Car Sales

What an aggravation.

We were considering a new car. Not that we needed one, we just have a two wheel drive sedan and nobody in our little family is what you would call ... versed ... in driving in the snow. So we saw a possible replacement in the paper and called.

"Hello, Ripoff Car Sales, how can I help you?"

"Hi, we were looking through the paper and saw that you have this car available right now. We have been thinking about upgrading to a 4x4 and this looks like a good unit."

"Oh, definitely, Sir, a great vehicle. Why don't you come down and we'll take a look at your car and tell you what we can get you for the trade in."

"Well, actually," I said, "we've got a small child, and from experience, she doesn't do the waiting around bit too well, so why don't we just run the financing from here, and we'll see if you can get it to a monthly we can work with."

"Fair enough sir, give me the information about your car, and the payoff you've got for it."

So, information exchanged, we hanged up.

First thing next morning, I get a phone call from the dealership.

"Sir, we have run the numbers, and we think we can get this done for you."

"Excellent," I say, thinking it's in the bag, "but I want you to know, before I come down, if you're not in the ballpark we discussed, this is not going to go down."

"Oh, Sir," he slimes, "we're definitely in the ball park. Come on down, and we'll work the numbers and look at your car."

"Tell me specifics. I need to know before I make the trip, bundle baby in..."

"Oh, I don't have the numbers here in front of me, but they're doable."

Alright. Fine, I should have said no and waited for him to get the numbers. But I'm a trusting fool, and I figured, what ever, it'll work.

So I put my baby in her car seat, move it from the usual car into the car we'll trade in, and strap it in... after about 20 minutes of aggravating stuff, we're on our way. Singing, trying to keep the baby happy...

So we roll into the parking lot about 30 minutes later. I walk through the door with 'monster' on my hip and to the desk, and I ask for the salesman.

"Sure, hold on, he'll be right out."

To his credit, he's there in mere moments. Shake hands, pinch cheeks, (baby's, not his) and we go back to his office where he promises he'll be right back with the info.

5 minutes later, "Okay, so here's what we've got," he says as he lays out a stack of papers. "Trade in, we've agreed is this much, the new SUV is this much, and with the interest rate we got for you, this will be the monthly payment."

"..." I say, trying to get my breath. He's $200 over what I said was the maximum. "This is no where near what we talked about. This isn't a ballpark!" I say.

"Well, this is what we can do. So, you ready to sign?"

I swear, he was surprised when I got up and walked out.

The Nightmare

I have a recurring nightmare.

I'm sitting in my wood paneled library, amongst my vast collection of first edition science fiction and fantasy books (I said it was a dream, okay?) when this beautiful young lady walks into the room.

I look up over the Wall Street Journal and wonder to myself - Who is this girl? Why is she in my house? -

She looks me straight in the eye and says, "Daddy?"

At which point I pass straight out cold.

When I come to, she's standing over me with a concerned look on her face. I stammer out, "Yes?"

"Well," she says, "I met this boy..." is all I hear before I jolt straight up, in a cold sweat. It takes a couple of seconds, but I remember - she's only two.

But she'll get there. And that's enough to ruin the rest of my night of sleep.

Ain't parenthood a walk in the park?!

Going Postal

I went to the post office the other day. I guess I'd forgotten the fondness I have for the drones... I mean public servants who slave there day after day, but sometimes things just have to get somewhere else.

I walked in, went to the Priority Mail stand where ... usually ... you can find a couple different sizes of envelopes and a few different sizes of boxes in which to put your items. Envelopes? Only the smallest size. Boxes? What stinking boxes?

I turned to the counter, got the attention of one of the two people manning the 7 station counter and asked, “Where can I find a shoe box sized box?”

After a pause of about thirty seconds where he looked at me as if having difficulty with my question, the guy says, “Oh, we don't keep them out there, they're back here. Give me just a minute.”

So back to the counter where I finally found a label, and a ball-chain pen that didn't work. So I went to the Express mail side and found a finicky ball-chain pen. So I got smart and pulled the Sharpie out of my pocket. I filled out the mail label, turned and watched the guy finish with the customer he was “helping.”

Two and a half minutes later, he looks at me, says, “Oh,” and reaches below his counter to pull out... yep, a shoe box Priority Mailer. “Here you go.”

So I fill it up, put my label on it, and get back in line.

