aMMusing

Holy crap!

When I was caught to stay overnight at Newark, I desperately wanted to get a message to the roommate, Cleopatrick, so that he wouldn’t worry that anything bad happened. I discovered that yet another foible of my home phone line is that it does not accept collect calls. (I have to complain about that.) So, after trying different things, I managed to leave him a voice-mail message, paid on my credit card.

Cost: $17.73! Wowzah!!!

Then again, I had no choice, did I. At least all went well with my transactions while in Mexico. And I was able to connect to Skype while in Newark to let Esposo know what had happened.

Suppose you’re trying to change a car registration from Nova Scotia to Québec, as I’m having to do. And suppose you have a letter from the company from which you leased your car but bought out a year ago that reads in part:

Account Settlement
We are please to inform you that all obligations under this lease have been satisfied.

At the top of this letter, on letterhead, there’s the date, the account number, a bar code and a toll-free number. And suppose you have tons of other documents — bills, a passport, everything! — that states your same Halifax address over and over and over. Wouldn’t you think that should be enough to switch your bloody car registration?

Well, not according to Québec bureaucrats. Or at least, the bureaucrat I had the misfortune of falling upon this morning.

The instant I arrived at her wicket, she exuded that “what the hell do you want from me” attitude that led me to think she was trying to come up with ways of asking me how deeply I should kiss her ass and mean it. Think a cross of the attitude of Selma Bouvier and the look of Radio-Canada’s Fosse aux lionnes “collaboratrice” Guylaine Guay below, complete with the latter’s glib smile. And our encounter went downhill in the first seconds when she asked me to sign “in the box, without going outside the lines,” which I did with the pen that was in the holder to my right. “Non, non, non, non, non!” she exclaimed, rolling her eyes. “That’s the wrong pen” (in French). For you see, hidden beside and under the magnetic pad was another identical-looking pen that I was supposed to use because, shouldn’t I know, it’s connected to her computer. With much ceremony to emphasize how much I was putting her out, she replaced the paper on the pad and got me to sign again.

Upon looking at my registration, she paused and asked, “Noh-va Sco-tee-a …that’s a province of Québec?” I know that at that point, I blinked hard and my jaw dropped. “A province of Canada,” I said, “just like Québec” (suppressing the “whether you like it or not, you stupid bitch”). And after she conferenced with her supervisor and it became obvious my perfectly good letter wouldn’t be good enough, I just fell silent, put away all my papers, looked at her straight in the eyes and said, “You really don’t want new residents of Québec, do you!” She protested and disagreed, urging me to see it her way with my “flimsy” letter. She seemed to be as pleased as punch that, in her eyes, she had saved the government of Québec of some egregious fraud and, generally, ruined another person’s day. No wonder they have security guards in that place; it took every grain of a non-violent person’s fibre — namely mine — from reaching over and bitch-slapping her right then and there.

And I forgot… A few moments earlier while I was in the waiting room, a security guard called for all those exchanging “un permis de l’étranger“ (which should literally mean, “a permit from abroad“), so I didn’t get up. But “Wait a minute,” I thought to myself a minute later. This is Québec, and gawd knows most francophone Québécois (although this guy seemed more like a brainwashed first-generation Quebecker with heavily accented French) are hopeless navel-gazers who THINK they’re worldly but know little outside a 200-mile radius of their little self. So I went up to the guard and asked (in French):

– When you said ‘de l’étranger’, you did mean from outside Canada right?”

He asked where my license was from and I told him — Nova Scotia.

– “Well yes,” he replied, annoyed, “that’s ‘de l’étranger’.”

– “Maybe YOU define another province of Canada as l’étranger, but that’s not obvious to ME!”

I have trouble imagining a U.S. state like Louisiana or Texas getting away with people saying stuff like that. Québec is run like a different, sovereign country while still gladly (but absent-mindedly) sucking on the teat of the central government in Ottawa for equalization payments, of which it’s a recipient unlike Ontario, Alberta and British Columbia although many around here would deny that’s the case. It’s remarkable, really.

