The Texorker

Fun fact: my roommates and I hate our apartment. Nothing works and the super refuses to come fix anything. Both he and our landlord totally suck, so much so that my roommates and I have decided that we want to move out pretty much as soon as I get a job. That said, we’re relatively sure that landlord is going to find a way to blame all of the broken crap on us and not give us our deposit back. Of course, since I’m an asshole, my proposed solution is to give him a REAL reason to withhold our deposit.

Introducing Operation Beach Room! Wherein, you guessed it, we turn a room in our apartment into a beach room. Obviously, the living room is the best choice. We’ll buy a kiddie pool, fill it up and stick it in the corner. Then we’ll surround it with sand to make it look legit. The rest of the room will be full of sand as well, of course. I’ll probably go ahead and get some tropical plants, like ferns and things like that, to add to the aesthetic. We can add things like beach balls, towels, lawn chairs and a sunset painted on to the walls if we feel like it. It’ll be hilarious and a huge pain for the super. Win win. Oh, and I can invite people over to chill in my beach room, which would clearly be an unbeatable opportunity. 

I’ve presented this idea to one of my roommates via Facebook already, but she hasn’t responded yet. I bet she’ll totally be down. 

I decided recently that I should really try to like baseball better. It’s the favorite sport of many of my friends, the seasons last for about 12 years a piece and everyone up here seems to be convinced that it’s just the bee’s knees. I thought about making a list for you of all of the reasons I don’t like baseball, but they pretty much all boil down to one thing: it’s boring. Sure, there are exciting moments, but they’re once in a blue moon. To add some perspective, my favorite sport is college football, which is a sport where there’s ALWAYS something happening. 

All that said, I made an important discovery recently: I actually like baseball games in person. This is great because it helps me focus on the things I actually do like about baseball, such as:

• The strong emphasis placed on hot dogs
• The stadium environment
• The fact that you can get up, buy another hot dog, pee and come back and probably not miss anything good
• You know in “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” when they say “root, root, root for the home team, if they don’t win, it’s a shame”? A shame is a great way to describe it. It’s mildly disappointing, but it’s not soul-crushing like a football loss. 
• Baseball players are fun to look at. Some of them are attractive and the others just look dopey as all get out. 
• Tickets are hella cheap. You can get terrifying nosebleed seats for like $10 and still see the important stuff. 
• Adam Wainwright. He plays for a Cardinals- pretty sure he’s a pitcher. But really who cares because he is FINE. Who needs a Derek Jeter gift basket when you could be on the receiving end of this smolder:

…ladies. 

Also, I’m at least 70% sure that Jeter has an STD. But anyway, those are the redeeming qualities of baseball. Oh, and the Mets are orange so I already have plenty of swag. 

Some guy tweeted this at me:

All beauty is planned, except for yours, which goes beyond the sunshine and starlight, gliding over the waves.

Oh shit, what a panty dropper.

Probably would have been more effective if I hadn’t had to Google translate it (it was in Portuguese). Or if it hadn’t given me the mental image of those psychedelic ocean-themed shower curtains that for some reason were really popular in the 90s. Or if it hadn’t been some rando tweeting me corny lines via Twitter. Note to future creepy Twitter randos: if you’re gonna feed me a line, it should at least be A) somewhat funny or B) in haiku format. A girl’s gotta have standards. 

Apparently “I have an internship across the country” is grounds not to have to serve said country. 

Yepppp. FML. I feel like I just got reaped into the Hunger Games. My sister texted me a picture of my summons (which is in Texas, btw) because she thinks it’s just the most hilarious thing ever. I had to fill out an online registration form and everything. On that note, Collin County’s website is HILARIOUS. 

Well I’ll be gosh darned if that ain’t just the most Texas-ass thing I’ve ever seen. Yee-haw!

Oh, and here’s what the summons letter said:

Your name has been drawn by random selection, and you are being considered for jury service in Collin County. Trial by jury is a keystone of our system of justice. Jury service is, therefore, both an opportunity and an obligation for every American.

