Friday, August 31, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Movin' In
I returned to college last Monday, and have good reason for not posting anything original in the past week, apart from the post below this one, which served just to prove a point, and will probably be gone soon. Then again, it might not go. Whatever.
Monday, I moved in and helped P (for the sake of anonymity) shift his stuff into the apartment. He'd arrived an hour or so before I did, and took the biggest bedroom in the place. No problem, I don't really care about how big the room I inhabited would be, it wasn't all that important. Being greeted by broken shards of glass from a beer bottle while carrying a heavy cardboard box that is almost falling to pieces, containing kitchen utensils isn't all that much fun. Barring this, and the fact that there were only one-and-a-half bathrooms in the place, it was reasonably nice.
We've all heard horror stories of room mates. Mine isn't a horror story per se, but it could well become one in the future, depending on how things progress. P had an interview with a company the following morning and decided to spend that night at his girlfriend's, where the Internet had already been set up. We bade him good night and good luck. He returned the following morning to brush, shower, change and then escape. We weren't to see much of him that day. Or the next few, come to think of it. He was never there.
Well, during the day, classes and all that, so it's fine. At night? He's not slept one night in his bedroom, nor has he unpacked. Who cares, you ask. Just mind your business and leave others to theirs. I would, and I don't really give a damn where he spends his time. However, there is the issue of encroachment. In terms of ones things. He made tea on Monday, and left the vessel with the wet tea leaves in there. On Saturday, I happened to notice that mould had begun to inhabit this vessel. Disgusted, I threw it in the dustbin. I left. He entered, after now-normal nightly sojourn to his chick's and picked the thing out of the garbage, and promised to clean it up. He then made an omlette, leaving cut onions for all to smell and admire. Following which he left the omlette pan on the range. Then he ate, leaving behind an unwashed plate and a host of other soiled kitchen things. He left.
I hope that you have kept in mind his promise to wash the tea pot. I found it the same day in the sink, unwashed, mould flourishing. I cleaned up the other dishes and left, still annoyed and more and more disgusted. Late at night, after I returned, I found his closet doors in the hall; apparently, he didn't approve of them in his room. Well, I'm not sure of your feelings towards this, but I was pissed. I use the hall to entertain guests, however lame that might sound, and the sight of two wooden closet doors reclining against the far wall does my temper no good.
As he had not spent a single night in the apartment, he saw no reason to unpack. Again, your sense of fairness seeks you to question me, 'Onnakku enna, whether he unpacks or not? Why this invidious reservation towards his habits?' OK, fair enough. He doesn't need to unpack. I haven't either. Not fully, that is. 'Ah, so you shouldn't be talking,' you say. Hey, I kept my shit in my room. Not spread out through out the house. His suitcase is in the hallway. Taking into account that he has appropriated the largest bedroom, I see no reason why it shouldn't remain within.
On Sunday, J & I, tired of this nonsense, decided to 'take it to the next level.' We left Post-It notes in strategic locations urging him to renounce his wicked ways, and redress the situation. Had just 'speak' been added to that, this would've been a Julius Caesar moment. I was rude in the notes, and so was J. 'Put the closet doors in your room, NOW!' said one. 'Leaving?? Turn of the A/C NOW!' was another. I hope you can understand the desperation that drove us to this extreme.
Oh, and he also leaves the A/C on when he leaves the apartment. Even when no one else is home.
Monday, I moved in and helped P (for the sake of anonymity) shift his stuff into the apartment. He'd arrived an hour or so before I did, and took the biggest bedroom in the place. No problem, I don't really care about how big the room I inhabited would be, it wasn't all that important. Being greeted by broken shards of glass from a beer bottle while carrying a heavy cardboard box that is almost falling to pieces, containing kitchen utensils isn't all that much fun. Barring this, and the fact that there were only one-and-a-half bathrooms in the place, it was reasonably nice.
We've all heard horror stories of room mates. Mine isn't a horror story per se, but it could well become one in the future, depending on how things progress. P had an interview with a company the following morning and decided to spend that night at his girlfriend's, where the Internet had already been set up. We bade him good night and good luck. He returned the following morning to brush, shower, change and then escape. We weren't to see much of him that day. Or the next few, come to think of it. He was never there.
