I could not do what I wanted to do last evening (most notably packing my things for my vacation this weekend) because, once again, Mother wanted me to do something that hijacked my entire evening. (OK, maybe not; maybe if I just put my nose to the grindstone I could finish packing. But why do that when I have a ready-made excuse?)
She said that she needed me to check up on a credit card bill I paid while they were gone on vacation. She got another bill that showed that the previous month's bill was not paid, and therefore my parents were hit with a late fee and interest. And the interest was going to be huge because the bill was in the thousands.
So I called. I got spooked by a security question I was asked; I was going to talk about it because I felt humiliated, but it doesn't matter compared to what happened next. I called a second time, got another person, and was told that I needed to call another department which, at that time, had an hour-long wait. Once I told Mother, she, who was extremely bent out-of-shape over paying money she didn't think she should pay, decided not to wait and spent an hour in her office holding on the phone.
In the meantime I retreated back up to my bedroom. But I still was able to hear Mother because her office is right below my bedroom. I was also able to hear her because when she gets upset, my God, she becomes a bitch on wheels. The yelling and anger I heard her spew on the poor representative who got her call was humiliating and, honestly, familiar. Remember that when I grew up, I didn't really see her because she and Father worked at The Store from sun-up till sun-down. All they did then was retreat downstairs and immediately take a shower together, whereby Mother would just bitch and bitch and bitch and bitch at Father for something. And she did the exact same damn thing last night.
Customer service always seems to bug her. She gets her dander up as a defense mechanism just so she won't get screwed over by people to whom she's giving money. That is great when, for example, I needed to get my new car -- I mean, fuck car salesmen, they're dirty anyway, amirite? I see myself in her whenever she is outraged at something that hits her checkbook. I learned to yell because of her, to be quite frank. Anyway, acting petty and juvenile over a late payment when the person on the other end of the line did nothing to impose a late fee and interest, is, to put it mildly, is unwarranted. But she didn't care. I don't know if she was screaming because she wanted someone to waive the late fee and interest or because she was really angry. Probably both. But eventually, another person (maybe it was the manager Mother demanded while on her tirade) got on the phone and gave her everything she wanted: A waiver of the late fee on the statement and interest that may have accrued in exchange for paying off the original charge right then and there.
Glad that is over. And yet I could not help but look at her with complete disgust while this embarrassment was going on. So what if she got what she wanted? There were much better ways to prove that I paid on time. Why couldn't she just give the rep on the phone the Confirmation Number I wrote down for her, precisely for cases such as this? But that's not my retirement-age Mother's style. No, she will raise fucking hell until she gets what she wants. Raising her voice, making up lies, accusing the other person -- all to "prove" she was right. And being on the other side of that often -- especially the accusations, which I hate about her -- confirms once again why my main relations with other women consists of money for sex. Mother fucking ruined me.
Oh, here's the kicker: There's a chance, a very small chance, that this may have been my fault. You see, while my parents were away, there was a bill I paid which I subsequently cancelled. I remember that (did I blog about this?) because I needed to thumb through a checkbook in order to enter the account number online. For this particular bill I found the checkbook Mother wanted me to use to pay. But after I established the payment, I looked through the checkbook again and saw that, for some goddamn reason, there was another set of checks, from a completely different account (and therefore a completely different account number) within this checkbook. I entered the wrong number, and so I needed to cancel that payment and set up another payment with the right number.
I am almost 100% sure that the bill for which I originally cancelled a payment I subsequently re-did. In other words, there's almost no chance that I somehow overlooked paying this bill. Not only could I not because I did pay attention, but 1) this was a huge bill that 2) Mother actually called home to tell me about. On top of that, I got a Confirmation Number. How could I cancel a payment after I wrote down its Confirmation Number?
Well, that's the thing. Maybe ... I did set up a payment, realized I put in the wrong account to pay for that payment, cancelled it ... and that was it. The poor phone rep who took My Fucking Mother's wrath insisted that someone (namely me) established a payment two days before the day I said I paid the bill, and then she said that that payment was cancelled, and there was no activity after that. I really don't think that cancelled payment was the one I wrote down on the statement for Mother -- but am I 100% sure? Don't tell Mother, but ... no.
Doesn't matter. She berated the credit card company into removing the late fee and interest. (After she got off the phone she cut up that credit card; knee-jerk reactions are another thing I learned from her.) But I have to honest about one other thing: I am so, so glad she doesn't believe I screwed up. During her call, she asked Father to ask me if I cancelled the payment. I told him, and then her (after I went downstairs to her office and overheard the resolution to the call). Now, I didn't completely lie to her. I did cancel a payment, but I don't know if that is this payment, and even if it was, I am almost certain I replaced it with a good payment. But am I completely certain? No.
