When one of the clerks at my local small-town store returned from college last spring, I asked her how her first year of college went.
“OK,” she answered cheerfully, and then added emphatically, “Only thing is, college professors just don’t care about you. High school teachers care; professors just want to collect that check, and that’s all they care about.”
I kept my groans and sighs internal. “What do you mean, exactly?” I asked. She just repeated the above. “Well, like what, for example?” I prompted. She didn’t know. Said she’d think about it.
I saw her again this week, back from school again. I didn’t recognize her until I heard her voice—she was at best “stocky” before, and in the past few months, she’s changed her hair style and color and gained at least 25 lbs.—now seriously obese. I was shaking my head about a few of my own students, students who had emailed me course work eight days after the last day of classes—no explanation, no excuse, no plea for clemency, just the blithe expectation that of course I could just accept it whenever they got around to submitting it.
“A problem with math skills, perhaps!” I joked with the clerk.
“Oh, I’m terrible at math—but I got an A, because my math teacher likes me.”
Still joking, I abruptly shifted my weight, placed my fist on my hip, demanding “And English?!”
“Oh—that was horrible!” she replied. “We had an adjunct.”
OK—not quite enough information (especially since she attends a community college—60%+ of the faculty are adjuncts)…
“What was the problem?” I asked.
“He hardly ever came to class,” she said calmly, and then with much more animation, “And he was the kind of professor who would assign a ten page paper on introducing wolves into the Adirondacks…”
I cut her off. “Wait a minute. He hardly ever came to class?”
“Yup,” she answered, “And he assigned this ridiculous ten page paper on introducing wolves into the Adirondacks…”
I sensed a pattern here, and sure enough, we repeated it a few more times.
“Never mind the paper,” I finally insisted. “Let’s stick with your first point—if he hardly ever came to class, why didn’t you talk to the department Chair? Or the Dean?”
She looked at me and shrugged, a bit confused. “Well, this paper was just ridiculous…”
A ten page paper. O the horrors. Probably involved research too.
“But why would you all sit there repeatedly when he didn’t come to class and not report it?”
She shrugged again. “I don’t know. We didn’t think of it, I guess.”
Critical thinking. Education in action.
Writer
Showing posts with label clerk. Show all posts
Showing posts with label clerk. Show all posts
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Two Doors Down
A few mornings ago, my husky mix, Shanti, broke her lead while I was at work and went for a run around my country neighborhood. When I returned home at 11:30 a.m. that morning and saw the broken lead (she has the sweep of the yard and several trees with 60’ of lead), I immediately rushed inside to see if anyone had called. Indeed, yes—a new neighbor who lived just two doors down.
“I have your dog,” she began, “A white dog? She was running all over the place. Anyway, I’ve got her tied up next to the barn, but I’m going out of town around noon, and I don’t want to leave her tied up, so I don’t know what to do if I don’t hear from you. I guess I’ll call the dog warden.”
I hurriedly called the number she left. “I’m sorry,” said the computer generated voice, “but this party isn’t accepting calls from private numbers.” I can never remember the code to fix that, so I just jumped in the car and rushed over there (about 600 feet).
No car. No dog. No answer at the door—although HER dog came rushing to bark at the door, and a cat snaked its way around the porch.
Back home, I called the dog pound, euphemistically called “Wanderer’s Rest,” 20 minutes away. They weren’t open—open at noon. I left a message. I waited, anxiously. I called back at noon. Busy. I called again. Busy. Around 12:30, I finally got a human, and poured into my story, looking for my dog.
“Yes, she’s here,” I heard—and then a flurry of questions to make sure she’s REALLY my dog. I answered the questions, explained again, and pointed out, “She’s wearing an ID tag with my name, address, and phone, a rabies tag with the vet’s name and number, and a tag identifying her chip number—she’s got an ID chip,” I add, just remembering.
“Well, we scanned her twice,” explained the voice, adding blithely, “Maybe we’re not doing it right.” Yeah. Maybe.
“We just need proof of her rabies vaccination, license, and a fee for her boarding.” Huh?