Well, during the day, classes and all that, so it's fine. At night? He's not slept one night in his bedroom, nor has he unpacked. Who cares, you ask. Just mind your business and leave others to theirs. I would, and I don't really give a damn where he spends his time. However, there is the issue of encroachment. In terms of ones things. He made tea on Monday, and left the vessel with the wet tea leaves in there. On Saturday, I happened to notice that mould had begun to inhabit this vessel. Disgusted, I threw it in the dustbin. I left. He entered, after now-normal nightly sojourn to his chick's and picked the thing out of the garbage, and promised to clean it up. He then made an omlette, leaving cut onions for all to smell and admire. Following which he left the omlette pan on the range. Then he ate, leaving behind an unwashed plate and a host of other soiled kitchen things. He left.
I hope that you have kept in mind his promise to wash the tea pot. I found it the same day in the sink, unwashed, mould flourishing. I cleaned up the other dishes and left, still annoyed and more and more disgusted. Late at night, after I returned, I found his closet doors in the hall; apparently, he didn't approve of them in his room. Well, I'm not sure of your feelings towards this, but I was pissed. I use the hall to entertain guests, however lame that might sound, and the sight of two wooden closet doors reclining against the far wall does my temper no good.
As he had not spent a single night in the apartment, he saw no reason to unpack. Again, your sense of fairness seeks you to question me, 'Onnakku enna, whether he unpacks or not? Why this invidious reservation towards his habits?' OK, fair enough. He doesn't need to unpack. I haven't either. Not fully, that is. 'Ah, so you shouldn't be talking,' you say. Hey, I kept my shit in my room. Not spread out through out the house. His suitcase is in the hallway. Taking into account that he has appropriated the largest bedroom, I see no reason why it shouldn't remain within.
On Sunday, J & I, tired of this nonsense, decided to 'take it to the next level.' We left Post-It notes in strategic locations urging him to renounce his wicked ways, and redress the situation. Had just 'speak' been added to that, this would've been a Julius Caesar moment. I was rude in the notes, and so was J. 'Put the closet doors in your room, NOW!' said one. 'Leaving?? Turn of the A/C NOW!' was another. I hope you can understand the desperation that drove us to this extreme.
Oh, and he also leaves the A/C on when he leaves the apartment. Even when no one else is home.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Monday, August 13, 2007
The Debit Card Fiasco or How Chase Screwed With Me for nearly a Month.
And so it continues.
Today: Receive debit cards from Chase (one of them was an older, now invalid thing - a product of their remarkably inefficient delivery process). Overjoyed, I attempt to withdraw money from an ATM (and not, as they would have me believe an 'ATM machine'). Wrong PIN (they say 'PIN Number'), it seems. Call up Chase and debate the different methods of obtaining a new PIN. They can deliver it to me in 3-5 business days. Hmm, all right, can they send it to me via UPS to me, so as to expedite the process and lessen my heartburn? No sir, we can't, they say. So, they have the capacity to send the card via UPS, but not the PIN? Oh well, do send it to me in '3-5 business days.' I had accidentally typed 35, and erased it, but as far as Chase is concerned, it's all the same, innit?
The good news is, I can use my card. Just not to withdraw cash.
Friday, 10th August: Checked with Purchasing to see if my debit card had arrived. Nope. Call up Chase; the effort it took not to yell at the 'telephone banker' must've caused that tumour to advance a few inches. I'm suing if I have to operate, I'll tell you right now. Apparently, they dont' have the company name on the address. Great. When will I have the card? Oh, Monday sir, definitely. My anger management would've made Jack Nicholson proud. Though that vein in my forehead did scare a few children. Useful little bugger. *pats forehead lovingly*
Wednesday, 8th August: Checked to see if the damn thing had been delivered. Guess not. Called up Chase. Apparently the card I had asked for on Monday wasn't processed. Great. Great. Could I speak to a manager? Yes sir, here he is. You have screwed up my order enough, now when can I have the card? Well, sir, I am sorry for the delay (sure you are, you little liar) but if you wouldn't move (I spluttered, almost foaming at the mouth). Giving them an address isn't enough? What the fuck, seriously? Seri free. When could I expect it? Oh, Friday, sir.
Monday, 6th August: Checked to see if the card had arrived. This was to become a coommon theme later. Oh well, guess not. Called up the bank and asked them why I didn't have it in my hand, able to spend as I wished. Oh, sir, this looks like it hasn't been processed. What?! OK, when can I have it? Wednesday? OK, OK fine.
