Stir Crazy

After handing in my last exam a little before 4:30 today I finished school for the semester. My plan for the summer is to make like any other student and get a summer job. I really could use even a brief respite from the whole poor student shtick and I'd like to try and minimize my loans for next year. To that end, I've sent out a few dozen resumes.

The glitch in this idyllic plan is that I may as well have sent each and every one of those resumes into a black hole and not to potential employers. In fact, I'm not entirely certain that some flaw in the time space continuum is not sucking them into some sort of quantum singularity (I love Star Trek techno-babble) as I've yet to get even a nibble from a potential employer. It's not like I've been overly picky. (thought I have been a little bit). I've sent out resumes for postitions I really want (Like a fun sounding job at the Windsor Library teaching basic computers skills. I'd be really good at that.) and for jobs that I'll do if they hire me and agree to pay me money (deliver flyers, a well trained chimp could do this).

Consequently right now, as of about three hours ago I have nothing to do and no money with which to do it. Which means that I'm going slightly nuts. Which, frankly, took about 20 minutes.

I may be forced to do something productive like spring cleaning or something...

In the meantime, if you'd like to hire a former IT support guy (who is at least as skilled as a well trained chimp) for the summer, shoot me an email... (seriously, really... The address is at the bottom of the page...)

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

My good friend WereGirl is, if nothing else, an excellent source of blog fodder. You see, WereGirl does not have good luck. WereGirl has phenomenally bad luck, luck that you really can't understand without spending time with her. There's an ancient Chinese curse that states "May you live in interesting times." I'm not sure exactly how WereGirl managed to piss off the ancient Chinese, but this curse fits her life to a T. The last couple of stories prominently feature her, and this one will too. For most people, myself included, these events would be exceptional. But they're just par for the course (or, perhaps curse) for her.

Our latest story starts when WereGirl's boyfriend boyfriend, PilotBoy, had to go to a funeral in central Michigan. What would have been the last snow of the year had been forecast and because the Family Truckster does not handle well in the snow, WereGirl had insisted that they trade cars for a couple days and so he could take her car north. It didn't actually end up snowing, but it was a nice, caring thing for her to have done. Unfortunately in, especially for WereGirl, no good deed goes unpunished.

I enter the story once again hanging out at WereGirl's house. She told me that an employee of her mother's had had car problems and needed a lift home, across the river in Detroit. Being the good person that she is, WereGirl had agreed to take her across in the Family Truckster. In hindsight we should have taken my car, but WereGirl is a silly girl and felt that asking ne would be an imposition. It really wouldn't have been, except for the fact that the Family Truckster is far more comfortable for three people, but like I said, she's silly. This was another good deed. So, now she was really due some punishment.

I knew that she wouldn't want to be driving in Detroit after dark, so when she asked if I'd tag along, it wasn't really a surprise. So, we headed off to her mom's store picked up our charge, and then to the border.

American Border guards almost always like to know who you are and exactly why you'd like to enter their fair country. It took a while for WereGirl to explain that we were driving her boyfriend's car, and that no, that wasn't me. Two of us were Canadians, one of us was an American. I volunteered that I was coming across to keep WereGirl company on the way back "since Detroit doesn't have the best reputation" (this elicited a bit of a scowl). Eventually we were deemed worthy and granted access to the United States.

The actual drop off went without a hitch, though I swear that Bosnia has better roads than Detroit. One in particular was a series of potholes separated by speed bumbs. We got slightly lost but eventually found our way back to the border where the real fun began.

I've never had much of a problem with Canada Customs. When SouthernKitten and I were dating I crossed every couple of weeks and the most thorough interrogation I received was when an agent asked "Are you sure?" after I'd said I had nothing to declare. The longest I'd ever spent at customs was after my last visit to Kentucky, just before the day before the US election. The guard was bored and wanted to talk US politics for a while.

This time was different. The woman in the booth noted that the Family Truckster had Michigan plates, and since neither WereGirl or I were US residents, she said that we were not entitled to bring it into Canada and would have to pull into the inspection area to discuss it.

Once there, we were approached by a pair of customs agents, a veteran officer and a young one. The veteran did most of the talking. WereGirl wanted to have her mother (who is a US citizen) meet us and drive the car into Canada. However, since WereGirl had admitted that her mother was a resident of Windsor, this wasn't going to fly. Her next idea was for her mother's boyfriend (also a US citizen, but one she had not admitted to be a resident of Windsor) do the same thing. Again this did not fly. The agents were concerned that we'd just cross the border, then she'd resume driving. The agents wanted the Family Truckster out of the country and back in Michigan.

