I’d like to meet the folks in the New York-New Jersey area whose job is to manage the highways and, better yet, allocate road names throughout the region.
See, while I can’t necessarily blame these people for the insane amount of traffic that commuters experience on a daily basis, I can point out one very obvious flaw in their collective line of thinking: these people obviously have little understanding of what the word “express” really means.
Let’s take my favorite example, the Staten Island Expressway – or, as I like to call it, the Staten Island Lack Thereof. Now I realize that aptly naming it the Staten Island Dump-side Parking Lot is unrealistic (and morale-zapping at that), but calling that overpriced, perpetually crowded piece of crap road an “Expressway” is not only grossly inaccurate, it’s actually a slap in the face to the thousands of poor souls who are forced to take the SILT on a regular daily basis. I’ll bet the folks on the naming committee would reconsider if they, too, had no other choice but to sit in traffic for hours on end and then pay eleven freaking dollars for the privilege of passing through Staten Island at a pace that could only be described as the complete opposite of “express.” Seriously, why don’t they just add a little area at the foot of the bridge where people can get out of their cars, bend over, and get the eleven dollars bitch-spanked out of them by dominatrix toll booth operators looking for a little fun? Express, my ass. The Staten Island Overpricedway sounds a heck of a lot more accurate.
Then there are roads like the Garden State Parkway that come with their very own set of “express” lanes. Sorry, but unless “express” means jam-packed full of cars so that you’re going about one-twentieth of a mile per hour, I think those lanes were, like the SILT, very poorly named. The only thing the “express” side of the GSP really offers is the ability to zone out for longer periods of time while you’re sitting in bumper to bumper traffic without the distraction of those pesky “exit [whatever]” signs coming up on your right at every mile. Instead of “local” versus “express,” call those lanes what they really are: “slow” versus “slower.”
Seriously, do these people not understand what the word “express” really means? Or are they just so miserable in their jobs that they choose to throw the word around as a mocking contrast to the reality that is pretty much any road in the tri-state area? Maybe I’ll ponder that one the next time I’m stuck in traffic…
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Stop Signs
Why are at least half of the drivers in Hoboken under the impression that stop signs do not apply to them?
I was walking my dog earlier today when an SUV came barreling down a side street and flew past the stop sign without so much as a glance. Why did this bother me? Oh yeah, because right as that car came flying down the road, I was in the process of stepping out into the crosswalk with my little dog in tow, when suddenly, I had to jerk him back towards the sidewalk to avoid getting plowed over by the speeding SUV.
Thanks, asshole. In a hurry, I see. Here's a hint: if you're coming towards a crosswalk and there's a pedestrian in that crosswalk, then the pedestrian has the right of way, and while you might not have seen the innocent little dog standing at my side, you certainly couldn't have missed me, a 5'8" woman in running shorts and a neon pink tank top which, granted, I'm not proud of, but normally serves its purpose of making me more visible to assholes like you so that I can actually attempt to cross the street without winding up in the emergency room.
Now I'll admit that I've done the infamous and legitimately ticket-able rolling stop on occasion, but that was down in corn field country where the streets aren't filled with people and the only animals you see walking around are cows grazing or horses waiting to be fed. Furthermore, the rolling stop would've been far better than what this guy did. At least the rolling stop involves some form of slowing down and acknowledging the merit and enforceability of the stop sign in your average driving scenario. This guy basically said "screw you, stop sign, I'm going home," and continued on his merry way without so much as a teeny tiny tap on the brakes.
The scary thing is that this guy is not alone. I see people pulling that same move on a daily basis, and while I'm normally not the biggest stickler for the rules, this crap has got to stop.
Despite the guy's speed, I actually managed to get a good look at his license plate number and was so appalled by his recklessness that for a moment, I considered calling the cops. Of course, at the time they were probably too busy arresting the mayor to deal with rogue drivers, but that's a different story.
Although "grudge holding" ranks up there as one of my greatest talents, I've managed to calm down from my earlier bout of rage and let the incident go...but the next time a driver tries to pull that sort of act while I'm crossing the street, I will have no problem flinging a bag of my little's dog crap onto his windshield. And if he yells about it, I'll just say "sorry...didn't see you there..kind of like you and the stop sign."
