When Did Monty Python Start Working for the Gas Company?

And now for something completely different!

Well, okay... not entirely different.

Well, different in that it's a new post. Which is freshly baked and tasty! But similar and, in fact, somewhat non-different because it's a post about me still battling the Comedy Troupe some laymen like to call The Gas Company.

So, not very different. It's the same illogical bureaucracy you might recall from... oh... just last week or so.

Just more of it. And in such large portions.

When last I left you, Friends o' Cabbages, I had been-- under threat of having my gas shut off-- trying to schedule the gas man to come and read my inside meter. This apparently needed to be on a day where:

• The planets aligned
• The shui was feng
• The moon was in Uranus
• And the gas company didn't have a headache

When it was convenient for me, the customer?... Not so much.

So this took three phone calls (and one threatening letter, tucked-in for fun, telling me I had neglected to contact them at all). And my brain imploded and I was dead for a while due to my body's inability to process the Hulk-like rage.

Then I got better.

So during the last phone call, I pointed out to them that in this Age of Reason, and Technology, and Not Making the Customer Take Off Work in Four Hour Windows Every Six Months, all other utilities seemed to have remote reading capabilities.

And that's when the female Eric Idle in customer service said, "Oh, we have remote reading capabilities. But you have to pay $116 to have it installed."

"What? You have remote reading capabilities?! But for years you guys have been telling me I have to spend:

• "Several thousand dollars to put the meter outside, or
  
• "To give you a copy of my house key for keepsies no tradesbacksies...
  

"...No one has ever mentioned, in the many years of charming Utility Harassment I've been enjoying, that there was remote reading capabilities for $116. Let's do that!"

"Oh, but it's $116," Erica Idle insisted.

"But it is not $3,000. Which is more."

"And if they find something wrong with your line," continued Erica Idle in a nervous fear of remote reading, (perhaps she was scared by a remote reading meter as a child) "they'll shut your gas off entirely and then you'll have to call a plumber to get it fixed. And then pay a fee to get it back on again."

We left it that I was free on Monday morning to set it up.

Or so I thought.

Monday morning, in my Four Hour Window, that's when the Gas Man-- let's make him Michael Palin-- came in. He was friendly. He was cheerful. He popped down and read the meter. And then I asked him the question.

"Um, what about installing the remote reader?"

"Remote reader? I don't have anything here about a remote reader."

"I'd asked to have a remote reader installed so we wouldn't have to go through this every six months and have my head implode and die, and then it take days for me to get better."

"Why, I don't know anything about installing a remote reader. Are you sure you asked about having a remote reader installed?"

No, I called the Gas Company to ask whether the donuts were fresh this morning. "Yes, I was pretty enthused once I finally found out there was this option."

And I explained the situation.

"Well, from what you say there," Michael Palin told me, "it sounds like you might not have made it clear you wanted a remote reader installed."

I was on allergy meds and looked at him blankly. I had vague flashes of waxing joyous on the phone about the remote capabilities. I recalled making an appointment for something-- which had to have been real, since the gas man was, in fact, here.

Given I arrange many, many details successfully for my own clients each week, I didn't imagine I hadn't articulated my needs properly. But could it be I had a complete and utter Gas Company Mental Block?

"And you know," continued the Gas Man, "if they find anything wrong with your line, they'll shut off your gas and then you'll have to call a plumber to have it fixed, and pay to have everything turned back on again."

"So I've heard."

"So we have this insurance you can get for just $3 extra a month, and that would mean if they find anything, the insurance would cover it. So what I would do is get that insurance first, and then have the remote reader installed and..."

I never expected to feel Shook Down by the Gas Man.

He also explained to me that even with the remote readers, they will still want to get into my house every year or so to check the remote meter is still working properly. Meaning one time less a year than before. Meaning I will still have to take off a half-day a year to wait for the Gas Man.

And there we left it. I have, with three phone calls, and two personal explosions, managed only to put off this saga until the next six months. So, I ask you, Readers:

• Do I succumb to the shake-down, pay for the insurance and try having the remote reading installed again?

• Do I have the remote reading installed without insurance, with the implied threat that something is almost destined to happen to my lines in the process, (wink, wink, nudge, nudge) so they get to shut it off and make me pay?

• Or do I decide to go Amish, and heat my hot water the old fashioned way-- y'know, sitting it in a pan in front of a Heat Surge electric heater?

Something's Come Between Us: the Bulletproof Fishtank of Customer Service

There are two places I go regularly where the customer service is protected by a plexiglass fishtank.

Now, you'd think one of these would be the bank, right? The one place where we all expect to see Edward G. Robinson with a big cigar sticking out of his mouth, carrying an instrument case coincidentally the exact size of a Tommy gun, saying, "Button your lip and hand over da dough, Toots."

(And, yes, I do live in a 1940s Bugs Bunny episode. What's it to ya, rabbit?)