And needless to say, I walked out of the SAAQ without new plates and only a temporary driver’s license. When I got home and called my leasing company, the guy who answered (who was in Toronto) just said, “Oh …you’re having to deal with the SAAQ. They’re notorious.” He immediately started the paperwork and I can look forward in about a week to a third visit to the SAAQ. Third time is the charm, let’s hope.

Oh …and my health card? If I’d moved within Québec, the SAAQ could have initiated the necessary paperwork. But not for a “foreigner” like me. And no, “No idea where you’re supposed to go to get that done,” I was told. Fortunately, Cleopatrick‘s mother wisely suggested I go to the closest CLSC …and please don’t ask me to define what a CLSC is. I haven’t the strength.

I’ve got to put a positive spin on all of this. Got to!

Found it!

It’s not just Esposo who’s immigrating to another country. We both are.

Since I’m in a sufficiently pissed off mood right now, here’s another quick rant: Windows Vista totally SUCKS. That’s the OS that came with this laptop I’m using, but I don’t care: at the first opportunity, I’m going to find a version of XP for it. Vista is bloated and slow and doesn’t significantly improve XP. I don’t care that any kind of support of XP by Microsoft ends in June; I’ve not found a single compelling reason to stick to Vista. So, since there’s nothing major installed or saved on this laptop, I’m getting the whole thing reformatted down to XP. And I’m sure that will make operating this laptop a much happier experience.

When I heard Esposo’s sad, sad voice on the voice-mail — two messages left via Skype Out to the home landline — my heart just melted. Except for a regular Skype call from a café last Saturday — and even that free connection was unstable — it’s been over two weeks we haven’t spoken. I missed all of his other Skype Out calls — once because my landline was dead, once because I couldn’t run across the apartment face enough before voice mail picked up, and then again last night. But as much as I like the new apartment, I feel disconnected there right now and can’t stand being unable to turn to the computer for anything. Who would have thought that by 2008, a computer that is not ‘Net-connected would be next to useless.

I came back from the broom closet work today to find that the DSL light is still flashing in glorious futility and no technician from Bell called to make an appointment to visit. Last night I was told it could take 24 to 72 hours, and sitting there on the sofa, I thought, “They might call Monday, to make an appointment for the next day, and arrive to determine that something highly unusual (although probably usual for Bell) is going on with the line and, no, they can’t fix it today but in 48 hours” …which would take us to next Friday. So, I called to nudge things along, only to find that, indeed, the status of service starting was changed from 2 April to 14 April, and no sign of an appointment coming soon. The gentleman at the end of the line suggested I call first thing in the morning in the hope of catching a cancellation tomorrow.

But, earlier as I came home, I had found the perfect piece of mail in my box: a pamphlet from Videotron. So, I called the number and asked it my question. “If you answer ‘yes’ to my first question, we’ll keep talking, and if you answer ‘no,’ I’ll stick to the devil I know,” I started. “I’m sick of the comedy of errors from Bell, and all I want is high-speed Internet. So, yes or no: could you have it installed tomorrow.” The lady at the end of the line didn’t miss a beat. “Give me your address, I’ll look it up and I’ll give you a definite ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

She came back with a “yes.” Between 7:30 and noon tomorrow. And the first month will be free.

I went with it. Placed an order and a deposit, and set the alarm in case they really arrive at 7:30. It’s more expensive than Bell and Bell was going to give the first two months free, but as my mother would say, “Un ‘le voici’ vaut plus que deux ‘tu l’auras’” (“One ‘there you are’ is worth more than two ‘you’ll have it’”). Then, I called back Bell technical to cancel whatever technician might be coming this century or next, and while I’ll wait for Videotron tomorrow, I’ll be calling Bell to cancel the Internet service. I’m prepared for an argument, but where they did not deliver the goods in what anyone would consider a timely manner, any Internet-related fees or deposits I paid them I expect back. As for Videotron, I didn’t look into cable TV or cell phone just yet; being connected to the ‘Net from home tomorrow is my ONLY priority right now.

A part of me regrets not having called Videotron earlier, but then, by the time I called, I had the perfect sob story and it gave someone else the opportunity to tell Ma Bell to go piss up a rope.

