Edward J. Pluchar - The Blogsplitter

This story is certain to be uninteresting to most people.  Still, it has some of the flair of being stranded in Ireland in 2002 without a passport, so I’ll post it anyway.

My new job begins tomorrow.  I’m going to be an insurance agent for the Knights of Columbus.  I became a Knight last Wednesday.

Understandably, an insurance agent should have an insurance license.  This is usually accomplished by attending a three day class, passing a practice test, then taking the real test.

Not having the option of attending the three day class while finishing my job at SARA and being available to my pregnant wife, I found a class offered online for the same purpose.  It was basically several chapters of text to read, with quizzes and the practice test.

I read the chapters over the course of a few nights, while watching reruns of various TV shows or while Marcy read a book, and on Tuesday, May 26 I passed the practice exam. Time to take the real exam!

Well, it’s not that simple.

After you pass the practice exam, you have to call the online course company and order your hard copy certificate, stating that you actually passed the practice exam.  This and two forms of ID you have to bring to the real exam, which for me was in Charleston, some 2 hours away.

The testing company is basically a stand-in for the state government agency, in this case the WV Insurance Commissioner, or something like that.  They have a strict policy about cancellations - no refund unless you cancel with more than 2 days notice.

The test is $110.  Not a fortune, but not chump change either.

I need to take the test before Monday, June 1.  So I get a testing appointment for Friday, May 29th.  Three days away.

I called to order the certificate and have it expedited.  The operator said, “Well, expedited just means we’d get it out the same day, and we haven’t sent out the mail today.  So it’ll go out today either way, and I’d just as soon save you $10.”

“Great!  And the matter of overnight delivery…”

This is where I should have firmly decided to pay for overnight delivery.  But, given the operator’s laid back tone, and my general experience with letters arriving a day or two after mailing them, I opted for regular first class delivery of my certificate.

Tuesday and Wednesday night, I study 4 of the 6 chapters, and plan to study the last two and take an alternative practice test on Thursday night, before the test on Friday morning.  Come Thursday, however, there’s no certificate.

I start making calls.

Online course company (certificate issuing company):  We sent out the original, and they will want the original.  It’s not our fault if you don’t get it in time.

Testing company (certificate mandating company):  We have rules set by the state, and we can’t bend them.  We require what we need.

Hmm - the state.  Maybe I can talk to one of them - so many angles to play!  My wife is pregnant, I’m in between jobs trying to support the family, I can print up screens that say I passed the practice test (twice).  But they don’t open until Friday morning.

So here we are - it’s Thursday night, I need to study, but I’m really getting anxious about losing $110, disappointing my new boss, and all-in-all having made such an effort to get things done in a crunch and having it come to nothing.

I call him, the new boss, and he says just to go for it.  Print up every bit of evidence I can, bring my pregnant wife, and plea to take the test.  It feels like the first test of my salesmanship.

I decide that, before I get really desperate, I’m going to check my next day’s mail by intercepting it before the mail carrier takes it out on his route.  7am on Friday, I call and discover that the mail will be sorted by 8:30am, to call back then.  At 8:27am I call back (just a little earlier than suggested).

Postmaster:  Yeah, he checked your mail.  He said there’s just a pay stub, and other junk mail.

Me:  (Heart sinks)  Is he sure?  Is there anything from ABLE Inc.?

Postmaster:  Let me check.

(30 seconds or so…)

Postmaster:  Yeah, there’s something here from ABLE Inc.  Should I set it aside?

Me:  Yes, please!  Thank you so much…I’ll be right there.

I picked up the letter, get back in the car and look through the envelope to make sure I don’t tear the certificate when I open it.  I read, “Online Course Evaluation Survey”

What the hell?!  (Rip it open)  Don’t even tell me that this stupid company sent me a paper survey before they sent me the paper certificate, when I ALREADY filled out an online survey!

It was a survey.  But it was on the back of the certificate.

My stomach, twisted into its 8th knot, unwinds a bit.

I pick up Marcy and we haul to Charleston.  8:55am - This is essentially the absolute latest time we could leave Sinks Grove for me to make the 11:30am test.  She drives so I can study on the way - but there are still two chapters I’m fuzzy on.  I don’t have them.  I’ve only read them once each.

We have to stop for a potty break.  Marcy’s really dealing with some discomfort.  I’m trying not to get carsick.

She drops me off at the building, and I’m 20 minutes early (nice driving!).  I check in at the testing suite, then step out of the testing suite in order to go online and study those two pesky chapters.  But where can I go?