But around my area, the bank tellers are completely unhindered by bulletproof glass. They're out there in the open, handing out free lollipops... and toasters... and, well, ATM surcharges roughly equivalent to a semester of college tuition.

We could shake their hands for a job well done or clock 'em with the toaster for all the user fees. Our choice, really.

But nope, in my area, the two places where you have to actually mime all your needs through inches of transparent wall is...

The doctor's office and the post office.

I get the doctor's office. I do. It's so we, the public, do not transfer our cooties to the people who take our copayments and confirm that we haven't actually moved homes in the last five seconds. Potential Cootie Intraperson Route Detouring, they call it.

But there's a certain amount of irony that in the place where human interaction is so important, all the people who work there are preserved in Tupperware. You've come in with a sore throat and you can't just talk to the person. You've got to shout into an empty soup can and use semaphore for what doesn't translate.

What I think would be really cool would be to have it like a drive-through fast food restaurant, with some kind of fiberglass clown in scrubs you have to shout into its neck.

I mean, think how much more fun it would be if, instead of coming into the office and whipping out your semaphore flags--

"I... have.... a... ten... thirty.... appointment.... And.... Continental... Flight.... 207... from... Albuquerque... is... coming... in.... for.... a.... landing...at... gate... B... 12"

--You could just feed your insurance card into Doctor McFeelgoode's upper GI tract and call out what you need into his clavicle?

"Hi, I have a ten thirty appointment and I'd like a McFeelgoode penicillin shake and some antibiotifries-- stat!"

Now, as for the post office, I find the bulletproof glass there a little strange. I mean, what exactly are they worried about?

To protect the post office workers in case there's a holdup for Forever Stamps and the annual Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes entries?--

"Ed McMahon says this one could already be a winner. And I just know a dead guy wouldn't lie to me!"

Or maybe it's because of really dumb criminals looking to have their Wanted posters taken down so no one can ever identify them...

"You, mailman, you rip down that poster back there that looks like me and.... Oh."

The guy with the gun smiles sheepishly.

"Heh. Heh. No, That's my, er, identical twin brother... Er... Cheese-it, boys, it's the coppers!"

But, y'know, the plexiglass doesn't exactly make things easy, when you have something you actually need to get from the teller. I mean, you get your package by sliding your package slip into this slot—

"Two adult ride-all-day passes, please?... No? Oh, well, how about my box from Amazon then."

--And then CA-CHUNK! The tray shoots out and they take your slip and disappear into a backroom for a few days.

In that back room is where everything that ever went missing is stored. Like that sock that disappeared from your dryer last week, that's there.

And your cell phone which you thought your dog had hidden under the couch two years ago but which you still couldn't find when you actually moved the sofa, even though you found your sunglasses, 14 dollars in pennies, and a small box of Cheerios, that's there, too.

So they take your slip and compare it to all the missing socks of everyone in your neighborhood, and the cell phones, too, and they walk about 30 miles round trip until they eventually find the serial number that matches your package.

So I think the last reason that plexiglass is between you and post office personnel is so you aren't tempted to leap over the counter, rush into the backroom to the employees' aid, only to be never seen again.

"I'm going in. If you don't hear from me in two hours, send out the troops."

It's tricky back there, unless you have GPS or breadcrumbs. And the Post Office, as a government agency, doesn't want any liability for your safety.

And I can see where that might be of issue. So if you do decide to try it, just make sure you're catalogued with a serial number first.

Oh, while you're back there, if you happen to see one black and white stripey sock? That's mine. Write me up a package slip and I'll come get it.

I'll just need to remember my semaphore flags.

---------------------------------------
Humorbloggers
Humor-blogs

The Bagel Shop Sketch

The Earl of Sandwich would have felt his buns deflate over the sad state of public sandwich making these days...

The following is the real-and-for-true conversation I had yesterday at the local bagel shop.

The players include Myself, your blog hostess...

The Cashier, a pleasant 20-something...

And our leading actor-- a fellow we'll call SandwichJockey, a man of about 40, whose nametag says he's an Assistant Manager.

(As far as I can tell, everyone who works there is an Assistant Manager. I guess the moment you learn to put meat between bread, they slap you on the back, and issue you your new nametag.)

Enter, the bagel shop.

SandwichJockey: Hi! (beaming smile) Can I help you?

Me: (smiling, too) Yes, thanks-- I'd like a honey grain bagel with ham and American.

SandwichJockey turns and looks confused where the honey grain bagels might be hiding. Fails to notice large sign on a bagel bin reading "Honey Grain" on it. After a small indecisive dance, suddenly spies it, and grabs a bagel.

SandwichJockey: So that's ham and...?

Me: American.

SandwichJockey: Ham and American. Do you want lettuce and tomato?

Me: Yes, please.

SandwichJockey looks up at me, confused.

Me: Lettuce and tomato-- yes, please.

SandwichJockey is still looking at me blankly. I decide to revise the way I explaining it.

Me: Lettuce and tomato are good.

SandwichJockey: So that's ham and lettuce and tomato and...

