A Day in the Life

The Banker and I.

posted on May 17, 2013 by Rachel · 20 Comments Filed Under: A Day in the Life, Weird Strange and True

It was Monday afternoon. I was playing with the kids, as my job description dictates that I should. The house phone rang.

Actually that’s not quite accurate – the copy/fax machine rang – which has no handset to answer. I lost the last remaining house phone weeks ago.

So instead of getting up to answer the missing phone, I waited for the answering machine to pick up so that I could determine whether I needed to call them back, all while wondering to myself as to the possible reason that I even have a house line since the lost handset’s battery lasts all of 2.65 seconds and, as such, I never attempt to use it even when it isn’t lost.

A deep, serious voice began reverberating throughout the room.

“Hello, this is Henry from [Your] Bank. I need to speak to you about your accounts with us. Here is my direct number – please call me as soon as you have the chance.”

What the…?

I despise calls like that, as I can feel anxiety over approximately 617.5 potential crises per minute.

Has someone hacked my account? Stolen all my money? Left my checks for dead?

Did I overdraft? Make a mistake?

Did they read my blog post about their teller love notes? Are they finally calling to get my input on whether they should dot their i’s with a heart or a flower?

Are they following up to make sure that my husband got that curly-cued lovey-dove postcard in the mail from the female teller last week? Because he did. What is UP with that??

Is this about me complaining about one of their policies on Twitter a couple months ago?

Has the IRS frozen my assets? Launched an investigation?

IS THAT THE FBI DRIVING UP THE STREET RIGHT NOW???

What went wrong? WHAT DID I DO???

So I dropped my kids like last week’s sippy cup and ran to find my cell phone.

I listened to the chilling message again and hurriedly jotted down Henry’s number.

I called him back.

A kinder, perkier, female teller (who smelt of mailing postcards to other women’s husbands) answered the call – clearly Henry lied about this being his direct number.

She included the branch location in her greeting – not even a branch I visit, but it was the one my husband frequents.

(WHAT DID HE DO????)

I asked for Henry. She put me on hold. I sat waiting, feeling my heart jumping inside my ribcage as my toddler jumped in synchronization on the outside of the same poor ribs.

As I waited, I continued my rundown of every possible choose-your-own-adventure ending to this call.

This WAS the branch I complained about to their Twitter Person. I bet Henry is now calling to let me have it for tattling on his branch.

I hate confrontation. Maybe I should hang up now.

But it was too late. Henry picked up the line with his deep, rich, smoky voice.

“This is Henry.”

“Uh hi, this is Rachel. You just called me?”

“Oh yes, Rachel. Thank you for calling me back. How are you today?”

“Fine…for the moment.”

“I called to find out if you have ever considered having a personal relationship with a banker.”

I choked.

Then I lied.

“Um, I’m sorry. My phone cut out. What did you say?”

“I called to see if you wanted to have a personal relationship with me. As your banker.”

“Well, um, what exactly did you have in mind?”

”I just wanted to let you know that I am here for you and Christopher. If you ever need a line of credit, or a loan, or any money…”

“We don’t need any of that, but thank you.”

“We have some great interest rates right now if you decide that you do.”

“Thank you Henry, have a nice afternoon.”

I hung up, leaving Henry free to solicit more married women. And I sat there, stunned.

Did he really just ask me that? With those words? In that order?

Yes, yes he did.

And then I did what any red-blooded American would do: I turned to Facebook and Twitter to make sure I wasn’t overreacting.

Facebook validated me,

Twitter helped me nail down the important questions to answer,

And Twitter gave me the opportunity to identify a potential Henry.

(If ever one needed to argue the importance – nay, the vitality of Social Media in the Modern World, awkward banking situations prove it every time.)

So I finally sat down to properly answer Henry. After all, I definitely left him without a clear answer, and I’d hate for him to be sitting by the phone, plucking petals off of a Tulip while whimpering to himself, “She loves me, she loves me not…”

So here’s my response, Henry. If you’re out there.

20 Comments

My Head on a Platter.

posted on May 3, 2013 by Rachel · 14 Comments Filed Under: "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, A Day in the Life, Anal Retentivity to a Fault, Kids: The Experience., The Cartoon Age, Utter Silliness

Keep Calm and Speak British.

Ali has an iPad Atlas that is quite fabulous. She regularly turns the globe, scours the world and learns all sorts of cultural nuances.

