Datebook: Monday, June 30th ~ 2008

We are certainly living in a technologically savvy world.

When we first entered the skating regime, my daughter had to have her competition music wound to the right spot on the cassette tape—think juvenile free skate when you only needed an Axel and one double jump. Now, you need to turn in a labeled, high def CD enclosed in a quick release case.

This has all added to my list of “The 10 Things I Hate About Everything But You.” It is now not possible to make a phone call without receiving a recorded voice that offers you a menu and instructions to push a number from 1 to 8—pushing 9 will result in replaying the five minute tirade about directions, hours, their policy on paper or plastic, jazz or soft rock, and adding more fiber to our diets.

The problem is my inquiry typically does not fall into categories listed for buttons 1-8. Using skills I have learned from filing IRS 1040 forms, I try adding numbers together (like the lines that add together to determine your gross income—couldn’t they find a less judgmental word?) to come up with the answer. So I might put in a 14. This results in three possible scenarios: A return to the original nasal toned diatribe, a recorded verbal admonishment with an immediate disconnect, or a real time operator who directs you to another pre-recorded line.

We also have reached a tentative measure of security on internet sites because we are assured by a pop-up box that it is so. For added security features with financial transactions we are often asked to “copy the letters in the box below”—these often appear to be scribbled with dull crayons by a four-year old—a mixture of upper case and lower case letters and numbers in different fonts. Recently I have had letters in the “copy this” box that are backwards—what do you do? I don’t have those keys on my keyboard—is it F-29? I finally had to hold the keyboard up to a mirror. And of course, you have to complete the transaction in less than a minute.

Apparently, some of these webmasters have a sense of humor.

If you don’t get the letters entered in the correct order and in the time period, you are given a second chance. A new box appears and you must again attempt to copy the letters to complete your transaction. My most recent second chance box, before my tickets to Toby Keith would be given to the cowboy-hat-wearing accountant next in line, was: U R StuPiD.

My daughter actually sent me on my recent George Jetson fast ride into the future with technology.

Before leaving to go to Colorado, she asked me to run to the bank and deposit some money for her. Oh, I left out the fact that is was money she had to be deposited and not money she was asking me to give to her by way of said deposit. This made me a little teary-eyed for a moment, and I was on my way to the bank before I realized it was Sunday.

I called her and I could tell she was in the middle of her mascara stroke/dry/stroke procedure because her voice always gets a little higher.

“Babe,” I say, “it’s Sunday”

“I know. You are taking me to the airport in two hours,” She replies like she has accepted that I am in the early stages of Alzheimer’s.

“But you have cash. How do I put cash in there today?”

She pauses. I can tell she is struggling with patience, and she proceeds like one would if dealing with someone who has suffered a head injury.

“You put it in the envelope. You enter the amount in the ATM. You put the envelope in the slot.”
“Really! You put cash in the ATM?”

“Mom! You’ve put money in the bank before?”

“I have. But we mostly have automatic deposits and I always go the bank and give it to a teller for other transactions. How does it know you are really putting that much in?”

“Mom, call me if you have trouble.” She leaves off the word “only,” but it hangs in the air like fireworks smog.

So I go to the machine, retrieve the said envelope, put the cash in (making sure the camera sees the number of twenties I am putting in), enter the amount, insert her ATM card and wait. How does it know, how does it know, I hum as I wait. The receipt comes out, and I scan it after getting my glasses out of my purse. It is correct and I ponder the goodness of the world. I would have thought more people would lie and say, “hey, I put in 10,000.00 but you only gave me credit for 43.10.”

I am proud of my advancement in the age of technology.

It is only seven hours later that I realize my jetpack was low on battery power when my daughter calls me on Rocky Mountain time.

“Did you put my card back in my purse when you came back from the bank.”

I replay the bank adventure in my memory, on VHS mode. Ah…I left the card to be consumed by the machine.

“Oh. I think I left it there for reconciliation. I’ll call the bank.”

I do call the 24-hour number. I must listen to the menu, push 1 for English, push 2 for ATM card, push 4 for recent transactions and then I hover over pushing 5 for emergency and 6 for lost or stolen card. It is a bit of both, but I know where the card is. I push 12 for what I assume would the next unassigned code for “the machine ate my card.”

An operator comes on the line. I relay the saga of my trip to the ATM to put in cash—it seems an oxymoron—she seems to think it is only a bit of the last part of that.

I know this because she advises she is sending a new card and has assigned a temporary access code—87788743.

It seems a bit long to me until I realize on the keypad it spells “U R Stupid”.

Mombo