I was walking my dog earlier today when an SUV came barreling down a side street and flew past the stop sign without so much as a glance. Why did this bother me? Oh yeah, because right as that car came flying down the road, I was in the process of stepping out into the crosswalk with my little dog in tow, when suddenly, I had to jerk him back towards the sidewalk to avoid getting plowed over by the speeding SUV.
Thanks, asshole. In a hurry, I see. Here's a hint: if you're coming towards a crosswalk and there's a pedestrian in that crosswalk, then the pedestrian has the right of way, and while you might not have seen the innocent little dog standing at my side, you certainly couldn't have missed me, a 5'8" woman in running shorts and a neon pink tank top which, granted, I'm not proud of, but normally serves its purpose of making me more visible to assholes like you so that I can actually attempt to cross the street without winding up in the emergency room.
Now I'll admit that I've done the infamous and legitimately ticket-able rolling stop on occasion, but that was down in corn field country where the streets aren't filled with people and the only animals you see walking around are cows grazing or horses waiting to be fed. Furthermore, the rolling stop would've been far better than what this guy did. At least the rolling stop involves some form of slowing down and acknowledging the merit and enforceability of the stop sign in your average driving scenario. This guy basically said "screw you, stop sign, I'm going home," and continued on his merry way without so much as a teeny tiny tap on the brakes.
The scary thing is that this guy is not alone. I see people pulling that same move on a daily basis, and while I'm normally not the biggest stickler for the rules, this crap has got to stop.
Despite the guy's speed, I actually managed to get a good look at his license plate number and was so appalled by his recklessness that for a moment, I considered calling the cops. Of course, at the time they were probably too busy arresting the mayor to deal with rogue drivers, but that's a different story.
Although "grudge holding" ranks up there as one of my greatest talents, I've managed to calm down from my earlier bout of rage and let the incident go...but the next time a driver tries to pull that sort of act while I'm crossing the street, I will have no problem flinging a bag of my little's dog crap onto his windshield. And if he yells about it, I'll just say "sorry...didn't see you there..kind of like you and the stop sign."
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
You are the next caller
We’ve all been there. Whether you’re calling about your broken kitchen appliance, your extended warranty, or that porn flick (er, adult film) charge on your cable bill, all of us, at one point or another, have had to wait on hold.
Obviously no one likes to be left on hold, but there are things that the company in question can do to make the experience less painful, i.e. kill the elevator music or, oh yeah, add more freaking operators so that the average wait time isn’t 12 minutes and 17 seconds just to ask a couple of simple questions to someone who probably won’t even be able to help you.
The other day, I called a certain company and after a series of rings, received an automated message of “Your call is very important to us. Please stay on the line, and the next available operator will assist you shortly. Thank you for your patience.”
Needless to say, I wasn’t surprised. After all, this was the official “wait on hold” comfort speech. (Though it would be funny if one day you were to call one of these places and instead get, “Your call means very little to us, and we’re still going to get paid for dealing with these other idiots whether or not you stay on the line. The next available operator will have no choice but to answer your call shortly, though we must warn you, we’re not the brightest bunch, and there’s a strong possibility that speaking to one of us might only serve to aggravate you even more. We thank you for your patience, though really, you should be thanking us for our patience since we have to deal with people like you day in, day out. Here’s a clue buddy: your blender won’t work because it’s not plugged in. See that thing that sticks out the back of the blender that’s got that other thing called a cord attached to it? Yeah, that’s the plug. It goes in an outlet. Once you make that happen, your stupid blender will work, so you can make all of the mid-day frozen margaritas you like while the rest of us are stuck here answering questions for idiots like you. Sure, we might not be so smart ourselves, but at least we’ve mastered the art of blending. Oh, and have a nice day.”)
Anyway, there I was, preparing myself to wait on hold for an extended period of time, when seconds later, I heard an automated voice break the wait-time silence by informing me of the following: “You are the fifth caller in line.”
Okay, I thought. There’s a potentially useful piece of information. Good to know. Thanks, computer lady.
About three seconds later, my new automated friend broke through again. “Your wait time to speak with an agent is…7 minutes, 4 seconds.”
Wow – helpful information again. I mean, for a second there, I was actually impressed. Now that I knew what sort of wait time I could anticipate, I was free to make the most of the next 7 minutes and 4 seconds. As my mind began to contemplate all of the marvelous things I could do with that time (make breakfast, answer some emails, take a nice, big - never mind), my computerized friend appeared again to snap me out of my reverie.
