DUI On A Bar Stool

I recently got a speeding ticket. I earned it the moment I blew past a cop doing 75mph in a 55mph stretch of the Mass Pike. I'm going to court to fight it, because I have a great driving record and hope to charm the judge into reducing my penalty to a warning. I hope to keep it off of my record and prevent it from negatively effecting my insurance rates.  

I will probably add that my new car has more zip than my old one and I didn't realize my actual speed. Again, I deserved the ticket but hope that my good record will warrant at least one warning before further penalties.  I might also add that I had just driven into the Boston area from west of the city where the speed limit on the highway is 80mph. They won't check. Will they?

But, part of me is tempted to explain that I should get a reprieve in light of my innocence relative to other offenders in the news.  I could explain that my other vehicle is a homemade scooter consisting of lawnmower parts and a bar stool and that I often drive it from my garage right up to the bar (literally) and back home after a good bender. What if my bar stool and I were to go bar-hopping (although hop it wouldn't), a feat that would be impossible without some stool-scooter recklessness ? And the judge should definitely punish me if I were to cause a traffic accident while driving under the influence on my bar stool. If I were to total my vehicle, my embarrassing insurance claim would be enough punishment. Right. Because driving a bar stool around town wasn't.

A Twisted Love Triangle. Sans Love.

I thought I was going to get my new car today.  When I called the credit union to see if they had received all the paperwork, the answer was negative.  The representative informed me that she had the Purchase and Sale Agreement and the RMV application, but not the insurance binder.  

I called the insurance company, who informed me that the car dealership told them that they cannot fax to them the P&S until the car has been paid for.  

The insurance company can't produce a binder until they have the P&S.

So, let's recap.  The insurance company cannot give me a loan until they have the insurance binder which the insurance company won't issue until the car dealership faxes them the P&S which can't be done until the car has been purchased with the money from the loan from the bank who has everything except the freaking binder from the damn insurance company who is waiting on the stupid car dealership to fax those forms to anyone that can produce an insurance policy on a car that I want to buy or even a car I don't want to car as long as something called a binder makes it's way to the customer "care" representative at the credit (of which she gets a little for being so patient) union so that she can issue a loan check that I can take to the dealership while flipping off the insurance company as I drive by in my old car that has a binder (and was recently paid off. twice.)  A twisted love triangle is what it is.  Except without the love.

Oh, and here's real time reporting at it's best.  I just learned that the car dealership will fax the paperwork to the insurance company, except that they don't have a required document.  They're missing the certificate of origin, which is like a birth certificate for cars except without the weight and given name (which my wife might want to change).  Now the dealership is waiting for the birth certificate from another dealer before they can fax the deets (short for details) to the insurance company who will fax back a binder to then be faxed to the bank who will give me a big check to buy the car.

Did I mention it has a sunroof?  Freaking birth certificate is keeping us apart.

I Should Have Bought the Robots a Nightlight Too.

Yesterday morning during work hours, I went to Lowe's on the way to visit a vendor.  Our $6 million robotics platform just wasn't complete without a light timer. We don't need it for a light, but are considering it's application in the timed on/off operation of critical instrumentation.

As I'm sure most people do, I choose Lowe's over Home Depot because when the day comes that I get lost and can't find the exit I would rather be spending the night at Lowe's.  I think that the pervasive orange color at Home Depot would keep me up all night.  And if I actually did get to sleep (in the carpet section of course), my dreams would probably be orange. Unless my dream was about eating oranges in my orange pajamas at my orange alma mater where the mascot is an Orangeman, it would be strange.

At Lowes, I typically rely way too heavily on the signs at the end of each aisle.  I paced back and forth in the electrical section, wondering which aisle would have my light timer.  This took at least as much time as it would have taken me to walk all three aisles.  But, I didn't want to be too far from the exit so late in the day (11am).  

While pacing, I witnessed an altercation between a store representative and a customer.  The store representative, who looked and acted a bit scatter-brained and anxious, stopped the customer near the front of the store and reprimanded him for opening product boxes and taking out only the parts he needed. The customer denied it at first, but couldn't explain the item in his hand that looked identical to the item displayed on the box now being presented by the store employee.  Once the customer confessed to his crime, the store employee calmed down and realized that the fun had just ended.  I agreed and committed to an aisle.

I found the light switches and only the best would do for our $6 million robotic system.  It cost $15 and has two settings and a digital display.  The robots will be happy. In a pinch, we could also borrow it to automatically turn on a light when MIT closes for the next holiday. 

