Jim Siergey: Ed Norton’s Hat
There are so many things for one to be concerned with—politics, the economy, war, famine, that noise the car makes when making a right turn — that certain little things go unnoticed and unpondered.
That’s where I come in.
When it comes to the inconsequential, the trivial and the picayune, I’m Johnny-on-the-spot. You can count on me to fill that gap in the human consciousness. Or, at least, to wonder about things that will often go unwondered about.
Today I was thinking about Ed Norton’s hat.
Not the modern day actor, Edward Norton, but the sewer-working character and pal of Ralph Kramden in The Honeymooners, a beloved television program from the 1950s.
He wore his hat with the front brim pushed up. Why did he wear it that way?
I was a kid in the ‘50s and I’ve seen a lot of television and movies from the ‘30s, ‘40s and ‘50s. I don’t recall anyone wearing his hat that way.
Except for Leo Gorcey from The Bowery Boys (also known as The East Side Kids and The Dead End Kids). Whichever incarnation those boys were in, Leo wore his hat with the front brim pushed upwards.
Leo Gorcey wearing Norton’s hat….
One of the garbage men from the Hi and Lois comic strip wore his hat in that style. Their names, by the way, were Abercrombie and Fitch. The one wearing the pushed up brim was Fitch, I believe.
I wasn’t kidding about the picayune.
Okay, there was Gabby Hayes too, but he was a cowboy. Let’s not even venture into that territory, podner.
Some might say that Norton wore his hat that way because he worked in the sewer and the restricted space necessitated such a rearrangement of his chapeau.
Hi, Lois….
That reasoning almost convinces me but I’ve seen him in his working attire and he wore a hardhat with a safety light. His hat was pretty rumpled but I doubt he wore it under his workday headgear. Although I wouldn’t put it past him—he loved that hat.
Besides, how does that explain Leo Gorcey? (Personally, I don’t think Leo Gorcey can be explained. Let’s just let him be and move on.)
There is a Bogart movie, it might be The Big Sleep, where Bogie disguises himself as a nerdish fellow by donning a pair of specs and pushing up his hat brim before entering a bookstore. But the brim stays up only for a short time.
Outside of this paltry amount of examples, I don’t recall anyone else wearing a fedora with the front brim flipped up Ed Norton style.
The question remains, why, Norton, why?
Perhaps someday we’ll know. Perhaps we’ll never know.
Ed Norton’s hat.
It’s an enigma wrapped in felt.
Editor ‘s Note: Jim‘s last post for The Third City was Escape Artists….
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Cee Vee Cee: The Weigh In
In my many years of drinking, I have never found a bar like TV’s venerable “Cheers,” where everyone knows your name and the bartender knows your favorite drink.
That is, until Sharon’s remodeling project. That’s when we discovered Three Aces on Taylor Street.
We’d meet there each week to recap/rehash the latest development in her remodeling project from hell.
Over the four months that it took her contractors to finish a job that was promised to last only 30 days, I got an earful of horror stories. Among the litany of offenses we commiserated about were incorrect products ordered, disappearing supplies and flat-out extortion-level work stoppages.
Through it all we nursed Tito Banditos at the bar and noshed on popcorn doused in freshly shaved Parmesan and chives.
Because our bartender, Ante, always seemed genuinely glad to see us, Three Aces became my favorite bar — my go-to joint when I felt the need for a little bit of bottled cheer.
So when Zasia offered to take me out for drinks on my birthday, Three Aces was my choice.
Now, her offer was complicated by one tiny little fact: I had recently joined Weight Watchers, and Tito Banditos were what you might call incompatible with my daily point allowance.
As was most of bar fare at Three Aces.
My plan for merging my affinity for the food at Three Aces with my desire to lose weight was simple: I’d conserve most of my daily point allotment and combine them with my remaining weekly “free” points to cover my night of drinking.
Weight Watchers did wonders for Charles Barkley….
Somehow, though, I had overlooked my plan’s fatal flaw: Conserving points by not eating leads to foolish choices driven by hunger.
“Hey, there!” Ante says in greeting as we settle into our favorite perch. “What can I get for you?”