Finally, about six minutes later, I got up to the counter. I encountered a woman. Hoping she'd be
more ... intelligent? ... I handed her my box, and requested a sheet of stamps. Everything was going swimmingly until it came time to pay.

I don't know about you, but I never sign my credit cards, or my debit cards. I feel that if I were to sign it, it just gives the thief who steals it from me a template to copy when it comes time to sign for his purchases. - Hmm, and a little swoop there, and a curlicue here, detach there, cross that T dot that I, looks good. - “Okay, go ahead, compare the signatures!” I use a Sharpie, and write in big letters across the signature bar, SEE ID!

So I hand the girl my AmEx and my MN Drivers License. She starts to swipe it, sees the signature box, and says to me, “We don't accept these unless they're signed.”

Oh boy.

“Okay, so what do you want to do to rectify this?” I asked in the politest tone I could muster.

“Well, you can sign it now!” miss peppy informed me.

“In front of you?”

“Well, yes, of course!”

“So you can compare the signature on the back of it to the signature I will put on the receipt?”

“Yep!”

“Do you not see the inherent lack of safety in that request?”

“...”

“I don't sign credit cards, because that just gives the thief who steals it from me a template to
copy when it comes time to sign for his purchases. Instead, I show my photo ID which is a much better form of identification than a signature on a card without a picture. Do you ask for identification along with the signature on the back of the card?”

“No, because when you sign it it becomes a form of identification!”

“No... credit cards are a secondary form.”

“Well, if you don't sign it, a thief could take it across the street and use it in the pump card reader at the gas station!”

“What?!”

“Or they could use it on-line!”

“And having a signature on the back of the card will stop that from happening?”

“Yes, of course!”

I was getting ... upset. No, incredulous. “Where does it say that you can't accept it without a signature?”

She points at a sign to the side of the counter. Vague, nebulous post-office-governmental-speak. “And, Visa has requested that we not accept cards that aren't signed,” she says pointing at another sign, this one from Visa. “And,” she continues, “it says on the back of the card, not valid unless signed.”

I flip my AmEx over and show her. “Nope, not there. Besides, this isn't a Visa.”

“Doesn't matter,” she chippers at me. “Gotta sign it or you can go across the street and take out money from the ATM or you could write a check.”

So... “Okay, so if I write you a check, you're going to ask for ID, right?”

“Yes! A drivers license.”

“Which isn't a good enough substitution for a signature on the back of a piece of plastic with my name on it?”

“Nope!”

At this point, I'm getting frustrated. So I pull out a pencil from my pocket, and sign the back of my card. Now, I don't know if you've ever seen the back of an American Express, but the signature line is less than a quarter of an inch high and fully 5/6 of it is covered in an embossed re-etch of the card number from the front. On my card, in the remaining space, I have written in bold Sharpie – you guessed it – SEE ID! So my penciled in signature is ... completely unintelligible.

She looks at it, swipes it and says, “Now that wasn't hard, was it?”

I signed the receipt, took my stamps, my receipt, my keys, turned my AmEx over and erased the “signature,” and walked out – muttering under my breath like a madman – thinking to myself, no wonder they call it going postal.

Door to Door

I'm taking a nap 'cause I've got to work 16 hours straight tonight. The doorbell rings. You guessed it, door to door sales.

So I go to the door, hoping against hope that it's something better than sales. Maybe, just maybe, the cable company has come to fix the cable that they didn't attach correctly to the back of the house that's now hanging less than three feet from the ground.

It's the cable company alright, but it ain't to fix anything.

I open the door, and I see the guy's clipboard. On the top it says in huge, bold type, the cable company Direct Marketing. So I say, "Can I help you?"

"Are you familiar with the cable company?"

"Are you here to sell something or to fix the issue I called about two months ago?"

"What makes you think I'm here to sell?" he asks me.

"Doesn't matter," I say. "Unless you're here to fix the problem, let's not waste your time. I'm not interested in switching."

"Well, are you a current the cable company customer?"

"No, and until you carry the channel for my 1 year old, I won't be switching. Good bye."

"But we've got some great opt-"

Is the last thing I hear as I firmly but politely close the door. He stands outside the door, looking incredulously through the glass as though amazed that I would not be interested in his sales spiel. Then I go out to check the mail, and there in the door is the flier he was going to use to sell to me.

I guess at the very least, you have to admire the tenacity.