I decided that while I was there, I would ask someone if they sold peristaltic pumps.  You do not need to know what a peristaltic pump is to understand the rest of this story.  

I didn't think that they would have them, but I always wanted to kill two birds with one stone.  I turned to find assistance and guess who I found.  The scatter-brained and anxious store rep was placing now-complete and sealed product boxes back on a shelf.

First, I thought God don't let me get caught overnight in this place with him. Anyone but him.

Having forgotten to turn off my idiot magnet that morning, I approached him.

"Do you sell peristaltic pumps?" I asked.

"A what?" he replied.

"Peristaltic pumps," I replied.

"What are they?" he asked.

While making a circular motion with my finger and assuming that he heard me say pumps twice, I explained,"They move liquids from one place to another." I was trying to avoid explaining the application for which I needed one.

"You need a bucket," he promptly replied.

(insert sound of nighttime crickets here)

"No. It's a pump and it moves the liquid automatically through a hose or tubing," I said.

"Aaahhhhhh. You don't mean a peristaltic pump. You mean a drill motor pump." As he said this and started leading me deeper into the store, he was laughing in a way that indicated that he thought I made up the word 'peristaltic'. I was tempted to explain that the word also described the wave-like motion his digestive tract was doing with that slice of Cranky Pie he must have eaten. Instead, I followed quietly.

He handed me a drill pump, which works by peristalsis but is done manually with a hand-operated drill.

"I want something that I can plug in and will pump continuously and automatically," I said once again.

"Ohhhhhh.  You mean a peristaltic pump."

I paid for the light timer, found the exit, and got out safely.  I didn't have to spend the night, but it was too close for comfort.

I Slow Down for Rear Ending

I was driving behind a car that had a bumper sticker that said "I Slow Down for TailGaters."

The car's rear bumber had a lot of multi-colored scratches and dents that were clearly from collisions.   The car was otherwise in perfect shape.  

As this driver was surely one of the best, I didn't hesitate to drive behind them along the river road.  I was about 30 feet behind them when they unexpectedly slammed on their brakes.  Naturally, the gap closed and I was upon them quickly.  They then sped up until the gap was even bigger than before.  This happened five more times.  

So, I conclude that the driver of this car wants to make a tailgater of each of us.  In fact, I have only once been an unintentional tailgater and you just read the story.

Purple Cat Stickers

During my lunch break today, I walked across the street to the MIT bookstore. Any place with MIT students and the books they read should approximate the center of the intellectual universe. Today's experience casted doubt on this assumption.

With a specific item in mind, I wandered the aisles on the ground floor before my search led me to the basement level. When I couldn't find it there either, I approached the cashier, a disheveled college-aged male staring at his hands until he noticed me.

"Do you sell stickers? For kids?" I asked.

The young man laughed and promptly produced a sheet of stickers from behind the counter. The sheet had purple cats on it. "They're free. It's a promotion."

I wasn't sure how to respond appropriately. "Are you advertising that you have a large surplus of purple cats for sale?"

"Nope. Just a large surplus of purple cat stickers. We're trying to get rid of them."

"So, you are promoting them by giving them away?"

"Yep. Pretty creative marketing strategy, huh?"

I was losing patience.

"I'm looking for letter stickers."

"Do you mean stamps?"

"No, not that kind of letter. The alphabet. They're a reward for potty training."

He stared at me blankly without saying anything.

"For my son," I explained, attempting to refocus him. "He's potty training and it's an incentive that works for him."

Illustrating size with exaggerated hand gestures, he asked "Do you want small letter stickers? Or large ones?"

"I want purple cat sized ones."

"I'm sorry, but we don't sell letter stickers."

"Then why did you ask me what size?"

"I dunno. Just curious."

I rode the elevator back up to the ground floor. As I neared the exit, I discovered a gift section that I didn't notice earlier. I quickly found refrigerator magnets with the alphabet. They stick. They have letters on them. Sold.

I paid for the magnets at the nearest register. I was happy to have an interaction with a different customer service representative. By choice, we barely spoke and I was on my way in a few moments.

When I got home this evening, my wife asked me about the sticker hunt.

"No luck with the alphabet stickers. Only magnets," I declared as I tossed the bag onto the kitchen island.

She peeked inside and smiled.

"You bought purple cat stickers?"

Realizing that the cashier must have tossed them into the bag with the receipt, I could do nothing but tell the truth.

"It was a promotion."