Kim vs. The City of Chicago

So the City of Chicago's excellent customer service is of course world renowned. Once I called to try and pay the bill for our building's water service and they threatened to call the cops on me. But that's another story. This one also involves the police, but it has pictures!

A few days ago, I was driving under a bridge, as is my custom. I was peering through the darkness towards the light at the other side, but unbeknownst to me, directly in my path lay a Car-Devouring-Pothole-Of-Epic-Proportions. About 4 feet long, 1-2 feet wide, and 8 inches deep. Here is Mr. Pothole.



My car hit the edge and the two passenger side tires exploded. Here are the Ol' Exploded Tires.



About 30 seconds after my incident, a car behind me did the exact same thing, and in the next hour, a total of 4 cars are parked on the side of the road.

One of us wisely says that if we're going to get the city to help pay for the damage, we have to get a police report. So we call the police.
Police: "Oh. That's not an emergency. We don't come for that. Call 311."

So we call 311.
Us: "Hi. Our car was just damaged by a giant pothole, and there are at least 3 other people who've also hit it."
311: (pause) "So what do you want me to do about it?"
Us: "Well... we need to get a report so we can file a claim with the city, and you should probably send someone over to set up a barricade or something."
311: "We can't help you with claims. You need a police report. But here's a number to call."

So we call the number.
Number: "To find out more about exciting events in Chicago this summer, press 2!"

Finally a cop drives by and we flag him down. "It's not that bad. I've seen worse," he says, while tires explode in the background. He doesn't write reports for potholes, he says, but he gives us a number to call.

So we call this number.
Number: "To find out more about exciting events in Chicago this summer, press 2!"

We finally give up on this and get ourselves towed away and everything fixed up, for a grand total of $300. Here's a picture of that:



Now begins the real fun.

I go on the City website to get the claim form. This is what I discover:
1. The form must be typed and mailed in. Only, there isn't really a form. Just a poorly formatted online fill-in-the-blank that can neither be submitted online NOR printed out without erasing the answers. So I guess you have to print it out and feed it into an actual typewriter.

2. You must include with your claim two written estimates of the cost of repair as well as your paid bill. So... once you have made the repairs, it seems that you must drive around and ask people how much it costs to make the repairs.

3. You must include with your claim.... a police report.

So I call the police.
Police: "You don't need a police report."
Me: "Well, it seems there's some confusion about that."
Police: "We don't do potholes."
Me: "Well, what else should I use to prove this happened?"
Police: "You need a reference number from 311."

So I call 311:
Me: "I need to get a reference number for a pothole incident so I can make a claim."
311: "No you don't. You need a police report."

And that's when my head exploded, just like my tires. The end.

Overheard at the Old Job (R.I.P.) - Part 2

Since you (yes, all 3 of you) seemed to enjoy the last installment, here are a few more "overheards." This time, we're moving on to employees. This woman is one of the most kindhearted, giving, impossibly cheerful, and puzzling people I've ever met.


Story #1:

Maria comes into work and announces that she lost $20.
Kim: Oh bummer! What happened?
Maria: I think I dropped it. But it's okay. Last time it was $600.
Kim: What?!
Maria: Well, I put it in my pants and it fell out.
Kim: You put it in your pocket?
Maria: No. In my pants.
kim: Like, IN your pants?
Maria: Yeah. I don't have pockets.
Kim: Uh... so you just shoved it in the waistband?
Maria: Well I put it in a napkin first!
And she continues, "So i decided to go to Walmart. And I was walking around... and I felt something fall, and I looked down. But it was a napkin, so i thought - oh it's just a napkin. And i didn't want to pick up a dirty napkin."

Let me recap. The woman has SIX HUNDRED DOLLARS in a napkin shoved in her pants. And she FEELS THE NAPKIN FALL. And she leaves it there. Because WHO WANTS TO PICK UP A DIRTY NAPKIN?

Story #2:
So Maria is at the computer typing and moaning.
Kim: Uh Maria, are you okay?
Maria: Nuuhhhoooohhh. (but still staring at the screen, not moving, continuing to type fervently)
Kim: Well you can go walk around if you want. Maybe get some pepto bismol?
Maria: Uuuuggghhhh.
Kim: Really, it's okay if you want to leave the office for a while.
Maria: Uuuugghhhh.
Kim: Wow. Really hurts huh?
Maria: Lifting up her shirt and rubbing her plump but completely normal mid-section, "Yes!! Just look at it!!"