Friday, 3rd August: Oh, thank you so much. You've been very helpful. So, I can expect the card on Monday? Fantastic, thanks so much! Bye, have a nice day! Yes, it's coming on Monday! (Ah, so what if the other one came yesterday?)
Thursday, 2nd: I recieve the original card today (the one I cancelled on Monday)! After 10 freakin' business days. What the hell are these morons doing? First they send the card I have UPS-ed to me back (because I changed the address, so what?), and now the invalid one lands up 3 days late?! Arseholes. I'm going to rip them a new one tomorrow.
Wednesday, 1st August: Called up UPS to have them send the card to the office, instead of to my house. Should be here tomorrow, I s'pose (to steal a line from Ron).
Monday, 30th July: No card yet, and it's the 7th business day. Called up Chase, had them cancel the card, and had another one UPS-ed to me. 2 business days, and should cost me 5$. Fuck the cost, I need that card.
Friday, 27th July: Still no card. Damn.
Thursday, 26th July: No card, hope it arrives soon.
Thursday, 19th July: Fuck, fuck, fuck! Lost my effing wallet. Called up Chase and cancelled my debit card. They say that I should have a new one in 5-7 business days. I can handle it, not so bad.
Today: Receive debit cards from Chase (one of them was an older, now invalid thing - a product of their remarkably inefficient delivery process). Overjoyed, I attempt to withdraw money from an ATM (and not, as they would have me believe an 'ATM machine'). Wrong PIN (they say 'PIN Number'), it seems. Call up Chase and debate the different methods of obtaining a new PIN. They can deliver it to me in 3-5 business days. Hmm, all right, can they send it to me via UPS to me, so as to expedite the process and lessen my heartburn? No sir, we can't, they say. So, they have the capacity to send the card via UPS, but not the PIN? Oh well, do send it to me in '3-5 business days.' I had accidentally typed 35, and erased it, but as far as Chase is concerned, it's all the same, innit?
The good news is, I can use my card. Just not to withdraw cash.
Friday, 10th August: Checked with Purchasing to see if my debit card had arrived. Nope. Call up Chase; the effort it took not to yell at the 'telephone banker' must've caused that tumour to advance a few inches. I'm suing if I have to operate, I'll tell you right now. Apparently, they dont' have the company name on the address. Great. When will I have the card? Oh, Monday sir, definitely. My anger management would've made Jack Nicholson proud. Though that vein in my forehead did scare a few children. Useful little bugger. *pats forehead lovingly*
Wednesday, 8th August: Checked to see if the damn thing had been delivered. Guess not. Called up Chase. Apparently the card I had asked for on Monday wasn't processed. Great. Great. Could I speak to a manager? Yes sir, here he is. You have screwed up my order enough, now when can I have the card? Well, sir, I am sorry for the delay (sure you are, you little liar) but if you wouldn't move (I spluttered, almost foaming at the mouth). Giving them an address isn't enough? What the fuck, seriously? Seri free. When could I expect it? Oh, Friday, sir.
Monday, 6th August: Checked to see if the card had arrived. This was to become a coommon theme later. Oh well, guess not. Called up the bank and asked them why I didn't have it in my hand, able to spend as I wished. Oh, sir, this looks like it hasn't been processed. What?! OK, when can I have it? Wednesday? OK, OK fine.
Friday, 3rd August: Oh, thank you so much. You've been very helpful. So, I can expect the card on Monday? Fantastic, thanks so much! Bye, have a nice day! Yes, it's coming on Monday! (Ah, so what if the other one came yesterday?)
Thursday, 2nd: I recieve the original card today (the one I cancelled on Monday)! After 10 freakin' business days. What the hell are these morons doing? First they send the card I have UPS-ed to me back (because I changed the address, so what?), and now the invalid one lands up 3 days late?! Arseholes. I'm going to rip them a new one tomorrow.
Wednesday, 1st August: Called up UPS to have them send the card to the office, instead of to my house. Should be here tomorrow, I s'pose (to steal a line from Ron).
Monday, 30th July: No card yet, and it's the 7th business day. Called up Chase, had them cancel the card, and had another one UPS-ed to me. 2 business days, and should cost me 5$. Fuck the cost, I need that card.
Friday, 27th July: Still no card. Damn.
Thursday, 26th July: No card, hope it arrives soon.