“Your wait time to speak with an agent is…6 minutes, 52 seconds.”
Sure, that made sense. Now where was I? Oh right, back to thinking about ways to spend my wait time…
“Your wait time to speak with an agent is…6 minutes, 44 seconds.”
Okay. You did just say that, more or less.
“Your wait time to speak with an agent is…6 minutes, 36 seconds.”
What the f***?
“Your wait time to speak with an agent is…6 minutes, 31 seconds.”
Stop it! I’m aware of my wait time! I know how to count.
“Your wait time to speak with an agent is…6 minutes, 27 seconds.”
This was getting really annoying, really quickly. And so the system became abundantly clear. Apparently, my computerized friend was going to break in every 4 to 6 seconds and update me on the status of my wait time. This was the company’s cruel way of getting back at people like me who bought a blender in good faith and simply wanted to understand why it sometimes didn’t blend. If only there was a secret code you could enter that would let them know “Hey, I’m not the idiot who can’t find the wall plug; I’m an educated consumer with a faulty product.” Maybe then they’d bump you up in priority, or at least spare you from having to listen to your updated wait time every 4 freaking seconds.
This is just a classic example of a good idea gone wrong. Instead of having a one-time, or even the occasional wait time update, this company had to overcompensate for its lack of operators by making sure that the customer on hold would, at no time, be truly left in the dark.
Of course, as I got closer towards the end of my wait time, the updates became more and more frequent.
“Your wait time to speak with an agent is…1 minute, 14 seconds.”
“Your wait time to speak with an agent is…1 minutes, 11 seconds.”
By the time I got down to the very last minute, the computer lady was updating herself so fast that she didn’t even have time to get the full sentences out.
“Your wait time to speak with an agent is…42 seconds”
“Your wait time…40 seconds.”
“Wait…38 seconds.”
“36 seconds.”
“35 seconds.”
“34 sec-“
“33!”
“32!”
Want to know the ironic thing? By the time we got down to “1 second,” I was all nice and prepared to give my faulty blender speech, but instead of reaching an operator, I got an all-too familiar mantra.
“Your call is very important to us. Please stay on the line, and the next available operator will assist you shortly. Thank you for your patience.”
To make a long story less long, my semi-working blender is now sitting in my kitchen trash can, and I’ve got plans to go out and buy a new one. Some battles just aren’t worth fighting.
Obviously no one likes to be left on hold, but there are things that the company in question can do to make the experience less painful, i.e. kill the elevator music or, oh yeah, add more freaking operators so that the average wait time isn’t 12 minutes and 17 seconds just to ask a couple of simple questions to someone who probably won’t even be able to help you.
The other day, I called a certain company and after a series of rings, received an automated message of “Your call is very important to us. Please stay on the line, and the next available operator will assist you shortly. Thank you for your patience.”
Needless to say, I wasn’t surprised. After all, this was the official “wait on hold” comfort speech. (Though it would be funny if one day you were to call one of these places and instead get, “Your call means very little to us, and we’re still going to get paid for dealing with these other idiots whether or not you stay on the line. The next available operator will have no choice but to answer your call shortly, though we must warn you, we’re not the brightest bunch, and there’s a strong possibility that speaking to one of us might only serve to aggravate you even more. We thank you for your patience, though really, you should be thanking us for our patience since we have to deal with people like you day in, day out. Here’s a clue buddy: your blender won’t work because it’s not plugged in. See that thing that sticks out the back of the blender that’s got that other thing called a cord attached to it? Yeah, that’s the plug. It goes in an outlet. Once you make that happen, your stupid blender will work, so you can make all of the mid-day frozen margaritas you like while the rest of us are stuck here answering questions for idiots like you. Sure, we might not be so smart ourselves, but at least we’ve mastered the art of blending. Oh, and have a nice day.”)
Anyway, there I was, preparing myself to wait on hold for an extended period of time, when seconds later, I heard an automated voice break the wait-time silence by informing me of the following: “You are the fifth caller in line.”
Okay, I thought. There’s a potentially useful piece of information. Good to know. Thanks, computer lady.