“OK, just call the vet (I had the number) and the town clerk and they can verify that.” Oh no. They needed documents. I protested.
“The vet can fax the certificate,” mandated the voice. “Fine,” I answered, “But I’m not sure about the town clerk—she’s only there a few hours each week.”
“Well,” came the reply, “We’ll hold Shanti here until you can get that.” I struggled to control my temper and got their fax number.
Fortunately, the town clerk DID have hours starting at 1:00 (although she was 15 minutes late that afternoon, and then had 15 minutes worth of trouble logging into her software for the dog licensing information).
The meeting at Wanderer’s Rest was terse. The woman at the desk pulled out my paperwork—complete with name, address, phone, all completed by the dog warden, noting “Time of seizure—9:15. Chasing livestock. Unlicensed. Violation of leash law.”
So much for noon. Chasing livestock? They have one horse, and it wasn’t there, presumably boarded while they’re out of town. She was licensed. She was also trailing 18’ of vinyl coated airline cable lead. Official lies.
But we live TWO DOORS DOWN. Why not simply take her back and tie her up? It’s obvious where she got loose via the broken cable, she has trees for shade, she has water—what’s the problem? I’ve certainly done this for neighbor’s dogs—and even for the one neighbor who refuses to control his dog, a chocolate lab, I just taught the dog myself to sit, stay, etc. I could have called the dog warden several times, but why punish the dog? What would that prove?
Shanti had a cream colored stain on her snout. “Oh, we give all new dogs worming medicine,” volunteered the shelter worker, noticing my examination. They had also removed her collar and had to go fetch it. She wasn’t the same dog for a day and a half.
So let’s review. Everyone knew where the dog lived. Everyone knew she had been loose unintentionally. Everyone knew who owned her. Everyone knew she had a current rabies vaccine (in New York State, rabies tags change shape and color every year). Yet, the dog warden drove to my neighbor’s house, drove 20 minutes to the shelter, filled out paperwork, drove back. The shelter workers “processed” her, including administering unnecessary medication (remember, they had my vet’s number on her tags, and anyone at the vet’s office could readily identify this dog). Then there’s the wasted time expected of my vet, the town clerk—not to mention the work time I lost.
All over a dog everyone knew lived 600 feet away.
Writer
“I have your dog,” she began, “A white dog? She was running all over the place. Anyway, I’ve got her tied up next to the barn, but I’m going out of town around noon, and I don’t want to leave her tied up, so I don’t know what to do if I don’t hear from you. I guess I’ll call the dog warden.”
I hurriedly called the number she left. “I’m sorry,” said the computer generated voice, “but this party isn’t accepting calls from private numbers.” I can never remember the code to fix that, so I just jumped in the car and rushed over there (about 600 feet).
No car. No dog. No answer at the door—although HER dog came rushing to bark at the door, and a cat snaked its way around the porch.
Back home, I called the dog pound, euphemistically called “Wanderer’s Rest,” 20 minutes away. They weren’t open—open at noon. I left a message. I waited, anxiously. I called back at noon. Busy. I called again. Busy. Around 12:30, I finally got a human, and poured into my story, looking for my dog.
“Yes, she’s here,” I heard—and then a flurry of questions to make sure she’s REALLY my dog. I answered the questions, explained again, and pointed out, “She’s wearing an ID tag with my name, address, and phone, a rabies tag with the vet’s name and number, and a tag identifying her chip number—she’s got an ID chip,” I add, just remembering.
“Well, we scanned her twice,” explained the voice, adding blithely, “Maybe we’re not doing it right.” Yeah. Maybe.
“We just need proof of her rabies vaccination, license, and a fee for her boarding.” Huh?
“OK, just call the vet (I had the number) and the town clerk and they can verify that.” Oh no. They needed documents. I protested.
“The vet can fax the certificate,” mandated the voice. “Fine,” I answered, “But I’m not sure about the town clerk—she’s only there a few hours each week.”