“I’ll have a Matilda,” Sharon says.
“You got it! And what can l get for you?”
“A Tito for me.”
“Tito Bandito? You got it! Are you guys eating?”
“Yep,” I say. “Can I see a menu?”
“Here you go. Be right back with your drinks.”
The menu has changed since we last were at the Aces. But popcorn and fries—two of my favorite “bar bites”—are still offered.
When Ante returns with our drinks, I place my order for hand-cut fries. It’s my first step on the slippery slope of good intentions shot to hell.
As I pick through the bowl of fries, I peruse the menu for something we could order that Zasia could eat.
We settle on the Calabrese pizza. Was that the all-cheese one? I can’t recall. Oh, well, no worries—I’ve got the points.
It’s a busy night, and newbies have Ante tied up at the other end of the bar. When he checks in with us: “Ante, can we have a Calabrese pizza when you get a chance?”
“You got it!”
Those damn truffles will get you every time!
The pizza arrives, accompanied by some smart-ass crack from Zasia: “I thought you were on Weight Watchers!?”
“I am,” I respond, picking the pepperoni off the pizza. “I’ve got this covered—I saved my points so I could enjoy myself tonight.”
But the night was young, still, and my piece de resistance had not yet arrived.
By the time we leave, I have consumed three Titos, half a bowl of fries, two slices of Calabrese pizza (and a thin slice of its pepperoni topping), and a duck salad.
The duck salad, my culinary adventure of the night, features arugula, onions and thinly sliced lean duck breast. It is garnished with what can only be described as fried duck rinds. Off. The. Chain. It is here that I blow it.
The 50 points I’ve stockpiled for the night are shot, consumed in a flurry of vodka drinking, shit talking and duck rind nibbling.
I drain my water glass, although it’s really too late—should’ve started with H2O instead of using it to dilute my frenzied fat consumption.
Now I’m worried that my splurge will cost me at the next day’s weigh-in.
Weigh-in morning I avoid breakfast and water, focusing instead on fishing the lightest garments I own out of my closet. Since I can’t weigh naked—would clear out the meeting fo’ sho!—my strategy is to wear super ultra lightweight clothes so as to coax the last ounce of weight loss from the scale.
To prepare myself, I weigh on my home scale before leaving for the meeting. When the number comes up, I exhale—at least I’m still in the loss column. Time to go.
At the meeting, I step out of my shoes and onto the WW scale. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until the number comes up and it escapes in a whoosh!
I have gained one-half pound.
It was the Truffles I “neglected” to count when I got home that did me in. I felt them sticking to my hips as soon as I’d licked the last bit of chocolate from my lips.
“Well, at least it’s only half a pound,” the receptionist says comfortingly. “You just get back on track. What happened—Mother’s Day get you?”
“Yeah, Mother’s Day, my birthday… and Godiva Chocolate.”
“Ahhh, Godiva Chocolate… well, how many times will you have a week like that one?”
“Just one, thank God,” I say, relieved. “And the truffles are almost gone.”
Editor’s Note: Cee Vee‘s last post for The Third City was Old Skool Party….
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Jim Siergey: Escape Artists
In an earlier post I stated how uncomfortable I am at social gatherings.
But, costume parties are another thing altogether. I find it much easier to socialize when hidden from view.
My wife and I attended many a Halloween party “back in the day,” clad in elaborately imaginative costumes. Well, imaginative, anyway.
These parties got pretty wild.
So wild that I blush at the thought of recounting events from them. Since I can’t type while blushing, I shall not.
One year, the wildness of the Halloween party was of a different degree. The hosts who usually threw the parties we attended didn’t do so that year so we went to one hosted by someone else.
Clad in our costumes, we entered through the orange and black festooned doorway into a basement where there were several other costumed people eating and drinking.
We were enjoying ourselves but after a while, we realized that not just some folks but everyone was speaking Spanish.
We had entered the wrong party.
We graciously exited and realized that we were on the correct street but had transposed the last two numbers of the address. Little did we know that Fate was trying to intervene. In a good way.
Like Rickey Nelson, Jim and his wife went to a garden party….