At this juncture WereGirl and the customs agents both felt the issue had been resolved, though both had completely different ideas about just what this resolution was. The agents said they'd open the gate to let us out and send us on our way. The gate led back into the tunnel and ultimately back into Michigan. WereGirl had somehow gotten the impression that the gate led to the impound yard and that customs would be keeping the Family Truckster until PilotBoy could come and pick it up. The agents instructed us to wait and told they'd be back.

The younger agent came back with a piece of paper that would allow us back across without paying a second toll. Suddenly WereGirl understood what they wanted and took this opportunity to re-open negotiations. She basically offered the same solution, but the younger, more inexperienced agent fell for it, er, I mean, agreed.

WereGirl called her mom at home and her mom and her mom's boyfriend headed to the border to meet us.

A couple of minutes later a very chagrined younger agent re-approached the car. The older agent had apparently vetoed the idea and chewed him out a little. We'd have to figure something else out and the car could not proceed into Canada.

We spent some time trying to come up with a plan. Then another customs officer, this one female, approached the car and knocked on the window. WereGirl rolled it down.

"You have to leave." said the officer.

"But we're waiting for my mom and-" Weregirl started to reply. Her mom was on her way there and would be rather confused if we weren't there once she arrived.

"She can't drive the car. This has been explained to you, you have to leave" interrupted a rather bitchy customs officer.

"I know, but she's on her way and-"

"This is a Saturday night and we're busy, this is not a parking lot and you have to go." Officer McBitchy interrupted again.

At that moment WereGirl's mom's boyfriend strode into view. Apparently her mom was waiting inside. I headed inside to let her know what was happening and let everyone else sort out what was going to happen.

I found WereGirl's mom and we chatted idly about WereGirl's luck for a few minutes while a new plan was formulated. Eventually WereGirl joined us and filled us in on the new plan.

Her mom's boyfriend would drive the Family Truckster back into the US. WereGirl's mom would take us back into the US where we would meet him, then they would go back home to Windsor and WereGirl and I would take the Family Truckster back to PilotBoy's house where we would meet him when he returned the next morning.

Because of our rather complicated story and reason for going back into the States this time, WereGirl's mom decided that we should just tell the US customs officer a little white lie about our reasons for crossing. It would just be so much easier to tell the little white lie and get across than to re-tell the whole story. When we pulled up to the booth at the border, however, we recognized the guard as the same one we'd seen on our way across an hour or so before. Now, I'm sure that border guards see hundreds, if not thousands of people a day and probably remember almost none of them. But WereGirl is an attractive girl, my last name is pretty distinct and I'd insulted what may well have been his home town. If he was going to remember anyone, it seemed pretty reasonable that he'd remember us.

"Why do you want to enter the US today?" the guard asked.

WereGirl's mom opened her mouth, set to tell the lie.

"Well..." WereGirl interupted, just in time.

Asside from a whole lot of ranting on WereGirl's part, the rest of the trip to PilotBoy's house went smoothly.

In the end what had been intended to be a 20 minute hop across the border turned into an ordeal of several hours and an overnight trip.

Just another day in the life of WereGirl.

Ottawa Part II (finally)

A long, long time ago the universe was created in a violent explosion that scientists call the big bang. Shortly after that I posted the first half of this story and haven't gotten around to finishing it until now. My apologies for the delay.

Anyway, when we left the tale, WereGirl and had hopped into a cab for a ride to the dealership so we could check out her car.

Upon giving our destination to the cab driver a few facts became evident. 1) English was not this gentleman's first language, nor possibly his second or third.. And 2) He didn't know Ottawa and seemed to have even less of a grasp of where we wanted to go than we did. 3) He was a little lacking in what are traditionally called "People Skills"

After some pointing, hand gestures and a long conversation with dispatcher, we were on our way.

The dealership was a rather large one with many building and departments. The driver picked one seemingly at random and let us out there. We advised he that we'd need to go in to get the chit to pay him. This did not please our driver at all. He grumped loudly about it but gradually came to the realization that we just didn't care that much, so he followed us into the dealership muttering under his breath.

