Tag: stupidity

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Bird on a Wire

I was at the bank yesterday because I had to make an international wire transfer. I had ordered several music scores from a Danish publisher, and the invoice they had sent me was in DKK, so it was now up to me to figure out how to pay them. Since the invoice contained wire transfer instructions right there on the page, I figured it must not be such a hard thing to send money to Denmark via wire transfer.

First I went online to the (really crappy) website and clicked on the tab that said “wire transfers.” Apparently I wasn’t signed up for their wire transfer service, and when I tried to submit an application, I got a message saying that a customer service representative would be in touch. That was five days ago…no contact from the bank whatsoever.

So I called the 800 number, and the person on the other end of the line told me I would have to go to the bank in person to initiate a wire transfer. I asked what I would need when I went to the bank, and she didn’t really have an answer for me. I figured I had all the info I’d need on this invoice, so I drove to the bank, invoice in hand, ready to learn how to wire money overseas.

The last time I had gone to this bank and tried to pay a bill in foreign currency, they had looked at me blankly and told me to go to Western Union…so I was prepared for a little bit of resistance. But I guess I didn’t count on downright incompetence. This is how the conversation went:

ME: Hello, I’d like to make an international wire transfer.

JOAN*: Sure, have a seat. Can I have your account number?

ME: Here you go.

JOAN: How much is the transfer going to be for?

ME: I’m not sure. The invoice I have is in Danish krone, so…

JOAN: Oh, we can’t do anything that’s not in dollars.

ME: Are you sure? I mean, I’m pretty sure your bank does international business.

JOAN: (clicking through some screens on her computer) Oh, I guess we do. What’s the exchange rate?

ME: I don’t know.

JOAN: Well, I can’t do the transfer without the exchange rate. You’ll have to go find that out and come back.

ME: Um…aren’t you a bank? Aren’t you supposed to know that kind of thing?

JOAN: (blank stare)

ME: Exchange rates fluctuate throughout the day. I would imagine banks would know what the current exchange rate is more than a regular person like me.

JOAN: (getting defensive) I’ve never done this before.

ME: Okay…um…

JOAN: (waving over another rep) Hey, Linda! How do I do this? I’ve never done this before.

LINDA: (coming over and pointing at the computer screen) Just hit “wire transfer.” Okay, now hit “international.” What’s the currency she’s trying to use?

JOAN: (growing increasingly more nervous) I’ve never done this before!

ME: Danish krone.

JOAN: (picks up the phone and dials what must be the help desk line) Hello? I’m trying to get help finding an exchange rate. You what? My store number? (to Linda) What’s our store number?

LINDA: (gives store number)

JOAN: (repeats number) I just…that’s not the number? But that’s the only number I have. RS Code? What’s an RS Code?

LINDA: (turning to me as Joan continues to fuss on the phone) you want to pay in the foreign currency, right?

ME: Yes.

LINDA: That’ll be an extra $35 for international wires.

ME: Fine.

LINDA: (hitting a few keys on the computer) The exchange rate is 5.114.

ME: Okay.

LINDA: So here’s what the entire amount will be that we’ll deduct from your account.

ME: Sounds good.

JOAN: Oh, that’s what an RS code is? Okay, thanks. Well, we found out what the exchange rate is without your help, but thanks anyway. (hangs up the phone)

*All the names have been changed to protect the stupid.

The rest of the meeting was fairly normal; she asked for all the information that was on the invoice, and I had to keep pointing out where the information was on the invoice that was right in front of her. She was incredibly nervous about the whole thing, which amused me more than anything (I think if I hadn’t been amused, I would have been angry, which wouldn’t have helped anyone). And I think I calmed her down by telling her I had never done this before either, so we would both be learning as we go.

I told Ray this story last night, and he said that this bank is infamous for not paying enough, so nobody who is at all good at banking will ever work for this company.

And the sad thing is, I almost went through this whole post without revealing which bank it was, but I think I owe it to you all to reveal which bank has that kind of level of consistent incompetence: TD Bank (formerly known as Commerce).

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Slow Fast Food

At the end of the day on Friday, Ray called me up and said he was in the mood for greasy chicken for dinner, and that he wanted to stop at KFC on the way home. Since I don’t eat chicken, he wanted to know which of the various carb-tastic sides I wanted him to bring me. I personally was in the mood for some greasy fish, so he decided to swing by home and take me to the combination KFC/Long John Silver’s down the road from our house. (He’s so romantic, isn’t he?)

When we got to the restaurant (and I use that term loosely, of course), and we were surprised to see the place was packed, with at least eight people waiting for their food. Since there was nobody in the cashier line, however, we decided to order. After about five minutes, a skinny, vacant-eyed teenager sporting a name tag saying “Hello my name is Ibn” (real name or typo? Who knows?) showed up at the cash register, stared at me while I ordered an L1 combo and an eight-piece crispy bucket (all chicken, specified Ray), then slowly poked a few buttons on his screen and absent-mindedly handed the receipt to me, at which point we joined the throngs by the pick-up counter.