(I later asked why she thought her stomach hurt, and she told me it was because she ate tomatoes on Tuesday.) (Three days ago.)

Overheard at the Old Job (R.I.P.)

Hi folks. Kim here. So I was just cleaning out my old drafts folder and came across a message that I'd use to keep a running record of things I overheard at my old office - specifically comments from my boss, Barb. And I just need someone to share them with.

* * * *

(Friday morning, and Barb is preparing to use our weekly team meeting to show us how to make one of those paper finger games that you used to play in 4th grade.)
Barb: "We're going to use it to learn something."
Employee: "Like how to teach letters and numbers and colors!"
Barb: "No. Something better than that. That's boring."

* * * *

(Regarding mentoring and training employees.)
Thursday: "You can't teach anyone anything by just handing them the manual."
Friday, while distributing manuals: "You should all read this. I'll copy it. Just read this and then you'll understand."

* * * *

(After a particularly convoluted monologue by Barb to the employees.)
Employee: "I'm feeling confused."
Barb: "That's how it gets this time of year."

* * * *

(Regarding a job applicant who has her M.Ed. in English instruction)
"I was really impressed! She understood everything I was saying, even though she's from Poland!"

* * * *

(Regarding another African American job applicant.)
"Oh, she's quick. She's got street smarts. She's learned a lot from life out there on the streets."

* * * *

(Regarding a school principal named Mr. Kim who was not returning her calls.)
Barb: "It's because of his culture. They don't care about family over there."
Kim: "Where is he from?"
Barb: "Probably Asia."
(Turns out he was on vacation.)

* * * *

(Regarding an employee.)
"The thing is, she's from Michigan, and from a certain area, and I've learned - Michigan women have a certain way of doing things. And they want it done that way. They're very controlling."

* * * *

Under the category "Unprompted, Random and Abrupt":
1. Walks in the room and declares, "By the way, Willis is getting fur."
(Sorry, were we talking? And do I know this "Willis"?)

2. Phone rings, I answer, Barb - phoning from the room next door - says, "What video thing?!" (I don't KNOW "What video thing..." YOU'RE the one calling ME!)

3. Standing by the copier, exclaims to no one in particular, "Special ed. Those teachers make a lot more money than you or I. $80,000! Ha ha ha!"

* * * *

Oh, how I wish I had recorded the hundred bazillion more...

Kim vs. A Pressing Urgency

Jeremy's been begging me for weeks to contribute something to the blog, and I've been delaying while I ponder what truly remarkable, insightful piece I could submit. I've had a number of really great insights, stories, etc. collecting to be shared with all of you. Unfortunately, THIS story is not one of them. Jeremy insists, however, that it must be told.

It all started early one Monday morning, when everything was under control in the ol' excretory system. No urgent business, if you know what I mean. I got to the office early and got started on some projects. I had to make an appointment with the doctor, so I though I'd call early, before everyone else arrived.

I dialed the number, and just as the voice on the other line picked up, I felt it. That critical, undeniable, URGENT need.

But instead of hanging up, I figured, "I can handle this. I'm an adult. My sphincter knows who's the boss here."

So we start through the preliminaries:
name
last name
middle name
maiden name
mother's maiden name
phone number
mother's phone number
insurer
insurer's phone number
and so on...

Little by little, I start shifting weight, folding and unfolding myself. People are now arriving for work, and I greet them with an awkward grimace.

I'm squeezing with enough force to crack a walnut. Or possibly a coconut.

Then - right in between "Hang on the line while I check for availabilities" and "Just a few minutes more..." I realize that the sensation has changed.

To my horror, I realize that something is ever so slowly making it's way towards freedom.

And I think, "Oh s***." (And indeed it was.)

Let me take this moment to talk with you about transcendent experiences. They say that when you have one, your senses become finely tuned, your awareness heightened and perhaps focused sharply on some new enlightenment. I think I understand this feeling. In this moment, everything in the room became eerily silent, as the entire focus of my body concentrated like a laser on the new enlightenment that I had actually... pooped my pants. It was a feeling of deep

understanding that I cannot fully express.

The woman FINALLY comes back on the line and I'm like, "okaythat'sgreatnextweekokayfinebye."

