Filed under: Things That Suck
Last night I planned for this–this being “Monday morning”–I picked out an outfit and shoes in advance, made sure I had a breakfast and lunch ready to go, clean towel for my shower, checked my alarms to make sure they were correct, and then went to bed at a reasonable hour.
I was on time to work, unstressed, and ready for a very busy day.
And then I checked my bank account to find $250 of fraudulent charges on my debit card over the weekend.
You may no recall this (I don’t expect you to commit my posts to memory), but a year ago a cyber-thug hijacked my bank account. That time I marched myself down to the bank and had it all sorted out in under an hour with some spending monies in my wallet until my new debit card arrived. In fact, I was so not worried about it, I went ahead and bought a gorgeous dress on my lunch break (the dress I ended up wearing for my wedding, by the way). Unfortunately, the branch that is less than a block from my office has since closed; I called the fraud line, have cancelled my debit card, reported the thievery, have been issued a reference number and should receive my new card in the mail in a few days…but I feel a lot less secure about the whole thing. Perhaps it’s because May now has a history of fraud on my bank account. Perhaps it’s because I wasn’t able to sit down with Tyler-the-Personal-Banker and have him reassure me to my face that he would take care of everything. I’m sure the call center employees have similar training, but the reassurance via a reference number is not the same as Tyler being able to read my face and address the concern he sees there.
Last time this happened I was freaked out for 5 minutes and then felt pretty great about the whole thing. Tyler at the bank had done his job and I watched him do his job. I felt that the bank would take care of me. This time around Tyler’s branch is locked with black paper in the windows and nothing but an ATM and a list of nearby locations (none of which are close enough to squeeze into my 20 minute break. I’m frustrated, and I feel violated, and while I’ve done everything I can to fix the situation, and the bank has done what they can to fix the situation, I still feel like I’m in somewhat of a free fall, and I hate that feeling.
Grrrr. Happy Monday, everyone.
Warning: This is a very ranty post with lots of details—all the details are from notes I took during the following fiasco, and anything else J-Mo or I can remember—and is meant to both shame United Airlines into some kind of action, and also serve as a warning to any other globe trotters to never, EVER fly with United Airlines again. Ever.
Last week J-Mo and I made a last-minute trip to eastern Montana to attend a funeral. After looking at our options, we decided to drive up with J-Mo’s Mom, who happened to be in Salt Lake at the time, and fly back. I checked around online to find some flights out of one of a handful of very small airports in the area and found a good rate on both United and Frontier, $279.79 per ticket. Believe me, this is a rock-bottom deal, especially so close to the travel dates. (I looked into bereavement fares, but the relationship did not qualify for the lower rate.) Neither United or Frontier would allow me to book the flight online, so I got on the phone. After Frontier told me their new price, $479 per ticket, I decided to try United to see if their price was still the $279.79 or lower than Frontier’s new price. After attempting to book online one more time and receiving the same weird error message, blocking me from completing my purchase (I had already chosen my flights, entered J-Mo and my travel information, and our credit card number), I decided to call the United customer service number given on the error screen.