We arrived at the service desk and were met by a pleasant young man who had no idea who we were or what we wanted. After explaining or circumstances to him WereGirl gave him the name of the woman she'd spoken to. This elicited a blank stare and he asked for the woman's last name, which WereGirl had not been told.

Eventually he managed to figure out which department we'd need to deal with after having had a car accident and gave them a call. They seemed to have a bit more of a clue. So, he filled out the chit for the hostile taxi driver who then left our lives, hopefully forever.

The building we needed to go to was "next door", yet he offered to have a car take us. This was a little confusing and seemed like more hassle than we wanted to go through to travel what we figured must be 50 to 100 feet. The man looked perplexed and started giving directions. By the third or fourth turn we concluded that possibly his definition of "next door" and ours may have varied slightly and we reconsidered the car offer.

After being driven several blocks to the repair shop we had a look at WereGirl's poor, beat up car. It had arrived only recently and was still coated in ice and had about 15 pounds of weeds wedged into every crack and crevice in the front end, including a number of cracks that hadn't been there when we left Windsor. WereGirl discussed the next steps with the young gentleman staffing the shop who had remarkably few answers. Someone else would have a look, and they'd get in touch. I think WereGirl filled out some papers, we cleaned about 87 coffee cups out of the car (WereGirl has a "mild" caffeine addiction and didn't want auto mechanics thinking she was a slob.)

That taken care of we walked out of the dealership. Somewhere along the way (I don't remember when exactly) PilotBoy had called back with the results of his research on how to get us home. The plan was that WereGirl and I would would take a commercial flight to Toronto where he would meet us and drive us home in his car, affectionately known as "The Family Truckster".

Our next step was to get to the airport. We were on the completely wrong side of town, low on cash, WereGirl's cell was dead and mine just barely hanging on. We walked about a block to a nearby diner, sat down, grabbed a bite and tried to figure out how to get to the airport. The first step was to call friends in Ottawa who might give us a lift. DevilBoy lives in Ottawa, but was on springbreak, and out of town. Eggman also lives in Ottawa, but had moved a while back and I hadn't gotten around to putting his new number in my cell. WereGirl's also had a couple of friends there, but just couldn't manage to track them down.

After 45 minutes or so of abject failure WereGirl had the brainwave that we could just take the bus. Brilliant plan, now we just needed to figure out which buses to take from where we were. WhereGirl found the number for Ottawa transit and got directions. The man sitting at the next table, however, was an Ottawa Transit driver and felt that the route we'd been giving was... sub-optimal. He gave us new directions and he and his wife were even nice enough to give us a lift to the proper stop to get us on our way.

The bus ride was mostly uneventful. It was a bit tricky making sure that we didn't miss the stop where we needed to change buses, and then spent what seemed like an eternity shivering there, waiting for the next bus.

The bus dropped us conveniently right in front of the terminal. After a bit of confusion we managed to find the right ticket counter and pick up our tickets. We checked in, found our gate and sat down to wait.

Predictably our flight was delayed. In fact, the plane had been delayed an hour in Montreal by the same storm that had gotten us into this in the first place. Flying from Ottawa to Toronto takes about 50 minutes, so the delay was actually longer than the flight itself.

I enjoy flying, so the flight itself was fun for me. WereGirl wanted to sleep, but had foolishly choosen the window seat, so my leaning over to stare out the window and chatter about the various great things I could see outside kinda precluded that...

After our short hop, we landed in Toronto and disembarked at the new terminal. I'd never been there before and both of us were at a bit of a loss on how to get out and couldn't figure out why PilotBoy hadn't met us at the gate. We called his cell after finding some pay phones and discorevered that, predictably enough, he was waiting at arrivals and gave a gate number that made no sense with what we could see. There were plenty of signs for restrooms, telephones and assorted other things, but none that really directed us out or to his location. We wandered in what seemed like an appropriate direction and eventually found a map. Having been awake for over a day at this point the best our sleep addled brains could figure was that we needed to go down a floor... We continued wandering, finding a dead end or two, before finally our way to the arrivals area and found PilotBoy.

We made our way to the Family Truckster and headed for Windsor. PilotBoy is a good guy. He's drive three hours or so to Toronto for Detroit, waited a few hours in the airport and now was driving us the three hours back to Windsor. I stayed awake for part of the trip, but once we left to Toronto, the almost 30 hours of wakefulness caught up with me and I blissfully passed out.

It was 3:00 in the morning by the time they dropped me off, seldom have I been so glad to see my little house or my bed.