At this point I'm now using sheer force of IMAGINATION to keep things under control and praying for some suspension of the laws of physics and gravity just so i can keep my dignity.

I slam the phone down and waddle out of the office, knees squeezed together, vision starting to blur.

Avoiding people down the interminably long hallway, I dive into the bathroom and find myself face to face with Shuffly Tom, the cleaning guy.

I shove his bewildered self out the door with a curt, "I REALLY need this room right now!" and rush towards freedom in a 3'x4' cubicle.

If you are on the edge of your seat (as I was), you will be relieved to know (as I was), that I escaped mostly unscathed. And no one was the wiser.

Until now. When, much to the chagrin of my mother, I cast all dignity aside for your middle-school amusement.

I ask only one thing of you: make this story even more grand and glorious by adding fabulous and quasi-embarrasing stories of your own! Yay!

Kim vs. The Chicago Transit Authority

Dear long lost friends -

Please forgive our great delay in the land of blog. Mr. Howe Jr. has science-y factoids coming out of his ears and is in no state to compose witty blog posts. Recently he has become addicted to the soundtrack for the musical Wicked, and yesterday I overheard him in the bathroom singing something along the lines of "anterior pericardiacophrenic-fraschia minor" to the tune of "Popular." (Now that I think of it, that DOES sound like something the Wicked Witch would say.)

And I, dear readers, have been studying for my own upcoming test, because - being a chronic biter-off-of-more-than-I-can-chew - I am applying for grad school as well. Marriage, med school, new job, new neighborhood, grown up life... it's just not ENOUGH!

And as a super awesome bonus to these already super things - we also experienced several tragic deaths this month: jeremy's laptop and our transmission are both in technology heaven, to the tune of of $2000. [Update: Engine mounts now... make that $2300.]

Anyway, those are a smattering of excuses for the great delay in our blogging. But we don't want to leave the people's votes unanswered, so without further ado...

Kim vs. The Chicago Transit Authority
* * WARNING * *

Includes language inappropriate for children under 18 or parents over 50.

Several weeks ago my job took a field trip, as we often do. The purpose of this particular excursion was to familiarize ourselves with the buses and trains that service our worksites, even though none of us would actually be using these particular buses or trains to get to our worksites. That's just what we do. Don't ask questions.

We were a group of 12; 10 of us had the normal cardboard passes, and 2 of us had those newfangled plastic psychic cards that are connected to your bank account and which the CTA has been pushing for "convenience and ease of boarding."

I got on the bus last, waved my psychic card over the "magic spot," and went to sit down. About halfway to my seat, the driver called me to come back.

Me: "What's wrong?"
Mr. Driver: "You have to pay."
Me: "Oh, sorry. I thought I did." (waves card again)
Mr. Driver: "Your card doesn't work."
"But I just used it on the last bus like two minu..."
"You can't do that."
"Do what?"
"You can't use it like that."
"Like what?"
"You have to wait 20 minutes." (not true)
"Uh... how are you supposed to change buses if you have to wai..."
"You can't do that."
"Okay. I'm a little confused. What's the problem here exactly?" (she says, politely)
"Your card doesn't work."
"Well, how do you know? What does the machine say? It is invalid? Or just not deducting? Overdrawn? Does it SAY it was used too recent..."
"Pay the fare, ma'am."
"This is supposed to be a transfer from the last bus! I shouldn't have to pay again if you can't even tell me why!"
"Pay the fare or get off the bus!"
"What?!"
"PAY THE FARE OR GET OFF THE BUS!"
"You are freaking kidding! Unbelievable!! FINE!"
(And she stomps to the back of the bus to beg change from her coworkers.)

At this point, the slow forward momentum of the bus comes to a screeching halt, and I nearly fall down in the aisle.

Mr. Driver is standing at the front of the bus, feet planted like a gunslinger, pointing at me and yelling: "PAY THE FARE BEFORE I CALL THE POLICE!!"

Me (shouting back across the length of the bus and over several Mexican women): "I'M COMING, FOR F***'S SAKE!!"