Me: And American.

SandwichJockey: American cheese?

At first I wasn't sure what to say to this. "No, an American bald eagle. With a side of Alaskan wolf, if you have it handy. "

Me (aloud): Yes, American cheese.

SandwichJockey: You want mayo?

Me: No.

SandwichJockey gives me the same perplexed look as he did over the lettuce and tomato inquisition.

Me: No. No mayo.

By this time, the cashier had popped over asking if I needed anything else. I was thinking I'd just be happy if I got my sandwich.

Cashier (to SandwichJockey): What's the sandwich? I'll ring it up.

SandwichJockey: Ham.

Me: And cheese.

SandwichJockey (wide-eyed): Cheese?

Me (prompting any inkling of recognition regarding the elaborate international cheese discussion we'd had about this just moments ago): American cheese?

SandwichJockey: Did you ask for cheese?

Me (taking a few deep breaths, wondering whether I took my blood pressure meds this morning lest I DIE waiting for my sandwich at the counter of the bagel shop): Er... yes.

SandwichJockey blinks. This is the surprise of his day. He'd never heard of such a thing. Imagine, I'd wanted cheese on the sandwich, and I claimed I'd asked for it, yet there mysteriously was no cheese on the sandwich before him.

It was at this point I expected him to pull off a mask to reveal Michael Palin of Monty Python.

I expected him to say:

"I'm sorry, madame, we are entirely out of cheese. But would you like some dead parrot on it instead? It's in season right now...

"Beautiful plumage."

SandwichJockey, grumbling, scowling, instead disassembles my sandwich to add American cheese. I get the impression he felt it took some nerve, me telling him there should be cheese on it at the last minute, when I'd never asked for any earlier.

So this leads me to the following suggestion:

If you have short-term memory challenges, perhaps you need to either reconsider a high-powered career in the fast-food customer service industry. Or write things down.

Just sayin'.

The Earl of Sandwich weeps for us all.

----------------------------------------------
Humorbloggers
Humor-blogs

The Gasman Cometh

The Gasman is stalking me again. He’s not feeling the love…

“10 DAY TURN OFF NOTICE—METER MUST BE READ”

We go through this every few months, he and I. I explain that in an ideal world, it would be great to see him…. We could read meters… chat…. put the gas company "hold" Muzak on speakerphone and totally rock-out…

But see, my day job keeps us apart. I have it so I can pay for things like… oh… my gas bill.

Given I get only ten days of vacation in an entire year— most of which goes toward selfish things like Christmas-- the probability of me actually being home for a regular tete-a-tete with the noble Man o’ Gas is somewhat equivalent to Paris Hilton winning the Nobel Peace Prize in Physics.

But the Gasman, oh nooooo, there’s no telling him that. So he sends me letters. And leaves notes. And calls. And once put a big yellow flier on my front door to show the whole neighborhood his great love of me.

Of course, if I went to the Gasman’s house at mid-day, he wouldn’t be there, either. He’s out sitting on my porch hoping... waiting... thinking, “Maybe this time will be different—maybe she’ll be home this one time.”

But it’s not to be.

I’ve tried to explain my neglect of him is nothing personal. I also neglect the mailman, the FedEx guy, the paper carrier and the garbage man. I am an equal opportunity neglecter. Thing is, the Gasman is the only one who wants to hang out inside my house.

So I give him my meter readings online. But every now and then he tells me it's just not enough. Others have hurt him before and now he finds it hard to trust. He must see my meter for himself. So I tell him I’d be happy to meet him at a time that’s convenient for the two of us.

Then he plays hard to get.

He tells me he’s only willing to meet me within a four-hour window. And leaves me taking off half-a-day of work to wait for him, longing for the sound of his work-boots on the steps.

He’s such a tease.

The Gas Company’s solution to our relationship is I either pay a jaw-dropping $3,000 to move the meter outside-- not fiscally feasible-- or I lend them a key to my home.

But we all know how THAT goes. I’ll be coming home and finding the place trashed because the Gasman initially invited over just three close friends… but then some friends-of-a-friend showed up to check out the meter…. and before he knew it, they were having a full-on rave…

I’ll be finding sticky-notes stuck to the fridge telling me I’m out of Cheez-Its and beer. Everything’ll smell like booze, urine and propane. And there’s bound to be a couple of meter readers upstairs in a compromising position, though they'll claim they were "just testing for leaks."

No, thank you.

I wonder sometimes where this exactly this whole thing went wrong. After all, am I not the customer here? Aren't my payments always on time?

But I grab the phone and dial, the automated voice routing me around the world in 90 seconds and back, each country wanting my account number for their own special siloed systems.

Then the Muzak kicks in, blaring so I have to hold the receiver several inches from my ear.

Ah, yes, Mr. Gasman, they're playing our theme.

I shake my head. Pity. It could have been such a beautiful friendship.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

If Humor-blogs was in charge of Muzak, you can bet there'd be less Yanni.