I looked into exemptions, and you have to be either illiterate, under 18, old as hell, or dead. The form actually says, “If deceased, stop here,” just in case grandma rose from the grave to answer her jury summons. Whoops! Never mind, grandma, you can get back in the ground now. I’m going to call tomorrow to see if I can move it to a time when I’m actually going to be home. If not, looks like I’m making a trip to Texas in July. 

I was going through my usual pre-work Facebook scroll when I came across this post from my sister Misty (shown here as M). I read through the comments and just about died laughing. 

“Wait is it alive.” hahahahahahahahahaha omgggg. SO hilarious. Apparently Misty’s friend A doesn’t have the best track record.

Side note: Misty’s hilarious. It’s not always intentional, like when she’s telling me about how my brother-in-law refuses to build a ramp for their old basset hound, Chantel (that’s the dog’s real, actual name and it’s amazing) to get into her “double wide” (dog house), but she’s got some seriously great stories. 

I went to K Mart the other day to get some groceries (it’s close to the train station, ok?) by myself. The “by myself” part is important because it shows people that I’m impressive and independent, but also because I have this weird thing where if I’m by myself and don’t have any particular goal in mind or plans for the rest of the day, I become really spontaneous and usually end up doing weird and random shit. Tuesday was one of those days.

I decided to go up to Penn Station because Cinnabon was giving out free mini bons (they were delicious and definitely worth the trip) and also because I bought a weekly subway pass last Saturday and felt really stupid when I remembered that I only needed to be at the office once this week. As the name suggests, weekly passes expire after a week, which is a real crock of shit, if you ask me. I think you should at least be able to use the full value of the card. But I digress. 

After I enjoyed my mini bons, I headed into K Mart. From that entrance, the first thing I saw was the plant section. So I thought hey, let’s go check out the plants. So I did, and low and behold they had a magnificent array of cacti. I love cacti. I think they’re the most hilarious little plants. If they weren’t so pokey and painful, I’d probably plan on putting them in my wedding bouquet, assuming I’m not an old maid. Maybe I’ll do centerpieces. Hilarious. This fake wedding is getting tackier by the minute.

So anyway, the cacti were $3. I don’t know how well-versed you are in the cactus market, but that is a STEAL. I decided I needed one, so I selected a nice one to put in the kitchen window. My roommates and I collectively killed our housewarming plant- a hydrangea- so a cactus seemed like a logical next step. I put the cactus in my basket and carried on shopping as if a cactus was a totally normal thing to carry around K Mart.

I went to check out, and the lady just gave me this look like, “…what. the fuck. is that?” Then she accidentally grabbed it as she was turning it over and went, “ouch!” I laughed a little said, “don’t touch it- it’s a cactus!” because I’m an asshole. And she gave me the dirtiest look, but seriously who cares, it was hilarious. Like girlfriend, if you’re a big enough dumbass to grab a cactus, I have zero sympathy. Survival of the fittest, man. 

She finished bagging up the rest of my crap and then looked at me like, “Ok bitch, what do I do with the demon cactus?” I told her I would be happy to carry my cactus separately. And I did. Turns out if you walk through Penn Station with a cactus, people won’t beg you for money anymore. They also stay out of your way. In fact, if it weren’t for the fact that it deterred the hot guy on the train from talking to me, I might have considered carrying a cactus around all the time. 

At some point, it occurred to me that my cactus purchase was just about the most Texas-ass thing I’ve done since I’ve been up here. I decided that when I re-pot it, I’m going to decorate the new pot with absurdly Texan themes like an armadillo in a field of bluebonnets with the Texas flag as a backdrop. Or maybe just the words “We Don’t Dial 9-11.” Either way, it’s become my little slice of Texas and if it dies I’m going to be really depressed for a good 20 minutes at least. 