And to make it all the more fabulous, it speaks in a British Accent.

Which is great and well and just peachy – except in the case of words that Ali has only ever heard on her atlas. And there’s no fixing what’s done – she learned the word that way and her Atlas says it’s correct and there’s no way that she’s going to believe me that it should be pronounced otherwise.

For instance, geysers.

We’re in Alabama. Talk of geysers doesn’t come up much. Therefore, Ali pronounces “geyser” the way the voice on her iPad taught her.

“Hey mom – can we go out west and see a geezer sometime? That would be really fun. I’ve always wanted to see a real live geezer!”

But geezers are nothing compared to a certain night sky phenomenon that the Atlas taught her about.

So, I can be driving down the road, thinking about mundane happenings and tasks to be done, when Ali will interrupt to ask,

“Hey Mom! Don’t you love how beautiful an Aurora Boreanus is? Have YOU ever seen an Aurora Boreanus? I definitely want to see an Aurora Boreanus one day!!!”

“Honey, it’s BoreALIS.”

“No, my Atlas says it’s Aurora BoreANUS. It DEFINITELY says BoreANUS. Hey Noah – can you say ‘Boreanus??”

“Bowee…ANUS!”

“Good job!! Now say ‘Aurora…Boreanus.”

“Awowa…Boooweanus.”

And all I can think about are huge, colorful swaths of hemorrhoids.

Sunday Morning Poetry.

I asked Chris to set my alarm for seven-thirty,
But I awoke at eight-thirty.
I swore he didn’t, he swore he did.
The blame was at a standstill,
Until my alarm went off at seven-thirty…
That evening.

I Don’t Think That Word Means What you Think it Means.

People Magazine is gearing up for their annual extravaganza of proclaiming the identity of the World’s Most Beautiful People. They have a “Special Double Issue” just to lead up to the actual complete listing.

And this is an award that irks my number-crunching brain oh-so-greatly every single year.

Because without fail, there is a severe case of unfair representation in those whom People Magazine deems as the most beautiful people in the world.

Let’s do the math. And just for a moment, so our numbers aren’t astronomically small, let’s assume that People is exaggerating it’s use of “World” like baseball does in “World Series” and let’s just talk about the United States.

There are 165,000 members in the Screen Actor’s Guild.

There are 313,900,000 people in the United States.

.0526% of the population are actors and actresses, yet People’s list is made up almost exclusively from this category. Every year.

Sure, there will be a singer thrown in here, an Oprah thrown in there, but by and large, well – see for yourself. Here is the list of the #1 Most Beautiful Person each year since they started keeping track:

And, because I just know you’re waiting for one of my pie charts…

What about the random girl in Bug Tussle Oklahoma who happens to be more beautiful than Meg Ryan? Or the ravishing lady in Thief River Falls Minnesota that is way prettier than Michelle Pfeiffer who won TWICE, if you didn’t notice?

And then if we take the Magazine’s use of “World” literally, then their double-triple-ten-thousand-page special edition really is just a large pile of donkey dung.

Contrary to People Magazine’s assumptions, not all of the prettiest people chose to make a trek to Hollywood. So either call it “Most Beautiful Celebrities” or turn it into an American-Idolesque Reality Show. But let’s not lie about it anymore, mmmkay, People Magazine?

(But if you do turn it into a reality show, please don’t film the shocked and horrified ugly people that got turned down at the auditions. Crying, cussing, and shooting birds at the camera makes one ugly enough when one is pretty – no need to pile on.)

Vocal Confusion.

The timing of puberty in trains puzzles me.

Thomas, despite his designation as the number one train, has clearly not hit it yet. His high-pitched annoying squeak of a voice could be carbon-dated to no older than 10.35 years old.

His friend Percy is even further from it, sounding like a six year old boy that weighs less than forty pounds.

Yet James, the immature and vain train, has definitely hit adolescence and received his proud, deep voice.

Gordon, rightfully so, is also post-pubescent. After all, he’s a grouch.

Then you have Toby, one of the oldest and most antiquated trains on the Island of Sodor, but yet he still has the voice of a village lad.

We need an episode to explain this.

Something like, “Thomas the Train asks, What is Happening to my Body?”

And since Thomas and Friends was created in the same country as the good people that brought my family the Aurora Boreanus, it’s sure to be a hit.