Marching back to the front of the bus, I end up nose to nose with Mr. Driver, and holding my two dollars above the machine, I whisper in a voice of barely suppressed rage:
"Here's your two dollars. But I shouldn't have to pay this. I already paid, my card works, and you are rude and an idiot."
(money enters machine)
Mr. Driver: "Get off my bus!"
"No. I already paid."
"GET OFF MY BUS OR I'M CALLING THE POLICE!!"
"NO! I HAVE EVERY RIGHT TO BE HERE! AND I WANT YOUR BADGE NUMBER!"
"Well then find it."

And we stood there glaring at each other, while the rest of the bus waited for the climax of our epic faceoff.

Eventually I spotted his badge number and ferociously scribbled it down while I scowled at him, and then stomped back to my seat, while he continued glaring at me in the rearview mirror.

The best part: A few minutes later the old lady sitting next to me leaned over and whispered, very knowingly, as only old ladies can, "He's kind of bastard..."

About a week later, after calling twice and sending two emails and a letter to the CTA, I received the following note: "As soon as your initial complaint was received, it was immediately forwarded to the General Manager of the garage where the #60 route originates to begin an investigation. That review showed your card actually did register the 25-cent transfer fee when you boarded the #60 bus at about 2:47 p.m., so we will have to check the farebox to see if there was a malfunction."

And that's basically the end. I guess this story is a bit anticlimactic after all that shouting' and stompin'. It would have been better if we'd had a throwdown in the aisle, and then Mr. Driver went unconscious after my wicked pile driver, and then I'd commandeered the bus and given free rides for everyone. And tootsie rolls. Yeah. That would have been awesome. Maybe next time.

Next up: Sleep Talking or Cadaver Life (or Living Cadavers Talking in Their Sleep... one of those).

Kim vs. The Produce Manager

Jeremy has requested that for my inaugural blog posting, I tell you all how I was forcibly removed from a local establishment this morning. As you can see, he enjoys a) having an outlaw for a wife, b) her public humiliation.

I've been purchasing my own groceries for some time now, and generally can distinguish an "expensive" grocery store from "my" grocery store ("my" grocery store has at least three aisles completely in Spanish). However, I've never really known what stuff is supposed to cost - just how good of a deal am I really getting? A gallon of milk... $1? $2.50? Tomatoes... $.30/lb? $1.50/lb? It's an uncharted area of financial mystery which I usually just leave in the hands of the sullen smock-wearing employees with pricing guns. But today was the first official shopping trip of Howe, Inc. and having recently married a bottomless pit of a stomach, I anticipated a pretty sizable grocery investment. So I thought, today's the day. I will know what everything costs and darn it all, I will get a good deal. So armed with shopping list, pen, and paper, I set out for some hardcore research.

First stop, my old reliable supermarket. I've shopped there for the last 2 years and even supplied our wedding with mountains of lunch meats from the deli. I was halfway through the veggie section, noting with some suspicion that red peppers cost more than green, when I felt a tap on the shoulder.

Stranger: "Can I help you?"
Me: "Um... no?"
"What are you doing there?"
"I'm writing down prices. Is that a problem?"
"Yes it is. We can't have people writing down prices."
"Um... I don't understand."
"Who do you work for? Why are you doing that?"
(Feeling hot under the interrogation lights...) "So I can get a good deal? How else should I do it?"
"Show me your list."
I was feeling a little flustered at this point, so I handed over my notebook, though this was clearly a violation of some federal grocery-privacy act. He proceeded to rifle through the pages.
"I'm going to have to ask you to leave the store."
"Excuse me?"
"You're writing down everything in the store."
"I am not! I skipped the whole cactus and lentil section!"
"These things are obviously not all for you."
"It's our first shopping trip! We eat a lot!"
"I'm sorry ma'am. If you continue to write down prices, you're going to have to leave."
Me: "(mumble mumble)...unbelievable!...ridiculous!... (mumble mumble)" But I dutifully put my paper away, albeit with much show of grumbling and stomping about. (As is my fashion.)

Fast forward to 20 minutes later, having sneakily carried on in the deli section, and then not so sneakily in canned goods, and downright obviously in dairy.

"Ma'am. I'm going to have to escort you out of the store."
And that was it. And all in the name of fiscal responsibility.

Was it worth it, you ask?
Well, let me pose to you THIS question: Should I buy those pork chops for $1.88/lb? Those blueberry pints at 2 for $4? Well, should I?!

Heck yes! And now I know! And knowledge is power--take THAT, The Man!