Yesterday was my 3 month anniversary of living in New York. I don’t think a whole lot has changed- I still think it’s awesome that everything delivers and I still miss home. However, I have learned a few things:

• Seasons are bullshit. There’s an old joke that says, “Texas has two seasons: hot and wet.” The fact that it’s mid-April and supposed to be 52 on Saturday completely blows my mind. 
• Apparently, they don’t have June bugs up here. This is excellent news, because I really just LOATH June bugs. Instead, they have stink bugs, which I hear are worse. That’s just great. I’ve yet to encounter one but you’ll definitely know when I do.
• I didn’t realize how southern sweet tea is. Lots of people sell tea, but no one sweetens it. It’s weird. Who the shit likes cold tea without sugar?

• Customer service up here is the worst ever. I’m convinced that all of that Bank of America BS wouldn’t have gone down if I were still in Texas. 
• Have I mentioned that lots of places are cash only? If not, go ahead and file that under “total crock of shit” as well. If I’m not at an outdoor event such as a football game, concert or fair, I’m not going to carry around cash because that’s stupid and debit cards were invented for a reason. If you want to evade your taxes, do it in a way that doesn’t prevent me from ordering chicken lo mein.

• Have you ever wanted to achieve that coveted “I’m all up in the club smushed up against a bunch of sweaty randos and I just happen to be carrying 20 pounds worth of computer” feeling? Hop on a subway when it’s 85+ outside. 
• The fact that everyone up here is flipping their shit about baseball and are generally just kind of “ehh” about football is the biggest culture shock of them all. No one will talk about the draft with me and it’s driving me nuts. I’m afraid I’m going to go try to watch it at a sports bar and they’ll be playing some dumb Yankee game instead. Complete travesty. 
• When I go out, I only get carded about one out of five times. Contributing factors include being in the NYU area because of the students trying to sneak in and going to chain restaurants that card on principle. So I guess I look like a legitimate adult, which is cool.
• Pinkberry is the best NYC frozen yogurt place by far. 
• No matter what your job is here, it automatically sounds cooler than a job somewhere else. I discovered this when I was filling out an alumni survey and wrote in “intern at NYC-based social media firm” and went “oh, DAMN that sounds legit.” 

• I may still be completely miserable with directions above ground, but I think it’s safe to say that I’ve become quite the train wizard. 

Of all of the major disappointments I’ve encountered since I’ve been in New York, the biggest by far is that my life has yet to turn into Cheers, Seinfeld, Sex and the City, How I Met Your Mother or Friends. 

On the one hand, I should probably count my blessings on account of the fact that I’ve actually managed to make friends at all, seeing as how I’m socially awkward as all get out. But on the other hand, if television has taught me anything, it’s that everyone who’s anyone in New York has a posse that they meet up with at bars or coffee shops and get into shenanigans with.

I’m convinced that my New York friends and my Texas friends would get along fairly well, but there’s the minor detail of them being across the country from each other. Another problem is that I’ve convinced myself that work friends are sort of a cop out because they’re forced to get to know you, even if they think you’re a freak at first. Either way, I can’t watch sitcoms anymore because I’m bitter about the state of my social life. 

Here’s Magneto with the Cupcake of Conclusion. 

When we left off, I had been told that all I needed to do to get my money in spendable form was bring a statement to the bank that said the check had cleared. So I marched on over to the bank and presented my paper to Marta, who got on the phone with Risk Assessment. There was a lot of “mmhmm” and “mm yes I see” happening until I heard, “alright, would you like to get on the phone with the customer and explain that?” It was abundantly clear from her tone that I was not going to get my money. “Great,” I said.

So I finally got to talk to the elusive risk management team. Just as I suspected, they were a giant bunch of asshats. The particular asshat with whom I had the pleasure of speaking went ahead and reiterated everything I knew about the case, making sure to state, “the hold does not extend to your entire account. The rest of your funds are available.” To which I replied, “oh YEAH, cause there’s just a WORLD of things I can do with 70 cents.”

Come on now, bitch, I know for a fact you can see my account. This was clearly bitchassness for the sake of bitchassness. What did she think I was gonna be like, “Oh, bully! Let me just throw on my tri-cornered hat and stroll on down to the general store and buy three bags of flour for a penny before I hit up the Boston Tea Party!” 