I was on hold for 20 minutes which the computer-voiced recording had warned me of within 30 seconds of calling. Annoying, but no big deal, I put my phone on speaker and ate lunch at my desk. AMB1MB (that is how he spelled his name, I swear) finally answered my phone call; I explained that the website was not working and that I’d like to buy two one-way tickets from Dickinson, North Dakota to Salt Lake City via Denver. I gave him the flight numbers, times, and told him the rate I’d seen online. He put me on hold to check the rate. After 10 minutes he told me that in their “real time” system which is the most up to date information they have the rate was still $279.79 per ticket, but he needed to also check the website. (Wha?) He put me on hold again. Fifteen minutes later he returned saying the rate was also $279.79 per ticket on the website as well as his “real time” system, and that he could go ahead and book the ticket. AMB1MB confirmed, again, our flight date, time, airport and connection with the $279.79 rate. He asked me for my last name to get the reservation going. I told him the last name of the first traveler was Mo—– and this is where everything turned to hell. See, apparently he could not book two tickets for the $279.79 rate; there was only one ticket available. Even though I had told him two or three times I was trying to book a ticket for myself and my husband, he had neglected to check the rate for two tickets. He put me on hold again. Ages later he returned and said he could book two tickets, but the rate had gone up to $1,100 dollars each. No, that is not a typo. Eleven. Hundred. Dollars…Each. In the 45 minutes I had been on hold the rate for a one-way ticket had increased over $800 dollars. PER TICKET! I was polite, frustrated, but firm. I told him that as I had initially told him I needed TWO tickets, and he had confirmed with me THREE TIMES the price of $279.79 I would absolutely not be paying $1,100 dollars per ticket. He would give me the original quoted price for both tickets. He put me on hold again. Finally, AMB1MB returned and told me he could get me two tickets for $343.30 per ticket. Mind you, this is still over $60 dollars more than the price he had initially quoted and confirmed with his two systems, a price several friends with whom I was furiously gchatting had seen on United.com in their own internet browsers. At this point I had been on the phone, mostly on hold, for more than an hour. I was frustrated, angry, and my lunch break was long over. I agreed to the higher price just to ensure we were on the flight, I had been checking the websites of Frontier and Delta in the meantime and neither had any seats available on flights out of eastern Montana or western North Dakota. It took AMB1MB another 10 minutes to take down all the information to get J-Mo and I booked on two, one-way flights home. AMB1MB gave me a confirmation number and mentioned I would receive an email within 24 hours with my receipt and itinerary. I requested to speak to his superior because of the price difference, I assumed when I explained what had happened the superior would be able to fix the problem.
Ha!
When I gave Jason Sherma, Supervisor of the United Web Support Team, my confirmation number from AMB1MB he correctly repeated back to me the flight numbers, cities, departures and arrival times, and then asked what he could do to help me. I informed him of the $279.79 price that AMB1MB had quoted me several times, explained his mistake on my needing two tickets and not one, and then told him the business about the $1,100 per ticket price and the $343.30 final price. Mr. Sherma told me that there was no evidence in his system of AMB1MB ever quoting any price less than $343.30. I was temporarily speechless and then immediately angry, but tried to remain calm. I repeated myself, unsure if there was a language barrier issue. Mr. Sherma again told me there was never a $279.79 price quoted to me and that United was doing me a huge favor with the $343.30 per ticket price instead of the $1,100 per ticket price. I told him that his information was incorrect and told him to pull the recording of the call where the $279.79 price point was discussed at length and AMB1MB’s mistake of not checking for two tickets in the first place. Mr. Sherma got very huffy and told me that they absolutely do not record calls at their call center. I call bullshit. I’ve worked at several call centers and every one of them has recorded calls for training and quality control. At this point I had been on the phone for 90 minutes and was frustrated beyond reason. I opted to end the call instead of continue to fight. We had return tickets home, and in the long run the extra $120-something dollars would not be that big of a deal.
The next day J-Mo, Momma-Mo and I left on a very long drive from Salt Lake City, 14 hours north-east through a blizzard and then a lot of very flat, very brown, very monotonous country. I had not yet received an email confirmation from United for our plane tickets, but as I was in and out of cell phone service I assumed it was waiting in my inbox.
Ha!
That afternoon as we were somewhere east of Bozeman, Montana, J-Mo decided to check the United website with our confirmation number to see if the receipt and itinerary was there. He typed it in, and viola, like magic our flights appeared: Dickinson, ND to Denver, an easy hour and a half layover in Denver around lunchtime, and then Denver to Salt Lake. I figured we could check in and print our boarding passes as we got closer to our travel times.
Ha!
On Saturday night, J-Mo and I tried to check in for our flights. In the hubbub of the funeral and other events I had not even noticed I hadn’t received an email confirmation yet, and our bank account had not been charged. I was suddenly very worried. J-Mo typed in our same confirmation number to the United website and, lo and behold, our flights came up…well, some of them. The screen only indicated two, one-way tickets from Denver to Salt Lake, but had nothing about a flight from North Dakota to Denver. I said a few swear words. J-Mo dialed the United customer service number and was informed of a 20+ minute wait time…and the whole debacle began again.
