“I give up.........”

Yesterday morning (Tuesday, May 15, 2007), since it started raining, and we were unable to walk our dog at the so-called elitist country-club, we were forced to delve into a huge mountain of ‘pyooter processing.
Both our Quicken checking and charge accounts needed to be updated, and the charge-account needed to be reconciled (balanced).
I also needed to cut a check to a charity — a Quicken check-print — but that means also updating my Excel taxes (Schedule-A) spreadsheet.
I also had three online orders to try. Great idea that. Save shopping all over, often for naught; just order the stuff online.
Even cut the phone-clerk out of the transaction, and get an e-mail notification.
But I’m only batting about 60%; and yesterday only successfully completed one attempt out of three.
I’ve learned to do my online ordering with Internet-Explorer, since online ordering often locks up my other browsers (i.e. their site wasn’t configured for Netscape or Firefox). And this is despite Internet-Explorer being my least stable browser — I often have to “force-quit.”

My first order was for a motorcycle T-shirt (Indian), and went better than last time when their site was bog-slow.

My second order was a sportscar T-shirt (Alfa-Romeo), and that crashed when their site kept circling me back to set up an account.
“What do I want to set up an account for? I’m only gonna be ordering this one time. It ain’t like I’m gonna order five T-shirts per year.”
Around-and-around we went. Seems the powers-that-be at these sites, in a fevered desire to put food on the table, wanna make you an account.
Finally, “I give up,” I said. “If I wasn’t that desperate to buy the T-shirt, and your site is so unfriendly, forget it!”
“Why don’t you just call up their 800-number,” my wife called out from the kitchen. “Sometimes it makes more sense to talk to a human-being.”
“Welcome to Speedgear; your source for glittering trinkets, baubles, and other car-racing paraphernalia that will boost your virility. If you want to order a catalog, press one now. If you want to order an item, press two now.”
I pressed two, and immediately was accosted by a ‘pyooter-like Californy-girl — probably in her early 20s, and angry to pursue her self-imposed prompt-sheet.
“What would you like to order?” she snapped.
“Your customer-number please.......? It’s on the face of the catalog.”
I fumbled around — we’re parrying an angry automaton.
I was tempted to hang up; perhaps slam the phone down on the receiver.
“And what would you like to order, Mr. Hughes?”
“Well, let’s see. I have to find the page the item was on.” Obviously I was driving her up the wall with my trying to find the page. Probably delaying her donut-break. (OOOPS; that’s the cops. Make that chocolate latte.)
“RCR1101,” I said; “a red Alfa-Romeo T-shirt, size medium.”
“And how will you be paying?” she snapped.
I read back our entire Visa-account number, the expiration-date, and the security-code on the back.
“You have a credit outstanding for $4.61; should I apply that?”
“Funny,” I said. “The last time I ordered anything from you guys was over five years ago. A Ferrari mouse-pad.”
“Please hold during the silence: ‘boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom-chicka..........’” She apparently did some research as to why I had the credit.
“Sorry, Mr. Hughes. I have no idea what it is. It’s out of our system.”
“Your verification number is 1914-615689.”
“Can you send me an e-mail?” I asked.
“Can’t do it,” she snapped; “not when I just gave you a verification number.”

I get e-mails occasionally from online outlets that wanna get me to purchase stuff so they can put food on the table. Essential-Apparel is one, the place I got my Lee jeans from online before. They were having a sale on the kind of Lee jeans I get; so since my current jeans are on the verge of wearing out, I thought I might order replacements.
Clicking the link on the e-mail sent me directly to their Lee jeans order page, so I started ordering.
Internet-Explorer has an auto-fill feature (my other browsers might too), which is rather convenient, but I have it set up to fill in the phone-number with hyphens, and my Zip-code as the nine digit thingy with the last four digits (the sub Zip-code) separated from the first five digits (my Zip-code) by a hyphen — the way the post-office does it.
But apparently some sites don’t like that....... This one was burping over the hyphens in my phone-number, so I deleted them.
Then it was burping about the hyphen in my zip-code, so I deleted that.
Then the order processed and burped over my zip-code being nine digits instead of five. The whole thing crashed mightily in flames and displayed a cryptic error-message in strident HTML gibberish.
So I went back, and tried to delete the last four digits of the zip-code (the sub-zip), but it wouldn’t let me.
“I give up,” I finally said. “If you guys won’t let me fix the zip-code, you’ve lost the sale. Ice-flow for you guys. You can just stand on the corner with a tin cup. I’ll get my Lee jeans at Penney’s or Sears.”
I tried a second time, and it still had the earlier contents of my cart, and the errant zip-code, which I couldn’t fix.
I’m hoping it all times out, so I can try again this afternoon (Wednesday, May 16, 2007; one day later; Jack’s birthday — he’s made 50; geezerdom).

“The so-called elitist country-club” is nearby Boughton Park, called that long ago by an editor at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I once worked, because it would only allow residents of the three towns that own it to use it.

“Schedule-A” is a federal income-tax form.

“Jack” is my loud-mouthed brother-in-Boston, who excoriates everything I do or say.