In the last stall of the men’s room, I sit on a toilet (w/toilet cover) and pull up the available networks.  None available.  Gotta fake it.

Now, it’s clear that this receptionist would NEVER have allowed documentation other than the original certificate.  So glad to have that.  She has to take my picture, then orders me to put all of my belongings - wallet, watch, rosary?  Yes, the rosary too - in a locker.  I go into the testing area with my ID and a key to the locker.  And my pants - they let me keep my pants on.

I begin the test, which is in two parts, multiple choice, taken at a computer station.  I’m being video and audio recorded, the proctor says.

First part is fairly easy, though some details are unfamiliar to me.  What is this?  Period of contestability?  I’ve never heard of that.

This is building my anger toward the online course company who almost totally boned me with the certificate debacle.  But worse, I’m misreading some of the questions, like my brain is out of focus.

I missed a boldfaced, capitalized NOT at the end of one question, and read the very same word and font into another question where it wasn’t.

I’m tired, and crashing from the adrenaline high.

After reviewing my answers twice, mainly to check for stupid mistakes like that, I determine that I’m very likely to have passed that section of the test.  On to section two!

Lucky for me, I’m not too familiar with the school days’ feeling of taking a test for which I have not studied, yet which I desperately need to pass.  Section two is composed entirely of the two chapters which I did not review, but hoped to review on Thursday night.  When I was making desperate phone calls.

I actually begin to resign myself to failing the test.  I simply do not know the answer to …2 out of 4 questions…4 out of 11, and another a toss-up…8 out of 21, three toss-ups…

I need to get 70% or better.  It’s looking like 60% or worse.

I review this section three times, looking for clues in one question to help answer others, considering and reconsidering the possible logic to some of these issues, deciding whether this question is intuitive or not…

Finally, I’m reasonably sure that I passed, so I confirm that I am done with the test.  No going back.

Back with the receptionist, I give my name and wait on a print-out.

There, in the middle of the page:  PASS.

I call Marcy to get picked up.

Marcy:  How’d you do?

Me:  Well, I can take a test.

Marcy:  You passed?

Me:  Yeah - wanna get lunch?

My stomach begins the long unwind.

Two new bios submitted to accompany my latest feature for the Greenbrier Valley Quarterly.

Edward J. Pluchar is still an expectant father, but hopefully won’t be “expectant” at press time.  Even so, “a week late” means another week to finish the neverending bathroom project, which only requires baseboard and an exhaust pipe.

Edward J. Pluchar has always made a better impression on mothers than daughters.  After 25 years he convinced (connived?) one of those daughters to marry him; just imagine how much his mother-in-law must think of him!

A few days ago I toyed around with Google Earth for the first time.

Privacy issues and all other considerations aside - what a breathtaking program!

I did the obligatory search for my home, which looks like I expected.  It was cool to roll the mouse over my property and find the elevation at any point (2214 by the house, about 100 feet higher up the hill).

Then I thought, “I could look at the Rockies.”  So I did.

Magnificent.  Even there on a screen, the way the mountains could appear in 3D, the way I could compare heights in just moments (much taller than my hill!), and…what’s this?  I can adjust my viewing angle so that I’m parallel to the Earth, then grab and pull the landscape in any direction, as though flying across counties, states…

I was flying East across the United States, and a child-like eagerness for the ocean arose in me.  Flying, across the plains, through the Appalachian Mountains, to the coast and - the ocean broke onto the screen, and I had the chills.  I soared over the ocean for nearly a minute, then pulled back into space, to see where I was - up near the Arctic.

I could go to the Himalayan Mountains.

As much as a thing like Google Earth can be, it was truly thrilling to see the world this way.  I plan to keep touring every once in a while.  Much cheaper and easier than the airlines.

I’ve joined a 12″ softball team, and we had our first game last night.

The coach is Elmer, owner of a guttering company, a 60-something guy who loves softball.  The next oldest guy on the team is probably in his late 30’s.  While watching the game, Marcy observed that our players instinctively used “sir” whenever they spoke with him, though he certainly doesn’t go looking for such respect.

Warming up before the game, Elmer played catch with Danny, a guy I know from various things around town.  Elmer turned to watch a play unfold on the field and Danny threw without looking to see if Elmer was paying attention…

Ouch!  He quickly began “walking it off,” though obviously that wasn’t going to help the actual injury.  Was it his chest, his throat?  No, there wasn’t any gasping, but then he was holding his mouth.

Eww…his teeth?  That’d be awful.  I started pressing my tongue against the insides of my lips with empathy.

