chippy thing in just right and it didn’t register.
“NOT ACCEPTED”
“Well, thanks to back-up cards” I said, as WL slipped his card into the checkout card machine. the groceries were paid for and I was able to get away from the check-out lane with a little bit of dignity. When we got out of the store, I told WL, “We are going straight back to that bank, that was more than happy to swallow a fistful of dollars into its, greedy little ATM, and then refuse to let me use my own money. Let’s go before they close the bank!” (Since when do banks think our money is there’s? I know forever! And they like to charge us for the privilege of holding our money, using it to make money for themselves, and then find any excuse to tag a charge for this service and that.  ) However, I do rant, here. 
Web-Lock said, “No worries, WW, the bank will be open. We will get this resolved.”
We drove down that long, busy road for the second time in the day to the bank. Arrived in the parking lot ... “Good cars are still parked in front. It’s still open.”
“Nooooooooo! Only the ATM part is open!” I declared as I looked at the huge steel gate that separated me from my money and the now, conveniently gone, tellers.”
“But, it’s not even 5:00 on a Friday. Aren’t bankers’ hours between 9:00 and 5:00? I mean, that was the old saying -- working bankers’ hours.
Anyway, I calmed down a little -- well, no, not really, and headed to the ATM machine to see what it could show me on its evil little screen.
“Oh, I see it registered my deposit. Let me see if I can withdraw money or transfer it to another account, here ... ” “What! It says they’ve locked down this particular card due to unusual activity. What’s so unusual about grocery shopping?”
Evidently, the fact that I moved back North and changed my address online, asap, wasn’t enough to convince them that I was me, doing business in my current area. Other things like making purchases from little nurseries to buy plants, where the physical presence of the business is in one town, but their billing address is in another far-off town, can trigger one of these locks.
Now I’m really fuming. We storm out of the bank, me speaking eloquent sailor-talk,  and WL putting his arm on my shoulder telling me. “Don’t worry it’ll all get fixed. Call the 800 number when we get home.”
In the car, I decided to check my phone for texts or phone calls from the bank, which is usual when this happens. There was a call I missed, so I dialed back to talk to a machine. Okay, now, I’m all thumbs, and we’re going over a bumpy road. It asks me to tap in my account number. It was magical, each number appearing, my fingers moving eloquently across the tiny press-pad numbers, and I almost completed the task, when my finger slipped to a wrong number.
Hmmm, I know how to make phone calls and answer the phone, but where is the thingy that allows me to erase the last number and put the right one in? I don’t see it anywhere. I have to hang up and try again, while the robotic voice keeps telling me to put my number in. Yeah, like that thing will ever get tired of waiting, yet it has that attitude about it that makes you sweat more, jitter a bit, and start yelling at it!
I hung up and went to redial, but for some reason the last number I called into my phone before these jerks, started ringing. Now I see my daughter’s name and a ringing phone. I try to hang up before I disturb her at work, but I can’t do it. It won’t let me. The darn piece of crap, smart-ass phone won’t let me do what I want to do. So now I’m cursing to beat the devil, and I hear talking in the background. In my haste to hang up the call before it gets my daughter’s attention, I see another number got called. I guess, this phone is possessed and on a roll to drive me to distraction. Finally, after trying to hang up on some Visiting Nurse place in Florida, that helped with the after surgery wound care, and physical therapy for my new hip, while hearing a recorded message about how they will get back to me as soon as possible, I turned my phone off. Oh, the beautiful silence of it -it, not me. I was still swearing and it was a long ride home through back road.
I attempted again to turn on myphone, and this time get a hold of the godforsaken bank. Then I saw I had voicemail.
Well, I’ll check that, it may help in this whole situation to hear a message related to this mess.
It was! The message said to call this number with the code number they would give me, and I could bypass all the crap. I could do it as soon as we got home, because I had an official code! As I was about to save the message and hang up, I heard the words “Or go online to your online ...” I was happy enough--I had a code, didn’t want to hear anything about online banking that day.
I know these things, folks: I still get irritated with touchy phones, I hate having voicemail, because it’s usually some stupid telemarketer, and, I know that you press nine to save and seven to delete. And I really wanted to save this message with “the code.”
Did I ever tell you about my dyslexia, folks? 
"Nooooo! WL, I pressed "7" by mistake!"
No code, no code, no code ... ____________________________________
That’s all she wrote for this edition of the Comedy Newsletter.
Until next time--laugh hard, laugh often!
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Quick-Quill 
I love your PLP. I think uniforms for Postal workers are necessary. The "Rub here" logo has got to go!! I would complain to the post office, but they might go Postal and I'd never get my mail. Although from the other side, I have friends who deliver mail and some of the stories about people answering their door naked, and inviting them in for coffee is beyond belief.
Take note, instead of accusing, just be friendly and ask. A few conversational questions can clear the air and make a new friend.
Yes, that's true. If those neighbors had taken the time to talk to him, they'd find out what a great guy he is. And, yup, the "Rub Here" postal worker needs a serious wardrobe change, for delivering mail. That shirt is just crude and rude.
Thank you for your feedback. 
LJPC - the tortoise 
Hi WW! This newsletter had me rolling -- so funny! Yes, I've noticed that about toilet paper. Everything's getting smaller (except my butt). The PLP sounds charming. I can't understand why the old biddies don't just leave him alone. I hope he continues to swim to lose weight and grow thick skin to ignore the alarmist neighbors. Great NL!
~ Laura
 Happy you enjoyed it, Laura! I guess I was "on a roll!" with this one. 
Thanks for your feedback folks. We editors really appreciate it!
See you next month,
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Comedy: June 15, 2016 Issue [#7690]
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