14 Comments

There’s No Place Like Home.

posted on May 2, 2013 by Rachel · 10 Comments Filed Under: A Day in the Life, Guest Post, I Love Birmingham, The Blissfulness of Life

This is another guest post by Chris the Husband, Contributing Editor and all around good guy.

I don’t know a ton about cars. Or racing. But I hear that we have a super cool race track here in Birmingham. Barber Motorsports Park has a giant motorcycle museum, a road course, and tons or beautiful scenery. I highly recommend a visit.

On a recent Saturday, I took my 2 young adventurers to meet their Pop for a morning soaking up the ambiance of the Indy race weekend. The little one was in heaven. Everything with a motor – wheels, sirens, wings, etc. was seen and admired.

The lovely one, however, was bored out of her six year old mind. But she wanted to come along, so fun was going to be had.

See! Fun, right?

Noah couldn’t get enough of it.

Ali, not so much. I’m sure these will be treasured memories.

I swear, this was not a posed photo.

Sitting down for a rest and a snack was the highlight of the day for all.

They really pull out all the stops for Indy weekend, with a fair area that included – and I’m being totally serious here – THE ferris wheel from Michael Jackson’s Neverland Ranch.

Grandstand climbing is also a featured activity.

Eventually, you do have to talk your little people into letting you put foam earplugs in their ears, because race cars, although really cool, are a lot louder than you think they will be, or want them to be.

But it was an absolutely glorious day.

After awhile, even my motorsports enthusiast was close to a breakdown, so we bailed on Barber’s and headed home for naptime.

After completing a morning of Superdad activity, I headed off for my alone time, which is pretty much always running.

I’ve documented some of my best runs, like San Diego, New York, Lake Saluda, and the Mercedes Half-Marathon, but I’ve never done my typical once-a-week local Birmingham route, which has been tried, tested, analyzed with apps for distance and elevation, and optimized in general to take in some of the best scenery available in town while maximizing trails & sidewalks and minimizing flirting with disaster on the shoulder of the road.

This route has a few variations, from 8-10 miles, and would be great for a 2 hour walk-and-talk if running wasn’t in your fun zone. I’m a pretty slow runner, and sometimes I have to turn it up to blow past the mall-walkers like I think I should. Anyway, it starts and ends at Robert Jemison Park, a common place for walking and running in the ‘Ham.

You get the trail & nature start, just to feel the breath of fresh air and the crunch of earth under your feet.

It quickly turns into sidewalks and up a hill and through pleasant neighborhoods full of more professional landscaping.

The first village (Crestline) takes you past a few open restaurants with sidewalk tables and happy eaters to remind you that they are doing the opposite of what you’re doing. This should make you feel good. Somehow.

There’s a lot of running water around Birmingham, so you can usually find a creek to look at if you need to stop for a minute and gasp for air.

After a potentially brutal hill or two you are rewarded with one of our city’s more quirky landmarks, (no offense to bare-bottomed statues of mythological dudes.) A large graffiti-painted piece of artillery…

…pointed at the city…

…theoretically unloaded.

You catch a few glimpses of the downtown skyline along the way, and work your way through older, even nicer neighborhoods, again with professional landscaping.

This neighborhood provides a peek into Birmingham’s distant past, into homes built by turn-of-the-century iron & steel barons, scary looking dudes whose portraits hang in local attractions and name the roads & parks.

At the top of the mountain, you get the best view in town, at an elevation 330 feet higher than where you started. Luckily, its all downhill from here.

Another village (English) includes more happy sidewalk eaters, and a frozen yogurt place that hasn’t yet lured me in mid-run, but there will be a day.

Creative yard art is a hallmark of the modern south, but demanding yard art – well, that’s just awesome. Note to self, go before you run.

I end up going through the Birmingham Botanical Gardens, the most professional of professional landscaping, which brings some of the variableness to the distance. If you aren’t in a hurry or worn out yet, there are myriads of trail options to make loops around the gardens. (Bonus: a public restroom and water fountain.) This spot, in the center of the rose garden, is always inspirational to me. Something about the form of the figure on top is lighthearted and free, the way running feels when it feels like you want it to feel.

Certain seasons of the year bring hordes of well-dressed, camera toting people to the gardens. Springtime provides a flood of wedding parties, fully-loaded prom limos, Easter children, and fussy toddlers all photobombing one another. Good times.

One more village (Mountain Brook), one more ice cream shop, and one local pizza parlor that will knock you down with airborne butter if you happen to run by when the door is open. But I like the charm of it all.