Upon entering the “correct” party, an overpowering vibe enveloped us. It was so visceral that we could feel it and taste it. The message that this vibe sent was undeniable. The message was “BOR-ING!”
Yep, you could feel the boredom. It was immediate and it was everywhere. People were clad in costumes but they made no attempt at being “in character.” They stood around, talking about mundane things in a mundane manner. There was no music. There was no laughing or jostling or animation of any sort. There was no pulse. The air was thick with the essence of ennui. It was stifling.
We had to get out of there.
Since we had just entered, we deemed it too impolite to turn around and leave via the same door. We’d have to find another way. We sauntered through the apartment, slowly making our way through cobwebs of torpor and tedium. It was like walking through quicksand.
In the kitchen were a few desperate souls clad in rags and glitter. They were going through the motions of socializing as if they were hypnotized marionettes.
Clinging to one another for protection, we scanned the room and espied the door that led to the back porch and the yard. There were a few people out there smoking in the moonlight. It wouldn’t look suspicious if we slithered out there. So we did.
And like Cool Hand Luke, they escaped….
We were in the yard. All we had to do was walk down the gangway back out to the front and we would be free. Maybe we’d go back to that Mexican party.
In the gangway, we were met by a tall wooden gate. The gate was locked. It was too tall to climb over and no other way to get around it so we slunk back into the yard.
A tall fence surrounded the entire yard and we discovered that the entry to the alley was blocked by yet another locked gate.
Curses!
Like rats, we scurried over to a darkened corner of the yard where the fence met the garage. The smokers on the porch could not see us here. We decided that this is where we would abandon this sinking ship.
In order to go “over the wall,” my fellow prisoner had to set her foot in my cupped hands so I could hoist her to the top of the fence. On the other side were garbage cans that she could alight upon.
Since she was wearing a long gown, climbing over the fence and onto the cans was not an easy task. It took some time and some doing but with only a smattering of clatter, she was free. Then it was up to me to claw and scrape and pull myself over to join my escapee-in-arms.
We made it to the other side—we were free! Vive la Liberté!
Despite the obstacles of mass and propriety, we had successfully escaped what was most likely the most boring party in the history of mankind.
Feeling like a couple of Cool Hand Lukes, we danced a jig of celebratory joy in the alley.
Oh, er, um, not that I would refuse an invitation to your party, of course. I’d be happy to attend.
Just leave your gate unlocked.
Editor’s Note: Jim‘s last post for The Third City was The Internot….
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Cee Vee: Old Skool Party
“What are you doing Friday?” Sharon asks.
“Nothing, why?” I say.
“The Temptations and the Whispers are playing at The Venue. If you didn’t have plans, I was going to get tickets for you and Mom.”
“Hey, that would be great! Even if Michael had made plans, I’d be willing to change them to see the Temps. Let me know.”
Because my birthday is close to Mother’s Day, Sharon can knock out two gifts in one outing and I get to see the Temptations, one of the lead architects of my life’s soundtrack.
I’m surprised at how intimate The Venue is. We have great seats on the floor, last row, directly in front of the stage.
A mature crowd has come out for the Temptations Revue featuring Dennis Edwards. (Founding member Otis Williams owns the rights to the name “Temptations” and performs with his own rendition of the original group), and The Whispers.
After positioning my coat on the seat back, I rise and announce a trip to the bar. “Mom, you want a glass of wine?”
“No, she would be better with some cranberry juice,” interjects Sharon, the doctor. “I’ll go with you.”
“Mom, what do you want?” I persist.
“I think I’ll have some wine,”says mom.
The Temptations — `Look out, baby, cause here I come….’
Behind us, the seats rise in a gradual incline to a balcony. At eight p.m., the posted show time, plenty of seats are showing through the crowd.
In line, a man announces that this is “the first concert I’ve ever been to. I hope this is the one Otis Williams is in ‘cause he’s an original Temp—they sound better.”
Two cups of Cabernet and a straw later, we’re back at our seats.
“Mom, here’s your wine.” Gently I place the cup in her hand. “There’s a straw for you and some napkins.”
“Thank you,” she says.