“Well,” came the reply, “We’ll hold Shanti here until you can get that.” I struggled to control my temper and got their fax number.
Fortunately, the town clerk DID have hours starting at 1:00 (although she was 15 minutes late that afternoon, and then had 15 minutes worth of trouble logging into her software for the dog licensing information).
The meeting at Wanderer’s Rest was terse. The woman at the desk pulled out my paperwork—complete with name, address, phone, all completed by the dog warden, noting “Time of seizure—9:15. Chasing livestock. Unlicensed. Violation of leash law.”
So much for noon. Chasing livestock? They have one horse, and it wasn’t there, presumably boarded while they’re out of town. She was licensed. She was also trailing 18’ of vinyl coated airline cable lead. Official lies.
But we live TWO DOORS DOWN. Why not simply take her back and tie her up? It’s obvious where she got loose via the broken cable, she has trees for shade, she has water—what’s the problem? I’ve certainly done this for neighbor’s dogs—and even for the one neighbor who refuses to control his dog, a chocolate lab, I just taught the dog myself to sit, stay, etc. I could have called the dog warden several times, but why punish the dog? What would that prove?
Shanti had a cream colored stain on her snout. “Oh, we give all new dogs worming medicine,” volunteered the shelter worker, noticing my examination. They had also removed her collar and had to go fetch it. She wasn’t the same dog for a day and a half.
So let’s review. Everyone knew where the dog lived. Everyone knew she had been loose unintentionally. Everyone knew who owned her. Everyone knew she had a current rabies vaccine (in New York State, rabies tags change shape and color every year). Yet, the dog warden drove to my neighbor’s house, drove 20 minutes to the shelter, filled out paperwork, drove back. The shelter workers “processed” her, including administering unnecessary medication (remember, they had my vet’s number on her tags, and anyone at the vet’s office could readily identify this dog). Then there’s the wasted time expected of my vet, the town clerk—not to mention the work time I lost.
All over a dog everyone knew lived 600 feet away.
Writer
Friday, June 15, 2007
Accept the Amount?
I stopped by the True Value hardware store to pick up a new pair of work gloves (I mislaid the old pair). While there, I picked up a collapsible chair—I have one, but since catherine (my significant other, deliberately spelled with a small “c”) will be down from Canada just before an outdoor three day Jazz Fest, we’ll need another. I headed for the cashier, and remembering that I only had a few dollars in my wallet (I have a bad habit of carrying around paychecks instead of visiting the bank), I pulled out the plastic.
“Debit or credit?” asked the clerk. I always use debit, since it just comes out of my checking account anyway, and I don’t want to add to my credit balance. “Debit,” I said, picking up the keypad on the counter. “Push the green button to accept the amount,” she instructed. “I can’t negotiate?” I quipped.
She laughed. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” The man in line behind me was also amused. “It’d be like priceline,” he said. [I didn’t know what that was, but a little research reveals he meant priceline.com, a primarily travel-based web site where visitors can, indeed, bid what they’re willing to pay. But I got the general idea.] “You should write about that,” he continued. “Places like ‘Reader’s Digest’ pay money for pieces like that.”
I should have dope slapped myself. I felt like Michael Keaton’s speech writer character Kevin in the movie “Speechless” when, after rival speech writer and love interest Julia (Geena Davis) stumps him with a simple question about specifics, he mumbles to himself, “I’m a writer; I should be prepared for stuff like this..”
“That’s an EXCELLENT idea,” I answered my fellow customer, “and I’m going to my car right now to write that down before I forget.” My husky mix, waiting comfortably in the air-conditioning but impatiently wondering when we were going to get to our morning run, had to settle down for a bit while I sketched how this might go:
KEYPAD: Accept the amount? Please press Yes or No.
ME (text messaging): I’m OK with 99¢ for the gloves, but $8.99 seems a bit much for a chair that’s essentially a little plastic “canvas” and hollow metal rods.
KEYPAD: Well, you picked the cheapest chair—we have a better model.
ME: Yes, I saw it, but $10 more for almost the same chair seems extreme. Can’t we work something out on the low end chair?