No - his chin.  A nice gash opened up, probably a quarter inch wide and a full inch long.

Most of the team was gathered around.  I ran to check the concession stand for ice - no luck.  When I came back, they were dabbing the wound with a cloth, and shortly thereafter began closing up the wound with medical tape.

“You’re definitely going to need stitches, Elmer,” said the amateur medic.

Danny was pacing back and forth - “I’m so sorry, Elmer.  I wish I could have pulled that ball back.  I’ll help you pay for the stitches.”

Others listed Elmer’s options (go to the ER now, try to play it out, be sure to wear a helmet while pitching), each time offering manly validation for whatever choice Elmer made.  That’s a real licking.

Then Adam, in a vaguely medical tone, said, “But Elmer, you’re used to having balls on your chin.”

There was a moment of lag time before the first laugh came, then the second…finally everyone’s laughing while Elmer says, “Yeah, I heard him.  Yeah, I get it…”

I’m ashamed to say that I was still laughing about it today, mostly because of the tone of Adam’s voice.  He wasn’t trying to draw attention to the joke, just putting it out there to see if anyone picked it up.  And sounding like a medical professional…priceless.

Elmer played through the game with medical tape all over his jaw, looking like a chinstrap, and finally went to the ER afterward.  Wondering how many stitches he has…

I’ve heard a chunk of people talk about having theme music whenever they enter the room.  Really brings out the AC/DC fans.

There should really be more talk about incidental theme music.

You know, you walk into a music store (or maybe you did a few years ago, before iTunes) and Snoop Dogg is playing over the speakers - you can’t help yourself, you just start to swagger a little.  (Admit it).

I was working on a story last week at the Wild Bean, a local coffee shop, where you’ll usually hear a good bit of jazz, bluegrass, or other off-beat styles of music.  That day, a rock song broke into the mix, and just then a dude walked in.

In a vertically striped, button-down shirt and dark jeans, this slightly overweight fellow makes his way to the counter.  Remember that swagger?  Yeah, he’s got a bit of that going on - he can’t help himself.  His mustache is strange, a little too thick in the middle for the narrow ends.  It might be compensation for the receding hairline.

The best part about rhythm, about the induced swagger, is that it accentuates one’s natural gait.  This man probably could pass for unremarkable on the sidewalk, unable to pull a rhythm out of diesel engines and stuccato chatter.  But give him alt rock and - is that a bow-leg?  It’s not a limp.

At least in his mind, I’m pretty sure that man owned his incidental theme song.

Dodgeball last Tuesday was one of the most enjoyable sessions.

We had 4 v. 4 going, mostly adults with a few high schoolers (who might be college students, now that someone pointed out the beard one of them is growing).  There was already a 10 year old kid on my team, who was decent, but not really helpful to the team.

During a well-contended series, a girl came strolling into the gym.  She might have been 4 1/2 feet tall, maybe 75 pounds.

Great.  Truly, it’s fine, kids play somewhat often, and we can usually play around them.  But they’re kids.

They suck!

In the next series, this girl was on my team.  I encourage teammates in general, so I shouted my support as she ran all over the court and - hey, she throws harder than I expected!

A few more plays and then - Whoa.  That’s really good timing on her throw.

What’s your name?

Breanna.

Great throw, Breanna!

The best player on the other team charged us, but we dodged his throw and he retreated with a ball.  I pinned him toward the sideline and threw hard, and as he dodged my throw he nearly fell out of bounds.  I turned around, and suddenly everyone was cheering!

The little girl knocked him out.  Apparently she threw just after I did, so that the guy wasn’t expecting it.  And because her throw was just hard enough, he didn’t have time to regain his balance and block or catch her.

Hey, great job Breanna!

Do you know about the kids boot camp, she asked me.  I said I did.

She said she went through it twice, and they played dodgeball.

I asked if that’s how she became so good.

With real humility, she nodded.

Breanna and I were the only two left on our team in the next game, against two opponents.  All but one of the balls was on their side, so Adam, a guy about my age, went around gathering them and placing them near the halfcourt line.  As he bent over to lay the last two balls down - Whack!  A ball came flying from his left, hitting him right in the temple.  He never saw it coming!

It was Breanna.  Everyone went nuts.  I later declared it was my pick for play of the night.

Please, do not delay.

Open Facebook, sign in, and scroll to the very bottom of the page.

In the lower left hand corner, it’ll say “English,” unless there’s something I don’t know about you.  Click that.  Then select, “English (Pirate).”

Do it.  Enjoy!

(Thanks Rebecca!)