Posted in humor, Moving, Uncategorized

For Your Protection

I am not a suspicious-looking character.  People tell me their life stories in grocery store checkout lines.  About once a month, I get the comment, “You look just like my second cousin or Aunt Mary or my former Sunday school teacher”.  If you were in a roomful of twenty strangers and had to ask one of them to hold you wallet, nineteen times out of twenty, you would ask me.  Ms. Innocuous is who I am.

Well, earlier this year, my husband and I moved to Georgia and needed to open a bank account.  We had some checks to cash and wanted to get a local bank for better access to our funds.  We both have had accounts since we were little children.  I can remember taking a dollar to school every week to put in my bankbook when I was in grade school.  My husband remembers taking in a dime every week.  (You can see he is much, much, much older than me.)  I had passed a nearby local bank and checked it out online.  All seemed fine and since both my husband and I like to do business as locally, we decided to go there.

We were putting the account in my name.  So I dutifully filled out the paperwork at the bank.  They wanted identification, which was understandable, and they also said, “We have to do a credit check.  It is bank policy and a requirement of the Patriot Act.”  Now I thought that was a bit odd, because we were depositing money not asking for a loan, but our credit is acceptable, so we said okay.

The bank employee returned and said, “We can’t open an account, we can’t verify your address.”  Since we had just moved, I did not have a Georgia license yet and the address on the old (and still valid) license did not match what the credit bureau had on record, since I had a temporary apartment in the interim.  I told them the previous address that they had on the report, but that made no difference.  They would not open the account.  It was company policy.

I am now really irritated; my husband is now really irritated.  We spent thirty minutes giving our personal and confidential life history to this bank and waiting on a credit report, all for nothing.  My husband asked for the application form. We took it.  Then, we walked out. Did I mention we were irritated?

Three days later we go to pick up the mail and there is a letter from the bank, telling us they can’t open an account because they can’t verify our address.  They can’t verify our address, but they can send us mail, which gets to us at our non-verifiable address.  What is wrong with this scenario?  Can someone explain it to me?  I surely don’t understand.

We did successfully establish an account at a not so nearby bank.  Ironically, that was done without any issue.

My amused husband now fondly refers me to as “the terrorist”.  He laughs about his wife, who never even got a parking ticket, being flagged by a “Patriot Act Policy”.


Posted in Uncategorized

Lost in the City

I’m a planner.  Always have been; always will be.  So when my husband and I were taking a vacation to the lovely city of Savannah.  I had my proverbial “ducks in a row”.  Or so I thought. 

We had a cute little apartment rented right in the historical district.  Parking was provided so we didn’t have to worry about that.  I went to my favorite mapping website and got directions to the place.  Most folks who use a mapping website know that they are great for getting you close to where you want to be.  Occasionally though, that last block or two may be either a tad sketchy or actually wrong.  We had been to Savannah before and were considering a permanent move there, so we had a pretty good idea of where this house was.  What could go wrong?

My husband is the driver.  I am the navigator.  Expectations are that the navigator will provide clear and prompt directions.  If expectations are not met, it gets ugly fast.  We got to Savannah, no problem.  We got to the appropriate street, no problem, now to find the building, problem.  We drive back and forth.  There is traffic.  Most buildings don’t have numbers on them.  Husband is getting crankier by the minute.  The threat is made that we will turn around and go back home.  (Given that we have just driven twelve hours, this is not a good thing.)

Looking ahead there is a fire station, with a group of firefighters sitting in front of the building.  Help at last!  My husband pulls in and I ask, ‘where is house number 13?’  Remember, we are on the correct street already.  I little hemming and a little hawing later we get the information that it is maybe a block or two back on the other side of the street.  This is a bit weird, because normally even house numbers are on one side of the street and odd ones on the other, but we try the suggestion.  No luck.

Finally we resort to the big guns and figure out the new GPS system.  (Yes, you are right, we should have done that earlier, but it was new and we hadn’t played with it yet.)  We found the apartment.  It was right next door to the fire station.  I am laughing now, but…….

Here is my question.  Why would the firefighters have misdirected us?

  1. They really didn’t know where building #13 was. 
  2. They wanted to mess with the stupid tourists.
  3. They thought this crazy woman was messing with them, since the address was right next door.
  4. Other.

P.S.  We had a great vacation in Savannah and as you can see by my name, we are now local.

Posted in Cats, Tybee, Uncategorized

The Adventurer on Tybee

It was a cloudy and humid afternoon.  The woman stepped on the porch to get a breath of fresh air and to more closely view the dolphins cavorting in the river.  Soon a small head appeared at the doorway.  It was the cat.  The evil orange one, Clyde, who had just celebrated his 14th birthday.
While the woman watched, the cat ventured on the porch, delicately sniffing the chairs and deck.  The woman carefully placed herself between the cat and the stairs so that there was no means of escape.  At least, so she thought.  Soon Clyde was poking his head between the porch rails, something had captured his attention.  Was it a vicious lizard?  This of course required a closer look.  The cat’s body soon followed his head.  Before you could say “bad kitty”, the cat was gone.  Did he make the big jump or was he just a klutz? There was no way of telling.
The woman yelled…”Clydster” and headed for the door.  (There may have been a few expletives deleted, but we won’t go there.)  The man, who was watching his afternoon television show, leapt up and rushed to the porch, narrowly avoiding a nasty collision with the woman.  He exclaimed, “he is headed for the marsh”.  Both humans rushed down the stairs, headed toward the garden, the woman via the side path and the man through the garage.  When they arrived, Clyde was casually exploring the holly bushes, with not a care in the world.  He was quickly apprehended and returned to the safety of the sunroom.  Henceforth to be banished completely from the outside world.
The “cat”astrophe was adverted.