Transaction analysis – (noun) the art of dealing with other people
My mom would make a wonderful intelligence officer, she never willingly gives up key information. If we’re going on a trip and she books motel reservations, she keeps them secret. If I need the info, first I have to give a valid reason— in the trade, this is called “need to know.” Then begins the Easter egg hunt for the little white slip of paper where she’s written the names, rates and telephone numbers. When 20 minutes of hair-pulling and teeth gnashing uncovers said document, stuck comfortably in page 324 of the tourist guide, she triumphantly reads it out loud. Forget decoder rings and Enigma machines, only she can decipher such handwriting.
“You never would have found it,” she declares. Knowing her, I believe it. If secrecy is a virtue, she’s got it down cold.
I, on the other hand— while opposing Wikileaks— view motel accommodations as sort of vital information that should be available to all concerned.
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Once you buy in to Oprah’s and Obama’s world view of victimhood, everything is “a cry for help.” Hitler killing six million Jews was “a cry for help.”
Sorry, I don’t buy it.
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You want to reach my neighborhood, you drive south on The 1812 Highway. There’s a hill just before you make the right onto Hillsboro, the road dips for two blocks and then rises another two blocks in a long sweep. And halfway up that hill, on Greeley, a traffic cop in his black uniform and green Day-glo safety vest stands by the side of the road with a radar gun pressed to his face. Anyone he catches driving over 35 mph, he doesn’t even need to mount his motorcycle, he simply steps into the roadway, raises his hand, palm towards the driver, and signals “Stop!”
Invariably, everybody does. They stop and the traffic cop gives them a speeding ticket. Five points are put on their driving record at the DMV, the penalty for a “moving violation.”
You would think my neighbors would learn: Hello!? Three blocks from the house, there is a speed trap!
Among the adult drivers, I am the only person on South 5th Street who has yet to get a speeding ticket. I always assume the county cop is there. As soon as I hit that stretch of road, I creep along, hunched over the wheel, driving like a little old lady in a flower hat. Other motorists must think I’m nuts, but I’m never disappointed, a male or female police officer is always lurking by the red brick wall surrounding the Whitton property, peering at on-coming traffic through their ocular device. “Binoculars plus” I call the gizmo.
Whenever I wave “hello,” the cop gives me a sour look.
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My younger bro Timothy is tied to a corporate medical plan. A worrier, he worries it’ll never be enough. As his wife Maria puts it, “Timmy is the world’s biggest pessimist.”
When I visit him out west, he goes into one of his rants: “What happens if you need a medical procedure and the money runs out?” he complains.
Maria and I look at one another. She’s a wonderful friend of mine and the perfect wife for Tim. She’s given him three kids, all boys. On the downside of the ledger, as they say, she is also dying of lupus.
“Tim,” I tell him, “if you can’t get medical treatment, you die! “
“See!” Maria shouts, liberated at last from this endless kvetching. “Timmy! Listen to your older brother! If you can’t afford the medicine, you die! “
She and I are cackling with laughter. Screw lupus!
Tim looks unconvinced.
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Who is this stuttering, yammering buffoon that mom is watching on the Sunday morning politalk show? He sounds like what Ron Paul looks like, a querulous belly-acher. (I know, I know, takes one to know one!)
Mom doesn’t usually suffer fools and, judged by his voice, this dude sounds like a jerk.
Why, it’s the leader for the Republican presidential nomination among blue-collar and evangelical voters… it’s Rick Santorum!
Sheesh!
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Sunday, Feb. 26, 2012, one of mom’s charities calls at 8:50 p.m., smack dab in the midst of the 84th Annual Academy Awards.
“May I speak to Ms. Rose Feingold?” asks the lady solicitor.
I start to chuckle. “Actually, she’s busy at the moment,” I gush. Wassa mattah? I am thinking. Don’cha like the Academy Awards?!
“I’ll call back another time,” the lady replies primly and hangs up.
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I wrote recently about Airline X, “Gouge Airways,” and their wily ways. I’ve heard from them. They are shocked — shocked! — that I didn’t know this is how airlines are forced to do business. Apparently, I am the only person in America who didn’t know that the quoted ticket price is only a starting point, to be augmented by a strict regimen of additional fees and surcharges.
The Washington Post Travel Section even ran a front-page article on Sunday, Feb. 26, 2012 by Andrea Sachs entitled ”Mind and body vs. Spirit” regaling us with her efforts to (successfully) navigate Spirit’s minefield of fees. Read how!
Misery loves company, but I don’t feel a whole lot better about the current state of American free enterprise.
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I get an excellent rate from Z Car Rental for a 9-day drive one-way from San Francisco to San Diego. Except that I want to confirm with my inscrutable mother. She is paying. She thinks differently than I do. I’ve learned! Me no make reservation if she not in loop! Including insurance? No including insurance? Is good price? Price is no good? What?! Over the phone, when I don’t buy on the spot, Sophia at the Call Center, who has been extraordinarily helpful, gets sore and hangs up on me. Ten minutes later, I call back to make this superlative booking. The price has gone up from $892 to $1,311. In ten minutes! Edith is sorry I’m going ballistic, but all she can say to console me is “Our prices change all the time.”
Mom and I book with a different car rental.
Twenty-four hours later, I’m on the phone with our old friends at Gouge Airways to get their current baggage fees— $25 for the first checked bag, $35 for the second; 50 lb. weight limit; 62 linear inches in size. That’s when Lily, also helpful, asks if we want to rent a car while in California: Gouge Airways has a deal with Z Car Rental “where you can get a discount of up to 35%!”
Bong! Bong! Bong!
That’s why Sophia asked me what airline we’re using to fly to SFO and why her rate was so incredibly lower. Edith wasn’t applying the airline discount formula and I — the uninformed customer— did not know to ask.
Ships passing in the night.
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Mom and I take Lt. Colonel Billy McCluskey and his wife Janet to our fave Vietnamese restaurant for dinner.
Kevin: “After all the blood and treasure spilt on Afghanistan, the Afghans are now screaming anti-American slogans and pummeling Obama in effigy. All because we burned Korans that were being used to transport messages between terror suspects in a high-security prison. I wonder how Americans are going to react to this latest example of anti-American ingratitude.”
Billy: “A lot of people have invested time and effort in Afghanistan and won’t want to just walk away from there.”
Janet: “It’s really amazing, the Afghans, the Iraqis and the Palestinians all want American aid. They want our money. Yet they all proclaim how much they hate America. With one hand, they shake a balled fist at us, while the other hand is raised, begging for alms.”
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“The CIA held out the promise that I didn’t have to sell shoes.”
– Robert Baer, former CIA operative
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