So I hung up with Giant Asshat Bitch and said, “Ok, Marta, here’s how it’s gonna be. You’re going to deposit my money on the 12th. Then I’m going to take my money OUT of my account, close it and take my happy ass over to Capitol One.” And she said something stupid like, “I’m sorry you’re frustrated.” And I’m just

At this point, a few people had read my blog post, including my sister who texted me asking if I needed money. I turned her down at first, but then I decided it might be nice to eat, so she said she’d transfer money into my account. As it so happens, you can’t access online banking from your phone if you haven’t already registered it at a computer, so my other sister had to loan me money instead. I added that to the already very lengthy list of stupid shit Bank of America does. 

Finally, the 12th rolled around. I was ecstatic. I was going to have money!

But then, oh THEN. THEN I checked my account. I still had a miserably small amount of money. And I was all

So I decided to take drastic measures.I gathered my resources and posted the following in the Facebook group for my office: 

Hey guys! Guess who’s had to deal with horrifyingly bad customer service from Bank of America?? If you answered “everyone, ever,” you’re probably right, BUT in this specific case, that poor soul was me. If you could retweet this, I would be eternally grateful. Thanks :)

Pro tip: If you ever have a problem with customer service, write about it on a social media channel and get as many people to like or retweet it as possible. It’s the social media version of calling in the banners, if you’ll excuse my nerdy GoT reference. You’ll have strength in numbers and become impossible to ignore. 

So about fifteen minutes and 20 retweets later, I got a call from Bank of America apologizing profusely and promising me that the money WOULD be in my account at 9 a.m. on the 13th. I told him I’d believe it when I saw it.

The next day, I went online to check my account when I saw that online banking was down. Perfect. So I called and made a balance inquiry. Guess what? Exact same amount of money as the day before. 

That was IT. I called customer service and made snarky comments to the hold messages like, “yeah, I bet my call is REALLY important to you, you motherf-kers.” The dude picked up, got my information to verify my account and then said, “what can I help you with today?” “WHAT is going on?!” I yelled. “With what, Mrs. Pritchard?” he asked. And I said, “First of all, I’m NOT married.” 

Looking back at all of the retorts I’ve had to Bank of America employees over the past couple weeks, that one strikes me as by far the most hilariously absurd. It’s just like, “You bastard, how DARE you assume that I’m in a monogamous relationship?!” Like it’s something totally offensive. I would feel bad about it in hindsight, except that it implies that I married someone with my own last name and that’s gross and weird. 

So I explained my situation and he was like, “the check you deposited on the 4th went through on the 4th.” It took me 10 minutes to explain to him that though that was the check I was referring to, it definitely hadn’t gone through. I was just like,

He finally understood me and was like “you DO have that money in your account, would you like to see for yourself online?” And I said, “gee buddy, I’d love to, but your site’s down.” And he was just like

“Uh. Oops. Well it’s there.” So I was like, “do you SWEAR on your firstborn child that the money is in my account???” He did, so I was like,

And that’s how I finally got my rent money back. 

If I’ve learned anything from this whole mess, aside from the fact that I should stand outside of Bank of America branches tackling people in order to save them from the same fate I endured, it’s that my friends, family and coworkers are seriously kickass. I mean, I already knew that, but there’s just something about a giant corporation that’s trying to screw the little guy that just brings people together. It’s sort of ridiculous how much support I’ve gotten for this. Just to put it into perspective, I made a pie chart of support I’ve gotten for various events/life choices

^Accurate.

I had people offering me money out the ying yang. Two different supervisors made trips to branch locations with me. My boss referred to Bank of America as “those fuckers” and vowed to write about them in his next book as an example of how NOT to do business. 

So to all of you, whether you threw in a, “yeah, they SUCK,” offered to make it rain, retweeted me, gave me a supporting hug or multiple of the aforementioned activities, thank you. I really do appreciate it. 

As for you Bank of America employees with whom I’ve had the intense displeasure of speaking…