Thursday, 19th July: Fuck, fuck, fuck! Lost my effing wallet. Called up Chase and cancelled my debit card. They say that I should have a new one in 5-7 business days. I can handle it, not so bad.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Giving flight to fancy
You take a seat on the bus, putting your bag down next to you. Hoping against hope that no one wants to sit there. You look around, and there aren't too many people there. Good, you say to yourself. You notice a small box wrapped in a pink polythene bag. Hmm, you wonder, who could've left that there?
Your mind flashes to the warnings you've heard & seen - "Please report any unattended bags or suspicious behaviour to the bus driver." Snorting at the thought of the box being potentially dangerous, you return to your world of the book and the world outside. It's troubling you, still. You can't focus entirely on what's written in the book, the poetic lines into which you want to escape. The music blaring in your ears doesn't help either. You're still vaguely uneasy about the box; and still in doubt whether to cause a panic by telling the bus driver.
But you know what he doesn't; a box, wrapped in pink plastic, that could be dangerous. You're almost convinced of it - what else could it be, you ask yourself?
You allow your imagination to take flight. Suspicions that you, consciously, would have never entertained, become more and more realistic and plausible. As the bus speeds on, you feel disconnected from the outside world, choosing to focus solely within.
Everyone becomes a suspect - the old couple that are whispering in the seat in front of you, the blue-eyed boy that throws smouldering looks at each new rider, the middle-aged, smartly-dressed gentleman taking the seat behind you. Your focus, however, remains on the box. Your eyes, though drawn momentarily to the pretty seventeen year-old girl whose halter you long to remove, return to the box. Even the driver is not above suspicion. As he calls out each new destination, you think you can hear a sinister note enter his voice.
Dragging your eyes away from the girl's torso, unwillingly, you pan the surroundings, hoping to catch a glimmer of malice, an evil laugh or a malevolent grin from your co-passengers. A new worry arises - is it just one? Are they all working together? Are you the only one unaware of what is happening? Your senses strain to catch hints of collaboration - a tiny nod of acknowledgement, a shrug of the shoulders or a yawn; they could all be secret signals. Why, even the driver's tone changes as he announces the stops - could this be a call to arms?
(based on this morning's bus commute to work - I'm not sure whether to continue. I don't have any idea how to, either.)
Your mind flashes to the warnings you've heard & seen - "Please report any unattended bags or suspicious behaviour to the bus driver." Snorting at the thought of the box being potentially dangerous, you return to your world of the book and the world outside. It's troubling you, still. You can't focus entirely on what's written in the book, the poetic lines into which you want to escape. The music blaring in your ears doesn't help either. You're still vaguely uneasy about the box; and still in doubt whether to cause a panic by telling the bus driver.
But you know what he doesn't; a box, wrapped in pink plastic, that could be dangerous. You're almost convinced of it - what else could it be, you ask yourself?
You allow your imagination to take flight. Suspicions that you, consciously, would have never entertained, become more and more realistic and plausible. As the bus speeds on, you feel disconnected from the outside world, choosing to focus solely within.
Everyone becomes a suspect - the old couple that are whispering in the seat in front of you, the blue-eyed boy that throws smouldering looks at each new rider, the middle-aged, smartly-dressed gentleman taking the seat behind you. Your focus, however, remains on the box. Your eyes, though drawn momentarily to the pretty seventeen year-old girl whose halter you long to remove, return to the box. Even the driver is not above suspicion. As he calls out each new destination, you think you can hear a sinister note enter his voice.
Dragging your eyes away from the girl's torso, unwillingly, you pan the surroundings, hoping to catch a glimmer of malice, an evil laugh or a malevolent grin from your co-passengers. A new worry arises - is it just one? Are they all working together? Are you the only one unaware of what is happening? Your senses strain to catch hints of collaboration - a tiny nod of acknowledgement, a shrug of the shoulders or a yawn; they could all be secret signals. Why, even the driver's tone changes as he announces the stops - could this be a call to arms?
(based on this morning's bus commute to work - I'm not sure whether to continue. I don't have any idea how to, either.)
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Late realisation
I never realised, until now, how vast the US actually is - it's 3100 miles (better known to the world as 4960 km) from Boston to San Francisco. Check it out. It's really mind-boggling.
To-do list before graduation: Drive from Boston to SF. Perhaps right after graduation. Even though I live near Chicago. This is too interesting to resist! Any takers?
To-do list before graduation: Drive from Boston to SF. Perhaps right after graduation. Even though I live near Chicago. This is too interesting to resist! Any takers?
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