Bridge Closure Opens Floodgate of Emotions

They say there are stages of grief, starting with denial and ending in acceptance. That describes my commute since the Sherman Minton Bridge closed.

For starters, I begrudgingly get up an hour earlier than normal. I start to feel sorry for myself, until I remember that my wife is already on the road. Having changed my outlook, the commute starts with optimism. I’m feeling upbeat, listening to some of my favorite songs from the classic rock station and thinking that perhaps today might be the day that I finally make it over the Kennedy Bridge without a glitch.

On most days, muscle memory takes over and I start to merge onto I-64 West out of habit, forgetting it’s the road to nowhere. When I remember, I get mad at my elected leaders and their lack of foresight. But there’s no time to dwell on it. After all, I’ve got miles to go and the music is playing and today just might be the day.

However, optimism quickly fades to fatalism as I merge onto I-65 and see nothing but brake lights ahead. Within a few miles, I slow from stop and go to stop and stay. I pick the wrong lane as usual. People are moving past me on both sides. I should move to the right lane, but I know it ends ahead. The other drivers know this, too, but they forge ahead anyway, counting on the kindness of strangers to let them in. If they are counting on me, they are out of luck. No way in hell I’ll let them those rebels in.

I’m getting bored so I switch to satellite radio and tune in Howard Stern. He says something outrageous. The King of all Media entertains me, but also raises my blood pressure. Forget courtesy. I’m getting in that right lane. Someone will let me back in. I move to the right, gain a few spots, find a sucker and wedge back into traffic.

Now, I’m feeling guilty. I shouldn’t have broken with civility. Maybe I shouldn’t be listening to Stern either. Just then, something jams my signal. I can’t hear Stern anymore. I fear I’m missing something. As I contemplate this, my attention is diverted by broken lane dividers that have been knocked down by motorists more desperate than me. I wonder what kind of people would do that. Sure, I might have darted between lanes and listened to some bawdy radio, but I’m not that kind of scofflaw … at least not today.

Finally, after 45 stressful minutes, I exit the bridge. The traffic starts to thin. I’m breathing again. My teeth are unclenched. If there isn’t an accident ahead, the worst is behind me. In one commute, I’ve gone through the gamut of emotions: self-pity, optimism, anger, fatalism, boredom, agitation, and fear and loathing in Louisville. In the process, I’ve transformed from a righteous rule follower to a ruthless rule breaker.

When it’s finally over, a commute that should have taken no more than 35 minutes lasts for an hour or even two. I’m decompressing at work when a dark thought hits me like a rush hour fender bender: I have to do it all again tonight.

Volunteering for Trouble

Got to be the shoes.

Today I’d like to tell you how my renegade wife got dismissed from her volunteer job.

Kim and my son sometimes work a concession stand at the KFC Yum! Center to raise money for his high school band. Volunteers are supposed to wear a white shirt, black pants and black shoes. Note there is no mention of neon pink.

My wife, the rebel band mom, showed up for volunteer duty wearing black shoes with a small, but pronounced pink stripe across the bottom. Although this may be trendy, it’s apparently very distracting to the paying public. (I still haven’t figured out why the paying public has such an obsession with people’s feet). Because of this, the supervisor of volunteers asked my wife to leave the booth while it was inspected. Aggravated but committed, Kim returned later, covered the pink stripe and dished out concessions.

This is proof positive that my wife is a better person than me. If I had been in the same situation, the supervisor likely would have gotten an earful as he saw my pink feet beat a path out of there.

Thankfully, there is a happy ending to this sad shoe story. Several days later, Kim wore the same shoes to the grocery store where a woman stopped her to applaud her bold choice in footwear. That’s one nice lady, but she’ll never make it as a volunteer.

Questionable Customer Service

Sometimes people ask you a question when they really don’t care to hear the answer.

Let me explain. I’m not much of a customer survey kind of guy. But when a Fifth Third Bank representative recently called me, I couldn’t wait to give her my opinion about “dormancy fees” charged on my checking account.

She listened dutifully, typing every answer without a hint of emotion. If I had told her I’d rather do business with al-Qaeda than Fifth Third, she would have recorded it without so much as blinking an eye.

I scored Fifth Third as low as possible on the survey. She seemed neither surprised nor alarmed. Then came the payoff question like a big softball right over the plate: “Did Fifth Third solve my problem?” Despite several calls to customer service, calls to the branch, talking to a supervisor and repeated e-mails, they had never even come close. When I informed her of this, she typed in my response and went to the next question on her list. I guess she’s just the person who records problems. Someone who I haven't met yet must fix them.

It seems odd to me though that you’d go to the trouble of calling me for my opinion without having the ability – or intention– of addressing my concerns.

Ridiculous Fees? You Can Bank On It

If you don’t spend your money, then your bank might just take it away from you. At least that’s the case with me and Fifth Third Bank. 

I have a checking account at Fifth Third that I don’t regularly use. I only opened the account at Fifth Third’s suggestion. I figured it couldn’t hurt to have another checking account in addition to my primary one. I was wrong. 

I recently discovered Fifth Third has been deducting a $5 “dormant account” fee from this account for months without my knowledge. I would have discovered this sooner, but I get only quarterly statements. 

I called Fifth Third, asking them to waive the fees. They refused. When I complained and threatened to close the account, their customer service expert told me, “I was costing them money anyway.” Back in the early days of our relationship, Fifth Third used to court my money, Now, like a scorned lover, it isn’t welcome there anymore. 

No problem. My money knows when it’s time to move on. It prefers a partner with old-fashioned values anyway. 

In the meantime, let this be a lesson to all of you. You have to watch your money closely or you’ll lose it … even when it’s in the bank.

Fans Got Taste of Own Medicine?

When I recently heard University of Kentucky fans taking umbrage at their welcome to Bloomington’s Assembly Hall I couldn’t help but chuckle since I experienced exactly the same thing … only at the University of Kentucky.

As memory serves me, Kentucky had lost seven of its last eight football games to Louisville, including four straight. Louisville was coming into Commonwealth Stadium ranked among the nation’s elite under first-year head coach Steve Kragthorpe. The UK natives were restless. They smelled blood in the water. They were right.

The insults started as soon as I turned off Versailles Road toward Commonwealth and continued for the next four hours until I merged onto I-64 West finally headed safely home. I was called every profanity imaginable. Even women and children weren’t spared, particularly as we drove past the frat houses to the parking lot.

Granted, there must have been some reasonable UK fans in Commonwealth that day. I just never came across them. I’ve traveled to games all across the country, including college football meccas Tennessee and Ohio State, and have never been treated any worse. In fact, my lasting memory of that day is of rushing from the stadium after a last-second Kentucky win while rabid UK fans followed, cursing at my sister. 

After that day, I’ve made every effort to treat visitors to U of L’s games especially well. People shouldn’t be verbally assaulted simply for following their favorite teams. However, if Kentucky fans got a little of their own medicine in Bloomington (and I really question that based on my own experiences at Assembly Hall), then so be it.