This morning I picked up the phone receiver and it’s dead. No dial tone. Switched phone, but still dead. Cleopatrick’s theory, which I think is plausible, is that a squirrel may have nibbled on the new line. But it’s an external problem that can’t be blamed on Ma Bell this time.

A repair person is coming Monday evening. The saga of having a personal phone line and Internet connection continues……

Okay, you can’t stop worrying now; I’m alive and well and living in Montreal. Everything went well except one thing: Ma Bell, I’m forced to conclude, is a total bitch. I have no Internet connection at home yet and may only have it by Tuesday. Consequently, I have been working out of a broom closet at the branch. The apartment is wonderful, though — larger than I remembered it when I viewed it (twice). Once the dust settles — real soon — I expect a lot of company Casa F&M. Should be fun! Plus, there’s a hint of spring in the air — hope that winter is almost a memory……

Need to think of a replacement banner now that I’m no longer in Halifax. Maybe a silhouette of the Oratoire St-Joseph, which is visible from the apartment balcony when there are no leaves in the trees?

I hate not being able to sleep, especially when I have such a busy day ahead of me. HATE IT.

That is all.

Fer fuck sake! On days like this, it’s hard to believe I make a living working at a computer all day. But, at the same time, I realize that I do (read, that I’m addicted) because not having Internet access from every computer in the house is driving me crazy.

It all started two weeks ago when I agreed with El Poema that I should get myself a cheap laptop. After work that Friday night, I went to Business Depot and found a Toshiba that met that description, and asked the salesperson if I could bring it back if I couldn’t just plug it into my home network. He said sure, provided I bring it back within 14 days.

I got home and it took over an hour to boot it the first time. Fine …but then I tried to connect to the router/network and was stymied by having to know the encryption key. Damn if I knew what it was!

With everything else I have on the go these days, trying to figure this out is more than I can handle. So, I finally broke down and hired a techie from PC Medic to do a house call. He came yesterday and, although he found the key in two seconds, other complications conspired and he couldn’t get the damn thing to hook up. “That does it,” I thought. The laptop might not be at fault, but I’m bringing it back. On precisely the 14th day.

But then I thought I’d drop by PC Medic. Maybe I could get an equally cheap laptop and it would connect on the first try. I got a recycled laptop that still had XP as the operating system — as opposed to Vista on the previous one — but, once home, it became apparent this one wouldn’t connect, either. Thankfully, the PC Medic people agreed that if I couldn’t connect instantly, I could bring it back the next day and they’d reimburse me, no questions asked.

However, I then found myself with a computer inferior to the Toshiba I had before, so screw that! I brought the recycled thing back to PC Medic. And then I thought, What about if I got another Toshiba, try at least to connect to an unsecured network — for really, the whole point of this laptop is to have a computer I can travel with and connect to a wireless network. So, off I go to another Business Depot location and I get another Toshiba. I even talked them into giving it to me for the same price as the previous one. But where it was closing time and all, I had to go back today to pick it up, reformatted.

So I did. Even though it was considerably later than I said I would come by, it wasn’t ready yet and I had to wait quite a while. Back home, I boot the sucker up …but to make a long story short, this one is a total dud! But what’s more, now my router is a complete piece of toast, which I’m told is because it’s a very unpopular brand la la la la la. (It’s an SMC, in case you’re wondering.) So now, only the computer that’s directly connected can reach the Net. And only one of the two desktops in the living room can “talk” to the desktop in my office.

Needless to say, the dud is going back to the store tomorrow. And where I know Business Depot has several other Toshibas at the downtown store (as of last night, at least), I’m going to insist on getting one and go through this whole song-and-dance all over again.

That’s not going to fix the network/router, mind you. On that front, I’m not sure what to do anymore. I think I might have to get a non-SMC and start the network all over again. But there’s no friggin’ way I’ll succeed on my own. So, now I’m thinking I’ll have to bite the bullet and hire another techie who, I would hope, could get this all done in about two hours …’cause that’s what a techie does, right? (Kaching, kaching!) And then, I would hope to make copious notes so I can dismantle this bloody network, replug it once in Montréal in two months, and it’ll all work like a charm, right?