KEYPAD: We can deal with the high end chair, but our margin is just too low on the cheaper chairs—we rely on volume there.
ME: Still, I bet I could go to Oneida and find a similar chair for less.
KEYPAD: OK, let me check…
…PROCESSING…
…Yes, you’re right, they do have stock at $6.99
ME: So you’ll match their price?
KEYPAD: Not so fast. With today’s gas prices, you aren’t driving to a store 20 minutes away, shopping around, then 15 minutes back to the address we have on file for you, losing at least an hour of your time, just to save two bucks.
[The machine had a point. I thought for a minute.]
ME: OK, we’re going to be sitting in the sun for three days—what if I get a beach umbrella too? Can we talk package deal?
[The machine senses the opportunity for add-on sales.]
KEYPAD: That’s possible—but you’re going to need sunscreen too, aren’t you?
[Indeed, catherine is recovering from a sunburn already.]
ME: What’s the SPF?
KEYPAD: We’ve got some SPF 30 in stock.
ME: Done.
KEYPAD: ...PROCESSING…
[Displays both the regular total and the package deal total.]
Accept the amount? Please press Yes or No.
[I press Yes and enter my PIN.]
Writer
“Debit or credit?” asked the clerk. I always use debit, since it just comes out of my checking account anyway, and I don’t want to add to my credit balance. “Debit,” I said, picking up the keypad on the counter. “Push the green button to accept the amount,” she instructed. “I can’t negotiate?” I quipped.
She laughed. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” The man in line behind me was also amused. “It’d be like priceline,” he said. [I didn’t know what that was, but a little research reveals he meant priceline.com, a primarily travel-based web site where visitors can, indeed, bid what they’re willing to pay. But I got the general idea.] “You should write about that,” he continued. “Places like ‘Reader’s Digest’ pay money for pieces like that.”
I should have dope slapped myself. I felt like Michael Keaton’s speech writer character Kevin in the movie “Speechless” when, after rival speech writer and love interest Julia (Geena Davis) stumps him with a simple question about specifics, he mumbles to himself, “I’m a writer; I should be prepared for stuff like this..”
“That’s an EXCELLENT idea,” I answered my fellow customer, “and I’m going to my car right now to write that down before I forget.” My husky mix, waiting comfortably in the air-conditioning but impatiently wondering when we were going to get to our morning run, had to settle down for a bit while I sketched how this might go:
KEYPAD: Accept the amount? Please press Yes or No.
ME (text messaging): I’m OK with 99¢ for the gloves, but $8.99 seems a bit much for a chair that’s essentially a little plastic “canvas” and hollow metal rods.
KEYPAD: Well, you picked the cheapest chair—we have a better model.
ME: Yes, I saw it, but $10 more for almost the same chair seems extreme. Can’t we work something out on the low end chair?
KEYPAD: We can deal with the high end chair, but our margin is just too low on the cheaper chairs—we rely on volume there.
ME: Still, I bet I could go to Oneida and find a similar chair for less.
KEYPAD: OK, let me check…
…PROCESSING…
…Yes, you’re right, they do have stock at $6.99
ME: So you’ll match their price?
KEYPAD: Not so fast. With today’s gas prices, you aren’t driving to a store 20 minutes away, shopping around, then 15 minutes back to the address we have on file for you, losing at least an hour of your time, just to save two bucks.
[The machine had a point. I thought for a minute.]
ME: OK, we’re going to be sitting in the sun for three days—what if I get a beach umbrella too? Can we talk package deal?
[The machine senses the opportunity for add-on sales.]
KEYPAD: That’s possible—but you’re going to need sunscreen too, aren’t you?
[Indeed, catherine is recovering from a sunburn already.]
ME: What’s the SPF?
KEYPAD: We’ve got some SPF 30 in stock.
ME: Done.
KEYPAD: ...PROCESSING…
[Displays both the regular total and the package deal total.]
Accept the amount? Please press Yes or No.
[I press Yes and enter my PIN.]
Writer
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