Banking Schmanking

Finances are not my strong suit: I usually try to do things simply and carefully because I just don't have the mind that likes figuring out issues involving math.  I have one checking account and one savings account, and I have to balance those each month and keep accurate track of what I'm spending or saving so everything is kosher.  That is enough financial world interaction for me.

Since June 5, my on-line records show that I did no savings account transactions, which I know is not accurate as I paid for my October trip and transferred the money from savings to checking.  I also have a couple of credit card bills for my upcoming August trip, and I did the same thing: pay them out of checking and transfer the money from savings.  Today I decided it was "the" day to go online and figure out why, in the course of the month of July, my savings account grew by $4000+ dollars, rather than depleting by the cost of my two trips and monies spent for them.

I waited on the phone for a full 15 minutes before Darcy came on and then I presented the issue to her very simply:  why can I spend money from my savings account and, rather than losing money, it grows by $4000+.  She went through all of my records and told me that I had zero activity on the account in July, which I know is not the case, and the balance showing on my screen is correct. I disagreed with her assessment, but she was adamant that my records are correct.

And, maybe she's right:  maybe I didn't do any transactions involving my savings account since June 5, but if that's so, how do you explain the extra money?  Isn't that a "transaction" that came from somewhere and appeared in my account?

There comes a time when it's prudent to give up, quit the argument, and end the discussion. Darcy assured me that the records are accurate, so I'll accept that and move on.  No, I won't go hog-wild and spend money I don't have, so I'll leave it as a nice little "egg" in my financial basket.

Olive Garden Restaurant Fail

Today, my friend and I decided to treat ourselves to lunch at OG, one of our favorite places to eat. We arrived promptly at 11 am, were seated, made our selections, and waited for the magic to happen.

My friend's soup 'n salad came to the table, along with a big bowl of salad, so we began by serving ourselves from the salad bowl. There were big chunks of the ends of lettuce, far too many pieces of wilted lettuce, and only 2 black olives in the whole bowl. My friend finished her salad and said she'd wait to eat her soup until I received my salmon. Finally, I summoned the waiter and asked where my salmon was as it had literally been 25 minutes since I ordered it and still no sign of my entrée. He went back to the kitchen to check, and came back to tell me it would be up shortly. I urged C to eat her soup and enjoy another bowl of salad, but we both were grossed out by the salad and didn't want to eat any of what remained in the bowl.

Finally, my salmon and broccoli arrived. The broccoli was plain, no sauce/no seasoning/no butter, and it tasted just warm enough to have been put into the microwave and been heated. He offered to go back to the kitchen and get another serving of broccoli, so I decided to move on to the salmon. The salmon was dry; again, no sauce and no seasoning. I took about 3 bites and called the server back. I told him that so far, my lunch was an epic fail and I had no intention of eating anything else.

The manager came to our table and was polite and pleasant, apologizing for our meal and comping it, which was a good move as I hadn't eaten more than 4-5 bites of anything. My friend left behind most of her bowl of soup, but did manage to eat at least one serving of salad.

I appreciated the response from the employees, but left hungry enough to drive all the way home and fix myself some lunch. I won't hurry back to Olive Garden, but will give them another try ... later.

Pronouns and Antecedents

One of those pesky grammar lessons showed up in today's on-line newspaper in an article about a shooting involving 2 police officers, a K-9 officer, and a fleeing suspect. As the paper describes it,

When he broke free, one of the officers sent his K-9 partner, Ike, to apprehend him, Long said.

As Ike attempted to catch the parolee, he produced a handgun and fired multiple rounds, hitting both the officer and Ike, Long said.

The two officers returned fire, killing the parolee, she said.

I realize that K-9s are as much a part of the police force as their human counterparts, but I had not realized that Ike could "produce a handgun and fire multiple rounds" while chasing a fleeing suspect. Ike, the K-9 officer, died at the scene -- but maybe he'll be awarded a posthumous award for killing the parolee?

After all, that's not something just any ole K-9 can do!!

Grace

The stiffly-starched whiteness of the collar ringed the neck of the black nylon polka dot dress, securely fastened from white collar to hemline with brilliant white buttons diligently kept spotless. Along the edge of the unnaturally white collar, a small edging of tatted lace softened the starkness of the silently still woman sitting on the bus bench, her knees held tightly together, her ankles touching. Old-fashioned highly polished black shoes were tied to her feet, the black laces forming a measured bow across her instep, a proper chunky two-inch heel adding a Sunday touch to her appearance. Age was indiscriminate, hidden in the creases and folds that belied the victim of servitude and sunshine. Squarely across her lap, wrinkled hands blended into the handle of the firmly clutched black bag that looked as if it had spent the weekdays on a closet shelf for many years.

This was not a woman of means, but a proud woman waiting for the city bus to take her to church services. She looked straight ahead, not wanting to attract attention to herself, sitting alone on the far end of the bench as if waiting for other travelers to join her. Cars passed, which she neither saw nor acknowledged, filling the early morning air with noise and dust. No one thought to stop and offer her a ride, perhaps a familiar Sunday sight that formed part of the ordinary routine of the small rural community who had asked before and been politely declined. “I'll wait for the bus. Thank you for your kindness,” a proud woman used to doing for others, not being done for in even the simplest ways.

A slight shifting of her hands indicated that she heard the bus down the road a ways and she began the process of standing to signal to the driver to pick her up. Her head never moved, eyes neither right nor left, but her feet edged slightly apart to provide balance as her body leaned slowly toward the street, momentum providing the assist necessary to become erect. Once standing, her feet again tucked tightly together, her head facing the street, she waited, knowing that she’d take her customary seat at the back of the bus and sing silent hymns as she journeyed to her destination.