About three seconds later, my new automated friend broke through again. “Your wait time to speak with an agent is…7 minutes, 4 seconds.”
Wow – helpful information again. I mean, for a second there, I was actually impressed. Now that I knew what sort of wait time I could anticipate, I was free to make the most of the next 7 minutes and 4 seconds. As my mind began to contemplate all of the marvelous things I could do with that time (make breakfast, answer some emails, take a nice, big - never mind), my computerized friend appeared again to snap me out of my reverie.
“Your wait time to speak with an agent is…6 minutes, 52 seconds.”
Sure, that made sense. Now where was I? Oh right, back to thinking about ways to spend my wait time…
“Your wait time to speak with an agent is…6 minutes, 44 seconds.”
Okay. You did just say that, more or less.
“Your wait time to speak with an agent is…6 minutes, 36 seconds.”
What the f***?
“Your wait time to speak with an agent is…6 minutes, 31 seconds.”
Stop it! I’m aware of my wait time! I know how to count.
“Your wait time to speak with an agent is…6 minutes, 27 seconds.”
This was getting really annoying, really quickly. And so the system became abundantly clear. Apparently, my computerized friend was going to break in every 4 to 6 seconds and update me on the status of my wait time. This was the company’s cruel way of getting back at people like me who bought a blender in good faith and simply wanted to understand why it sometimes didn’t blend. If only there was a secret code you could enter that would let them know “Hey, I’m not the idiot who can’t find the wall plug; I’m an educated consumer with a faulty product.” Maybe then they’d bump you up in priority, or at least spare you from having to listen to your updated wait time every 4 freaking seconds.
This is just a classic example of a good idea gone wrong. Instead of having a one-time, or even the occasional wait time update, this company had to overcompensate for its lack of operators by making sure that the customer on hold would, at no time, be truly left in the dark.
Of course, as I got closer towards the end of my wait time, the updates became more and more frequent.
“Your wait time to speak with an agent is…1 minute, 14 seconds.”
“Your wait time to speak with an agent is…1 minutes, 11 seconds.”
By the time I got down to the very last minute, the computer lady was updating herself so fast that she didn’t even have time to get the full sentences out.
“Your wait time to speak with an agent is…42 seconds”
“Your wait time…40 seconds.”
“Wait…38 seconds.”
“36 seconds.”
“35 seconds.”
“34 sec-“
“33!”
“32!”
Want to know the ironic thing? By the time we got down to “1 second,” I was all nice and prepared to give my faulty blender speech, but instead of reaching an operator, I got an all-too familiar mantra.
“Your call is very important to us. Please stay on the line, and the next available operator will assist you shortly. Thank you for your patience.”
To make a long story less long, my semi-working blender is now sitting in my kitchen trash can, and I’ve got plans to go out and buy a new one. Some battles just aren’t worth fighting.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Internet issues
For those of you who actually read this thing, let me take a second to apologize for leaving you rant-free for a couple of weeks. While part of my slacking can be attributed to general life craziness, another contributing factor to the recent lack of Meat has been the lack of an Internet connection.
Let’s backtrack for a second. I just moved to a new apartment, where I’m supposed to stay for a couple of months (long story, I’m not getting into it). Included in my rent was Internet service, only with one small issue: the Internet wasn’t really working – well, not consistently, anyway. At first, rather than deal with the cable company, I tried to work around the fact that my connection would just drop out randomly throughout the day. After a couple of days, that routine got old, especially when I found myself losing service for hours upon hours at a time.
I first called my friends at the cable company on Tuesday and set up an appointment for a service technician to come out to my place on Wednesday between 11:00 and 2:00. Naturally, the guy showed up at 4:45. I waited indoors while the guy fumbled around with the connection and eventually reported it to be fixed. Yippee. Back in business.
Then Thursday came around, and there I was, sitting at my desk typing away, when BAM – bye bye Internet. So I called the cable company again. Their response, of course, was “but didn’t the guy fix it yesterday?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m calling you – because the Internet is all better now and I had nothing else to do with my time.”
Around 5:00pm yesterday, service technician #2 showed up at my door in an attempt to fix the problem. At first, we got off to a bit of a rocky start.
“Which of those wires is yours?” he asked me, pointing to the series of cables hanging from a tree above my apartment.