After a few minutes, I looked at the receipt to double-check our number and where we were in line, when I noticed that while Ibn the Cashier Wonder had entered Ray’s order in, my L1 combo was nowhere on the ticket. I made my way back to the now abandoned cash register (Ibn was now wandering aimlessly through the kitchen with a pair of tongs in his hand) to correct the mistake, when a woman over at the pick-up counter says loudly, “Excuse me, we’ve been waiting for our food for a half hour. Can you tell me what the hold-up is?”

A half hour? I looked again at the workers in that kitchen, where the mean age was probably 16.5. Ibn was still wandering around with his tongs like a lost child, there was a guy on the chicken detail who didn’t seem to be really paying attention to the orders coming in. There was another guy way at the back pushing a broom around, but he didn’t really seem to be accomplishing the whole cleaning part of the job. There was a girl running the fry station, but when the alarm kept going off, she simply shut it off without taking anything out of the fryer. The girl at the drive-through window looked like she was actually doing her job, as was the manager (who was probably all of 22 years old).

Ibn clearly saw me waiting at the cash register, and he studiously avoided me. I gave up and figured I didn’t want to confuse them any more than they were already confused, and resigned myself to just eating something else when we got home.

After a few minutes, Half Hour Complaining Woman and her son got their food, and the rest of the crowd around the pick-up counter started to get antsy. The kids in the kitchen started moving a little faster, but their movements were still incredibly inefficient, so nothing was still getting done.

While we waited, two guys came in, waited at the cash register for about ten minutes without anyone acknowledging them, and finally left. Another gentleman showed up and put his order in, but he had obviously been there before, because he brought a book to read while he waited.

Ray remarked that he’d never had any problems with this place, but now that it changed from just a KFC to a KFC/Long John Silver’s, they now had two menus to deal with, and that must just be too much for them to handle.

Finally, the manager gave up trying to follow the orders on the screen and just started asking people what they had ordered so that she could fill them. Ibn chose this point to get helpful and asked Ray what he had ordered. “Eight piece,” Ray shouted over the din. Ibn blinked and turned away. I tried to get Ray to go up to the counter and show the manager his ticket, but Ray wouldn’t budge.

Another eternity later, the manager yelled, “Did somebody order a 12 piece crispy?”
Ray raised his hand and said, “Well, eight piece, but yeah.” The manager, clearly frazzled at this point, slapped a top on the bucket and handed the whole thing to him. We got out of there in a hurry.

I took another look at our receipt and realized that we, too, had been there for a half hour. That’s not fast food; that’s slow food.

Ray felt really bad that I never got to have my greasy fish, so he took me to Taco Bell (okay, there’s no greasy fish there, but it’s still junk food, and that’s kind of what we were both craving). We still had to wait a little bit for our food (10 minutes instead of 30 minutes), but the kitchen did seem much more organized. Unfortunately, my food was pretty inedible…I mean, more so than regular fast food…but at least we got it in less time.

When we got home to eat our food, Ray took a look inside the bucket of chicken and realized there were only 7 pieces of chicken in his 8-piece order. We chalked it up to the level of education these kids had been getting. Willingboro Township (where the KFC is) has the worst public schools in the state of NJ…so bad, apparently, that the students can’t even count pieces of chicken, much less function well in a minimum wage job that a monkey could do. Thanks a lot, New Jersey.

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Deck the Lawn with Tacky Blow-Ups

Dear neighbors and all the folks in America who have decided to get into the Christmas spirit with large inflatable figures on their lawns,

It’s one thing to celebrate the holiday season by stringing your house and trees with lights.  I think they are very cheery and lighten my evening whenever I see lit houses.  Those reindeer that are made of Christmas lights are lovely (and I was tickled when I passed a house where the two reindeer had been arranged in a rather lewd position, although I’m sure that was probably some prank pulled off by local kids).  I even like some manger scenes, when done tastefully.

But what makes you think I want to see four or five 15-foot inflatable Santas in a row on my way home?  The amount of time and energy you must spend blowing up those dolls can probably be better put to use finishing your Christmas shopping or volunteering at a soup kitchen.

And while you might think you’re done inflating those things at 5 or 6 in the evening, I can tell you with all certainty that by 9:30 they are halfway deflated, and that by morning they are completely flat.  So the idea that passers-by might be cheered by a large Mickey Mouse with a Santa hat smiling and waving at them doesn’t hold water, since by the time I drive by, poor Mickey looks like he’s been hitting the eggnog a little too much.

And is it really necessary to have Santa, an inflatable sleigh, and an Eagles quarterback?  I know I live in the land of the Eagles fans, who are, by definition, a little bit nuts, but can you dial it back just a little bit?  For the kids?  Who wants to drive by a 15-foot generic football player that looks like he’s about to throw up rather than throw the ball, while an anemic Santa has overturned his sleigh?