Two seats to my right, a bald, older gentleman sporting a diamond stud tells the gray-haired couple seated a row in front of him and his date: “I’m from Virginia. The Temptations used to come to my house.”
On that same row, a few seats down from the gray couple, a man channels Frederick Douglass—he is tall, brown-skinned with a big bushy Afro and luxuriously thick gray/black beard.
When I say mature crowd, that’s what I mean.
About 8:20 p.m. the emcee, a portly guy in a black fedora, enters the stage. I’m glad he doesn’t do a long, drawn-out introduction—we know who we’ve come to see.
The Temptations Revue band explodes into Get Ready. The crowd is screaming — maturely.
Dennis Edwards looks good for a 71-year old. Somewhat rotund, it’s clear he’s not missing any meals, and he is keeping up with the Temps’ trademark choreography.
Edwards announces that Paul Williams, Jr. — the son of founding member, Paul Williams — is singing with the group.
We clap and whoop it up in our seats ‘cause that’s what you do at old skool concerts—mostly party with your butt in the seat.
The only exception’s when your jam is sung. All bets are off then.
The Whispers just keep getting better with time!
In quick succession—Revue-style—the guys run through old faves: My Girl, The Way You Do the Thing You Do, Cloud Nine, Let it Rain, Ain’t Too Proud to Beg, Ball of Confusion.
Immediately in front of me, a couple dances side to side. The husband’s arm is around his wife’s shoulders as he sings in her ear: “The way you do the thing you do!”
So cute.
At intermission, a big smile and addressing the waiter by name gets me a full plastic glass of Cabernet and two bags of chips.
If you’re marketing to the “old skool” crowd, The Venue must be included in your distribution mix—as a popular local bankruptcy attorney has discovered.
He and his staff are out in force, distributing free calculators and pens—the better to enlist you as prospect, m’dear.
Back in my seat, my neighbor and I trade conversation about the Weight Watchers app for smart phones.
She’s just learning her way around her new Nokia phone and hasn’t incorporatedW2’s e-Tools into her tracking. Turns out, she and her auto dealership-owning husband drove in from Pittsburgh for the concert. Who knew The Venue was such a draw!
The Whispers come out blasting Keep on Lovin’ Me and they don’t let up. I love their faster hits—Rock Steady, And the Beat Goes On and at each familiar chord I am out of my seat. Mom is patting her foot.
During intermission Sharon purchased a two CD-set of their slow jams—she is waiting for them to sing her favorite—Just Gets Better with Time.
So much of The Whispers music is linked to my life’s soundtrack that listening to them is like time travel: Olivia (Lost and Turned Out), ’78: Tallahassee; And the Beat Goes On, ’79: Pontiac, MI; In The Raw,’81: Springfield, MA; Keep on Lovin’ Me, ’83: Chicago.
So many memories…
When finally, they have wrung the last bit of nostalgia out of me, it’s time to go home. We surge into the lobby, our favorite songs ringing in our ears.
As we make our way to the elevators, I notice the patrons in wheelchairs, using walkers and other mobility aids. Unbidden, a roll call of compatriots who didn’t make it to middle age begins. And I am grateful that for this birthday, I am sound enough of mind and body to enjoy live listening to the music of my youth.
It’s a very good day. Thanks, Sharon!
Editor’s Note: Cee Vee‘s last post for The Third City was The Office Closet….
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Lorenzo Toia: Laundry Love
I don’t know what gets me thinking at the laundry… maybe it’s the cottony air from the unkempt lint traps.
Maybe it’s the scent of Top Ramen that gets my mind going, a government experiment to control the minds of the general public, gone awry.
Maybe it’s just the end of a long day, and my rationale’s dwindling. My interest in the slightest is expanding.
The guy who cleans the place always say “Hello.”
Every time he passes, I swear, he says “Hello.” So I say hi back, even if I’m not used to it.
This city can board up your social windows sometimes. It’s a late night at So-and-So Laundry, but there’s a woman, with a friend and a bunch of girls.
What do you call that? A gaggle? A gaggle of girls.