Can you tell this cascade of incidents has broke this camel’s back?

Okay, so it’s the weekend and I didn’t expect that I would be removed yet from the calling list of the company I e-mailed yesterday (per my previous post). But the phone rang again tonight around 7 o’clock, and there they were again! They’re driving me crazy!

This time, though, I decided to be more persistent and even tried to leave a message on ANYONE’s voice mail, but to no avail. So, I did a bit more research and found the company’s non-toll-free number and even the extension of the privacy officer. And this time I left an emphatic message: “Please, please, PLEASE remove the number 902 555 5555 from your list RIGHT NOW. You are calling way too often and have reduced me to never answering my phone. I can’t WAIT for the national do-not-call registry to be enforced in this country. Good night.”

Important research to allow companies to offer me better products… Feh! Kiss my faggy ass! Make it sound like it’s all about me when really it’s all about companies wanting to make even more obscene profits and flood the market with even more “stuff” we’ve managed quite fine without until now.

That’s right: You’re not improving my life one iota. In fact, you and your ilk are making it worse by turning a formerly useful instrument, namely the telephone, into a source of constant aggravation. And I’ll be damned before I get rid of my landline just because telemarketers are forbidden to call mobile phones. I know people who’ve done that and I can’t blame them, but I refuse to follow that path. You’re the ones who should change; not me.

Unsolicitated phone calls and e-mails. I hate them! The former have brought me to stop answering my home phone; the latter clog up my inbox and probably drive my Web host insane.

I don’t know what brought to open up one of the spam e-mails (subject being “Hi” and McAfee having marked it as spam). It turns out it was one of a million e-mails for Vi*gr* or a lookalike. This one killed me, though. “Even if you have no erection problems Vi*gr* would help you to make better sex more often,” it explains. And it ends with this claim: “the majority of men after taking this medication were able to have perfect erection during 24 hours!”

I laughed out loud. First, “to make better sex more often” reminded me of Costas in Shirley Valentine, when he proposed to “make fuck” with her. And then, thinking of a 24-hours erection, I said to myself, “That’s some serious edging session!”

But the thing is, I do hope they mean that the men could achieve numerous “perfect erections” over a 24-hour period and not that they had a “perfect erection” FOR 24 hours. Because there is such a thing as priapism, you know. Just sayin’. A 24-hour hard on is just NOT a good thing!

Meanwhile, as I’ve written above, I’ve stopped answering my home phone these days. Yes, there’s the fact I spend my entire workday on the phone and I can’t stand another call after that. But it’s also because the vast majority of the calls are “spam calls” and I figure friends or family will leave me a message.

For instance, in a span of about 4 hours today, I got 3 such calls that I know of (since I was out during part of that time). Thanks to dialing *69, I figured out the first one came from this call centre. I dialed the number and, after finally being offered a chance to leave a message requesting that my number be taken off their list, I landed in voice-mail jail. But then I noticed an e-mail address in the “Privacy” section of their website and, against my better judgement, I fired off this e-mail.

I did the *69 thing after the second call, but could hardly understand a word of their voice-mail message, let alone the company’s name, and wasn’t offered an option to have my number removed — at least, that I could understand.

Finally, *69 after the third call gave me a number and a relatively prompt offer to select 1 to have my number removed. I followed the instructions and, upon completion, heard, “Please allow 4 weeks to action this request.”

Four. Fucking. Weeks. Plus I hate it when “action” is used a verb. I hear such turns of phrase at work too often and I cringe ever time.

I admit that I feel sorry for those who work in such call centres. Those who work in outgoing centres have to contend with unpleasant people like me who curtly ask them to have his number removed from their list and refuse to explain why or engage in any kind of conversation except to achieve the result I desire. And those who work in incoming centres are in an environment whose stress is second only to that experienced by air-traffic controls (or so some studies suggest). I feel sorry because I’m having to shoot the innocent messager. But I don’t believe the pitches and surveys are important enough to turn the sound of a ringing phone into a sound to be dreaded.