Take some time to look at your house from an outsider’s perspective.  Look at it, not when you come home from work, but right after you watch Survivor.  Then look at your electric bill and think about how much money you might save if you just got rid of the inflatable dolls.  You could give that money to those charities that have been soliciting you these past couple of weeks, and then you could feel much better about yourself this season, and I would feel much better about you as well.

This has been a public service announcement.

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Fun With Bureaucrats

When Ray and I got married, the folks at the Hawaii Dept. of Health told us it would take 120 days to process our marriage certificate. Ray didn’t have a problem with that because he didn’t really need the certificate for anything. However, I soon realized that if I was going to change my name with any kind of alacrity, I’d need that certificate sooner than later, so I coughed up the $10 expedition fee.

When I got the certificate, I changed all the usual things; I called up my credit cards to change them, I waited at the social security office for hours on end, and surprisingly, the DMV took the least amount of time and effort.

The only thing I had left to change was my passport, and since I figured I wasn’t leaving the country any time soon, I decided to mail my passport in, along with documentation of my name change, to the State Department for regular processing (10 weeks).

Of course, a week after I had mailed it all in, I got an offer to go to Italy. Go figure. So now that my passport is in the bowels of the State Department, it’s up to me to dive into its putrid maw and fish it out.

I went on the passport website, which says in no uncertain terms that they are very busy, so don’t bother calling the number they’ve provided, because you won’t get through. The best way to get in touch with them if you have a question, they say, is by email…but don’t be surprised if they don’t respond to your email for two days.

So first I emailed them, and, true to their word, they responded 2 days later, telling me that my best bet is to go in person to a passport agency. But oh, by the way, you can’t just walk in, you have to have an appointment, and they won’t give you an appointment unless you’re traveling within 2 weeks.

Oh yeah, and in order for you to get that appointment, you need to call that number that we’ve been warning you not to call because you won’t get through.

So I called the dreaded phone number, which is answered by a message full of dire warnings not to even bother hoping to speak with anyone, because everyone at the passport office is so overloaded, they can’t be bothered with your problems. After their 5-minute dissertation, they present you with the following options:

  1. Check on the status of your passport (which then refers you to the website, which in turn refers you back to the phone number of doom).
  2. Schedule an appointment; choosing this option takes you to an automated scheduling system. One would think that this would be the easiest option, since it doesn’t involve human interaction at all. However, this system clearly doesn’t have enough phone lines piping into it, since out of the almost 30 times I called, I only got through once. The other 29 times, I got a message saying that the scheduling system was overloaded with calls, and that I should please try again later. Then the automated system hung up on me.
  3. Contact customer service with a question. You mean, like, “How come your automated scheduling system doesn’t have the time of day to talk to me? Is anyone really working there? Why don’t you invest in more phone lines?” As one might expect, I could never get through to a real person. After choosing this option, another message plays, reminding me of how busy they are over there, and to expect long wait times. I hunker down for a long wait time on hold, and the damn system hangs up on me. Again.

I went to gethuman.com, my favorite resource for situations like this, so I could find a way to talk to a real person. I followed the directions, pressed the requisite numbers, and got the exact same customer service message I would have gotten if I had gone the regular route. And it hung up on me again.

Finally, at 11:47 PM, I finally got through to the automated scheduling system. I scheduled my appointment, listened to more warnings that they would not be able to see me unless I was leaving or needed a visa within 2 weeks, and got my confirmation number.

Just to make sure, I visited the web page devoted to the Philadelphia passport agency (there are only 8 of these across the country; thank goodness I didn’t have to travel 1,000 miles to go to one of these places). The web page said to make sure you arrive 15 minutes early for your appointment, and if you are more than 15 minutes late, you would have to go through the whole rigmarole again to get another appointment.

So I arrived not 15 minutes early, but 30 minutes early for my 9:30 appointment this morning. As I got to the building, I noticed that there was a long line of people queuing outside. I was informed that this was the line for passports.

“But I have an appointment,” I protested. Oh no, the security guard told me, they don’t work with the appointment system in Philadelphia. It’s first come, first served, and people usually start lining up at 8:30 in the morning.

So I got in line and just tried to stay thankful that it was a beautiful day to be standing outside. It certainly could have been worse.

Once inside and past the metal detector (which by the way, picked up my wedding ring set…not even airport metal detectors are that sensitive), I was directed to a line where they determined whether or not you needed a passport within 2 weeks. I passed the test (I told them I needed enough time for the Italian work visa to process), and I was given a number.

An hour and a half after I had arrived at the State Building, I left, my mission accomplished. No, I don’t have my passport in hand–not yet, anyway–but it will be express mailed to me, and I should have it in plenty of time.

Of course, once I get my passport, I still have to apply for a visa from the Italian Consulate. I’m sure that will be a barrel of fun.