They’re apart in age by 2 or 3 years, from the 2-year-old, to the 15-year-old. What initially catches my attention is the youngest, a gremlin with a ponytail.
A cute gremlin with a ponytail.
She’s reaching into the hamper of freshly washed clothes, taking out a sock, walking to the dryer, and throwing the sock in, overhand. As hard as she could throw a sock, I’d like to imagine.
She goes through the process again with another sock, and shuts the dryer door. She’s got a good point, that load is set.
Lil’ Gremlin was as cute as a button….
I’m emergency washing tonight. Wedding coming up, and you know I gotta look good for that Hustle.
My favorite shirt’s soaked. Soaked in a good way. Soaked like it’s in a spa getting it’s little shirt feet rubbed.
The mother finally gets the gremlin to stop by ordering one of the older sisters to intervene. Not the oldest — the oldest’s texting.
When the intervenor intervened, she picked the gremlin up, and didn’t plop her in a chair, or bring her closer to the others. No, she began handing her the wet clothes.
OVERHAND THROW!
OVERHAND THROW!
Clothes were falling here and there. I noticed because the opposite thing you want your clothes to do when washing them is to fall on the filthy floor.
“Hello!”
“Hi.” I respond as he passes with a mop. Okay, not a FILTHY floor.
As my mind computes, I hear the two sisters laughing.
I suppose the floor’s clean enough.
Off to the driers. I move closer to the gaggle.
The second youngest, Hannah, approaches me.
“What’s your name?” in English that she’s just getting the hang of.
I swear, Americans’ underdevelopment of language education is gonna hinder some shit in the future.
Hermano. Perrito. Excellente. That’s about it for me, folks, and it’s a thing I aim to fix!
“What’s your dad?”
“His name?”
“Yeah”
“Vincenzo.”
“Your mom?”
“Lori.”
“Sisters?”
“No, you took up all the sisters.”
We were all having fun at the laundry….
She blushes and she laughs.
My wedding digs are on perm press. Them digs’ll look gooooood. Twenty-one minutes to go.
The gremlin found the mop bucket. Boy, is that thing filthy.
AHA!
Two things I’d like to improve about myself: Judging things and being so damn pessimistic!
You can’t judge a mop bucket by the stains along the… the sides… and the mop hairs…. Stuck in the wheels covered in… black mold.
Noooo, I’m sure it’s a fine mop bucket! Just fine!
And the gremlin agrees…
She’s reaching into it, pushing it around. Hannah keeps my attention and I look away from the action for a moment.
When Hannah’s done impressing me with how well she can fold, I look for the gremlin. She’s joining the party, and she’s soaking wet! It’s adorable. Her hair’s pressed down onto her little gremlin head, and she’s smiling like she just got off a water slide.
My shirt’s spreading, getting dat heat!
I wave as she approaches. Well, a half wave half stay-over-there.
“This is my baby,” Hannah informs me.
Like I mentioned, they’re two years apart.
The gremlin’s very forward. She wastes no time in the blushing game.
She reminds me of my brother, Santino, at that age: Fearless.
My shirt’s having the time of its life. Fifteen minutes to go.
“We help you.”
“Help me with laundry?”
They both nod. One nods and one copies, let’s say.
“Sure! But it’ll be hot!!”
“READY!”… And some other gremlin version of “READY!”
The shirt has made it. It’s expanded to the point that it covers the inside of the dryer door, creating this pillowy hot air balloon look. The coolest part of laundry time.
The two female hermanos help me fold a small portion of my clothes.
I fold the wedding shirt. I can’t wait for this weekend.
Hannah helps me carry my bag across the shop. I stop at her mother, and shake Hannah’s hand. We done good business. She follows me to the door, and opens it for me.
Hannah and the gremlin wave bye to me.
The joy people can bring others sometimes. It’s irreplaceable.
After a day like today, it was nice to share that time. To open up, air out.
Life is full of these surprise vignettes. Hold on for one more day, y’all.
Editor’s Note: Lorenzo‘s last post for The Third City was The Dry Cleaner….
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Jim Siergey: The Internot
My email account was hacked.