“Um…sorry…I have no idea,” I replied, wondering if I was the idiot for not knowing that, or if he was the idiot for assuming that I would actually know that.
Since I didn’t have the answer, the guy had no choice but to take a “trial and error” approach, messing with each one until he found the source of my service. Each time he disconnected a wire, he would shout down from his ladder for me to run inside and check to see if his actions had affected my service. While I didn’t mind playing an active role in the Internet repair process, it was rather daunting to watch this guy dangling a few dozen feet in the air from a harness that was loosely attached to a ladder – a ladder whose sole bracing point was a not so heavy-looking cable shooting across the treetops.
Now I know that sometimes cables are stronger than they look – after all, don’t cable cars carry hundreds of pounds worth of people across theme parks on a daily basis? But still, I couldn’t help but get kind of freaked out watching the guy. As much as I wanted my Internet back, it certainly wasn’t worth risking this guy’s life.
Eventually, the guy safely finished up what he was doing. My service, for now, has been restored, though that’s what I also thought the first time around. In other words, I won’t be shocked to find myself calling the cable company for the third time in one week, but for right now, the Internet is working, and so I am finally able to post.
For those of you who have been sitting at your desks for the past couple of weeks, just hopelessly staring at your monitors waiting for a dose of sarcasm to provide a break from your otherwise monotonous 9 to 5 existence – I’m sorry to have let you down. Just know that I have been thinking of you, all the while letting my obnoxious thoughts build up so that when the time came for me to return to the blogging world, I’d be well-equipped with ample material. More on that next week.
Let’s backtrack for a second. I just moved to a new apartment, where I’m supposed to stay for a couple of months (long story, I’m not getting into it). Included in my rent was Internet service, only with one small issue: the Internet wasn’t really working – well, not consistently, anyway. At first, rather than deal with the cable company, I tried to work around the fact that my connection would just drop out randomly throughout the day. After a couple of days, that routine got old, especially when I found myself losing service for hours upon hours at a time.
I first called my friends at the cable company on Tuesday and set up an appointment for a service technician to come out to my place on Wednesday between 11:00 and 2:00. Naturally, the guy showed up at 4:45. I waited indoors while the guy fumbled around with the connection and eventually reported it to be fixed. Yippee. Back in business.
Then Thursday came around, and there I was, sitting at my desk typing away, when BAM – bye bye Internet. So I called the cable company again. Their response, of course, was “but didn’t the guy fix it yesterday?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m calling you – because the Internet is all better now and I had nothing else to do with my time.”
Around 5:00pm yesterday, service technician #2 showed up at my door in an attempt to fix the problem. At first, we got off to a bit of a rocky start.
“Which of those wires is yours?” he asked me, pointing to the series of cables hanging from a tree above my apartment.
“Um…sorry…I have no idea,” I replied, wondering if I was the idiot for not knowing that, or if he was the idiot for assuming that I would actually know that.
Since I didn’t have the answer, the guy had no choice but to take a “trial and error” approach, messing with each one until he found the source of my service. Each time he disconnected a wire, he would shout down from his ladder for me to run inside and check to see if his actions had affected my service. While I didn’t mind playing an active role in the Internet repair process, it was rather daunting to watch this guy dangling a few dozen feet in the air from a harness that was loosely attached to a ladder – a ladder whose sole bracing point was a not so heavy-looking cable shooting across the treetops.
Now I know that sometimes cables are stronger than they look – after all, don’t cable cars carry hundreds of pounds worth of people across theme parks on a daily basis? But still, I couldn’t help but get kind of freaked out watching the guy. As much as I wanted my Internet back, it certainly wasn’t worth risking this guy’s life.
Eventually, the guy safely finished up what he was doing. My service, for now, has been restored, though that’s what I also thought the first time around. In other words, I won’t be shocked to find myself calling the cable company for the third time in one week, but for right now, the Internet is working, and so I am finally able to post.
For those of you who have been sitting at your desks for the past couple of weeks, just hopelessly staring at your monitors waiting for a dose of sarcasm to provide a break from your otherwise monotonous 9 to 5 existence – I’m sorry to have let you down. Just know that I have been thinking of you, all the while letting my obnoxious thoughts build up so that when the time came for me to return to the blogging world, I’d be well-equipped with ample material. More on that next week.
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