Mother believed me instead of the credit card company, however. So don't bother Mother. Let her believe those people are snakes. And let me be at peace.
She said that she needed me to check up on a credit card bill I paid while they were gone on vacation. She got another bill that showed that the previous month's bill was not paid, and therefore my parents were hit with a late fee and interest. And the interest was going to be huge because the bill was in the thousands.
So I called. I got spooked by a security question I was asked; I was going to talk about it because I felt humiliated, but it doesn't matter compared to what happened next. I called a second time, got another person, and was told that I needed to call another department which, at that time, had an hour-long wait. Once I told Mother, she, who was extremely bent out-of-shape over paying money she didn't think she should pay, decided not to wait and spent an hour in her office holding on the phone.
In the meantime I retreated back up to my bedroom. But I still was able to hear Mother because her office is right below my bedroom. I was also able to hear her because when she gets upset, my God, she becomes a bitch on wheels. The yelling and anger I heard her spew on the poor representative who got her call was humiliating and, honestly, familiar. Remember that when I grew up, I didn't really see her because she and Father worked at The Store from sun-up till sun-down. All they did then was retreat downstairs and immediately take a shower together, whereby Mother would just bitch and bitch and bitch and bitch at Father for something. And she did the exact same damn thing last night.
Customer service always seems to bug her. She gets her dander up as a defense mechanism just so she won't get screwed over by people to whom she's giving money. That is great when, for example, I needed to get my new car -- I mean, fuck car salesmen, they're dirty anyway, amirite? I see myself in her whenever she is outraged at something that hits her checkbook. I learned to yell because of her, to be quite frank. Anyway, acting petty and juvenile over a late payment when the person on the other end of the line did nothing to impose a late fee and interest, is, to put it mildly, is unwarranted. But she didn't care. I don't know if she was screaming because she wanted someone to waive the late fee and interest or because she was really angry. Probably both. But eventually, another person (maybe it was the manager Mother demanded while on her tirade) got on the phone and gave her everything she wanted: A waiver of the late fee on the statement and interest that may have accrued in exchange for paying off the original charge right then and there.
Glad that is over. And yet I could not help but look at her with complete disgust while this embarrassment was going on. So what if she got what she wanted? There were much better ways to prove that I paid on time. Why couldn't she just give the rep on the phone the Confirmation Number I wrote down for her, precisely for cases such as this? But that's not my retirement-age Mother's style. No, she will raise fucking hell until she gets what she wants. Raising her voice, making up lies, accusing the other person -- all to "prove" she was right. And being on the other side of that often -- especially the accusations, which I hate about her -- confirms once again why my main relations with other women consists of money for sex. Mother fucking ruined me.
Oh, here's the kicker: There's a chance, a very small chance, that this may have been my fault. You see, while my parents were away, there was a bill I paid which I subsequently cancelled. I remember that (did I blog about this?) because I needed to thumb through a checkbook in order to enter the account number online. For this particular bill I found the checkbook Mother wanted me to use to pay. But after I established the payment, I looked through the checkbook again and saw that, for some goddamn reason, there was another set of checks, from a completely different account (and therefore a completely different account number) within this checkbook. I entered the wrong number, and so I needed to cancel that payment and set up another payment with the right number.
I am almost 100% sure that the bill for which I originally cancelled a payment I subsequently re-did. In other words, there's almost no chance that I somehow overlooked paying this bill. Not only could I not because I did pay attention, but 1) this was a huge bill that 2) Mother actually called home to tell me about. On top of that, I got a Confirmation Number. How could I cancel a payment after I wrote down its Confirmation Number?
Well, that's the thing. Maybe ... I did set up a payment, realized I put in the wrong account to pay for that payment, cancelled it ... and that was it. The poor phone rep who took My Fucking Mother's wrath insisted that someone (namely me) established a payment two days before the day I said I paid the bill, and then she said that that payment was cancelled, and there was no activity after that. I really don't think that cancelled payment was the one I wrote down on the statement for Mother -- but am I 100% sure? Don't tell Mother, but ... no.
Doesn't matter. She berated the credit card company into removing the late fee and interest. (After she got off the phone she cut up that credit card; knee-jerk reactions are another thing I learned from her.) But I have to honest about one other thing: I am so, so glad she doesn't believe I screwed up. During her call, she asked Father to ask me if I cancelled the payment. I told him, and then her (after I went downstairs to her office and overheard the resolution to the call). Now, I didn't completely lie to her. I did cancel a payment, but I don't know if that is this payment, and even if it was, I am almost certain I replaced it with a good payment. But am I completely certain? No.
Mother believed me instead of the credit card company, however. So don't bother Mother. Let her believe those people are snakes. And let me be at peace.
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