I received an email from someone whose name I knew. The terse missive said, “Hey, check this out” followed by a link. Like a fool, I clicked on it. It linked to some site stating that one could make lots of money stuffing envelopes or some such nonsense. I didn’t even bother reading the whole page.
“Ho hum”, I thought, “Poor Steve got spammed.”
The next morning, my email box was filled with emails from acquaintances telling me that I had been hacked. I checked my SENT box and sho’nuff, several emails from my e-dress containing the same missive I received were sent out at 4:00 in the morning.
“Change your password” was the overwhelming cry from my fellow e-mailers.
Change does not come easily to me. I still had the same password I’ve had since I first owned a computer.
Using my Norton Virus software, I performed several full system scans, thinking that would fix any problem that may exist.
I went about my business until I received an email from my wife who informed me that the same thing had happened to her and her email address list. The trusting soul had opened the bogus email from “me”.
I sighed deeply and accepted the fact that there’d have to be some changes made.
I have an online banking account. I don’t pay bills online. I haven’t fully accepted that modern approach. I’m still trying to keep the Post Office afloat. I do what I can to keep the old ways in existence. But I do use the online banking account to check the balance. Or unbalance. I figured that changing that password would be a good first step to embark upon.
So I tried. It seemed simple enough. To do so, I had to first type in my account number and my birth date. No problem.
Problem.
The problem was too complicated for the editorial staff to fix….
I kept getting that type in red letters informing me that some of the information was incorrect. Again and again. Finally, I had to call the bank.
After an explanation of my problem, the bank fellow whose name was Ryan, said “Are you sure you’re typing in the account number and not your ATM pin number? That’s a common mistake.”
With just a hint of sarcasm, I replied,“No, I am not typing in my ATM pin number, Ryan.”
But, to be on the safe side, I typed in my ATM pin number. He was right. That didn’t work either.
Again and again, I typed in my account number and birth date. I could hear his eyes rolling in his head as he continued to ask this old fool on his line if he was typing in the correct information.
Exasperated, I told him I was typing everything in correctly and I said my birth date out loud.
There was silence on the other end. Embarrassed silence.
“Hmmm” said Ryan, “We seem to have your birth date wrong in our records. Let me check with someone about how to remedy this.”
There I sat, listening to Hold Music being played. It was rock music played as if it was at the wrong speed. It was also static-filled. My ear was not pleased. My cordless phone needed to be recharged so I was using my cell phone. I don’t know how to put it on speakerphone so I had to endure this cacophony with a cocked elbow to boot.
So we turned it over to our boys in IT….
Ryan returned to tell me that I would have to physically go to my bank and bring identification along in order to change my birth date on their records before I could electronically change my password.
One swing and a miss.
Not discouraged, I decided to try to change passwords on my and my wife’s email accounts.
Dum-da-dum-dum. With the emphasis on dumb.
After spending some time trying, I discovered that one cannot change one’s password with AT&T/Yahoo/SBC online. One has to call a 1-800 number.
Rolling up my sleeves and spitting in my hands, I pushed the buttons on my cell phone. (I don’t think this baby has ever had such a workout before) and after going through a phone tree, I ended up speaking with an AT&T employee named Linda.
I shall spare you the details. Suffice it to say that I spent close to two hours trying to change our two passwords. Linda and the people she got involved with my venture could not figure out why a password change could not be simply accomplished. I listened to a lot more Hold Music but, at least, this time it came in clearly. I didn’t want to risk pushing various buttons to obtain speaker-phonehood for fear that I’d disconnect myself. (Although evidence shows that I already am disconnected in this connected world)
There was a glitch in AT&T’s system. This was why such an ordeal was taking place. At least, that’s what I was told.
So, here I now sit with an icepack on my elbow, a bottle of ibuprofen at my side and some Jack Daniels chilling in a glass of ice. I’m dreaming about fireplaces and what I’d like to put in them.
Editor’s Note: Jim‘s last post for The Third City was Who is Tony Stark?….
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Freya Reese: Teacher Appreciation in Chicago
As “Teacher Appreciation week” has come and gone, I’m eating sushi and reflecting on 15 years of teaching in Chicago.
The Sushi symbolizes the dead fish I anxiously expect Mayor Rahm to send as his appreciation for my dedication and service in the classroom.
If it wasn’t for the lovely, personalized “Thank you for being a teacher,” email I received from my State Representative, Sara Feigenholtz, I would have thought local officials received some sort of mayoral memo instructing them to ignore those they are at war with.
I’m not exactly sure how State Rep. Feigenholtz knows I’m a teacher. Must have been all those: “Help! I’ve-fallen-in-this-crappy-system-and-can’t-get-up” emails I’ve been sending her over the years.
I want to thank her for sending that letter and for spelling my name correctly.
Which is more than I can say about the bureaucrats at the Central Office of the Chicago Public Schools, who have been sending me nasty emails for the last several weeks telling me: “You need to renew your teaching certificate or you will be terminated on July 1st.”
Considering how the mayor’s been treating teachers, termination might not be a bad idea.
Yo’, Central Office, don’t tease me like all of my dates – follow through!
Actually, I really did renew my state certificate months before the central office started sending me those nasty-grams.
The woman at Central Office was as annoying as Ernestine….
Let me paint a better picture of why my school district mistakenly believes I did not renew my teaching certificate.
There is a department at the central office in charge of checking out state certification updates – a job that I’m sure pays way more than most teachers get.
All they needed to do, was type my name CORRECTLY into the state education data base.
Let me repeat that – CORRECTLY type my name into the state education database.
What happened is – they were incorrectly typing my name into the state’s database. So, naturally, the state’s database was telling them that no one with the name they typed existed. Which is why they kept sending me termination warnings.
After 22 email exchanges, I called the downtown office and wound up talking to a gum-chewing bureaucrat I’ll call Albert Einstein.
Albert Einstein: This is your final reminder that if you do not renew your teaching certificate, your employment with CPS will be terminated on July 1st.
Me: I completed the renewal process on line four months ago. I have the printed confirmation. I have scanned it and emailed it to you several times.
Albert Einstein: I see your emails but we can’t find you in the Illinois State Certification system. Let me try again (sound of typing). Nope, you are not in here.
Get me Gloria Allred!!!!
Me: I am logged into the Illinois State Certification system right now. I can see my info. It says right here my certificates are renewed and registered.
Albert Einstein: Well, I can’t find you. You don’t exist in here.
Me: I DO exist, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation!!!
Albert Einstein: Please don’t get smart with me.
Me: My bad – I’ll dumb it down for you so you can understand!
(I don’t really say that – just think it.)
Let’s start with the correct spelling of my name. R-e-e-s-e. Are you spelling it the way it appears in ALL of the emails you are sending me…the 22 emails where you are threatening to fire me for not doing something I actually did? Because you DID spell my name correctly in ALL of those emails. (I was going to suggest she hit copy and paste from those emails, but I didn’t want to scare her off with fancy technology talk)
Albert Einstein: I think I know how to spell. There is no reason to be rude.
Me: Yes, there is!! There is every reason to be rude! You are 50 shades of incompetent!!!!
( Okay, no I didn’t say that either – but I REALLY wanted too.)
I’m sorry if I offended you. Let’s start over. Please, just for fun. Let’s retype my name one more time. Please, I don’t want to get fired.
(Not yet anyway. Not until I find Gloria Allred’s number)
Albert Einstein: (Retyped my name while I spelled it out in a slow, sing-song tone I use with my 5-year-old nephew): Okay, yes I see your info. You did renew. Thank you for completing your renewal process.
And then she quickly hangs up on me. Quicker than when you break up with someone on the phone. In those calls, you at least pretend to wish your ex well before you make the necessary and abrupt exit.
However, I did get that “thank you” before she hung up on me. (Insert warm fuzzies here.)
Well, it was Teacher Appreciation week. Hey, teachers — don’t say the central office doesn’t appreciate us.……
Editor’s Note: Freya‘s last post for The Third City was A Full Day….
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Pull My Finger. Written by Milo. Read by Andy Orscheln, Lorenzo Toia, Joel Reitsma, Nels, Laura Korn and introducing Benny Jay as Rolando. Produced by King Conundrum.
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