While he was on hold I was frantically checking flights again from all the nearby airports, there were 2 rather expensive seats available on a Delta flight from Minot, North Dakota, which was a few hours away. I should have bought them right then and told J-Mo to hang up. But, United had our credit card information, who knows what they would do with it! Finally Carol—employee number GS44—came on the line. J-Mo explained the problem, and after about 10 minutes she finally realized that we were missing a flight in our itinerary and were not simply calling to confirm the Denver-Salt Lake City leg of the flight. She put us on hold. She came back for a minute, asked a question or two, and put us on hold again. More of the same. Finally Carol said she was having trouble booking the North Dakota-Denver leg because United does not actually operate that flight, but contracts it out to Great Lakes Airlines. Finally, after an hour and fifteen minutes and a bit of haggling over the price (she seemed to think that it was perfectly okay to charge us something considerably higher than the $343.30 I had already agreed to with AMB1MB) Carol confirmed that we each had two flights, one from North Dakota to Denver, one from Denver to Salt Lake, the next day, and reconfirmed our original confirmation number and a rate of $343.30 per ticket (which I must add, is still not the original price of $279.79 that I feel United should have honored in the FIRST PLACE). J-Mo asked if she could also check us in for the flights, and she promptly told us no because they were not ticketed yet….
This is where I got really upset. I asked her what she had been doing for the last 85 minutes if not ticketing the flight, she just assured me we would have tickets. I reminded her that 4 days earlier AMB1MB had said the same thing, and I had no reason to assume she was not also feeding me false information. J-Mo and I were a three-hour drive from the airport and I wanted to be damn sure we had a place on the plane before I hung up and we drove out there the next morning. I was placed on hold again. During that wait the United website had allowed us to check in for our Denver-Salt Lake leg, and our bank account had been charged for the full price of the two tickets. A little internet sleuth work revealed that Great Lakes Airlines does not have online check-in–they are a very small regional airline–so it made sense that United could not check us in for that leg of the flight. I felt a little better, but just a little. Carol mentioned that in addition to the price of our tickets we would be charged two $25.00 fees for calling customer service. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot. I wanted to know why we were being charged if the only reason I called in the FIRST PLACE was because their website would not allow me to book tickets online; and the reason I was calling in the SECOND PLACE was because the first United agent I talked to had failed to book the airline tickets he confirmed he had. I wanted to know why I was required to pay a surcharge for their webmaster’s problems and their incompetent agents. And I wanted to know why Carol suddenly had the authority to charge me for a phone call answered by AMB1MB four days earlier, which she indicated was the reason for one of the $25.00 fees. AMB1MB did not mention anything about a customer service fee. I’m afraid I was not entirely polite or calm, but after a cumulative 3 hours on hold to book two one-way tickets, and at a higher price than I should have paid, and still without a receipt or email confirmation, I had absolutely no patience left. Carol promised to remove the charges under the code of “website error.” I requested to speak to Carol’s supervisor, she pushed back on that option, but I insisted. I was put on hold. Again. After 10 minutes Carol came back on the line saying “she must still be busy…” I again asked for confirmation from Carol of both legs of our flight, the price, and another reassurance that there would be no additional fees charged.
J-Mo and I were tired, I was super cranky, and we had a long day ahead of us. We decided this would be good enough and hung up. We set our alarm clocks so we could drive three hours to the airport and still arrive 2 hours before our scheduled flight out of Dickinson, North Dakota in the off-chance that we actually did not have a place on that plane we would be able to drive all the way home. In sum, this means that rather than try to call United again the next day to sort out flights we had already agreed to endure a 14-hour drive back home.
[Insert future blog post about the disaster that consisted of flying from Dickinson, ND to Salt Lake City and how it took more than 14 hours anyway.]
Yesterday J-Mo informed me that in addition to the charge for our flights, we had two $25.00 charges from United Airlines come through our bank account.
I lost my shit. And then I started to write. Multiple tweets and Facebook rants have yet to be answered by United Airlines. I have submitted a formal complaint with the details of this post to United Customer Care. I do not have the patience to call them only to be on hold for ANOTHER 90+ minutes and then told there is no supervisor with whom I can speak or that there is nothing the agent can do, or even worse, that there is no record of any of this mess in their system. I cannot handle another AMB1MB or Carol/GS44 assuring me they will fix the problem, and then don’t/won’t, and then charge me ANOTHER $25 dollars because I called them to notify them of their error and their unauthorized charges to my bank account. I will eat the $50 dollars in customer service charges, I will eat the $127.02 in increased rate charges, but I will not be quiet about it. No, Siree. I have never asked to have my site or a particular post promoted, but in this case I hope you share this post (alas! I miss you, Google Reader and your share capabilities!). I hope you tweet about it, United’s handle is @UNITED. I hope you put this post’s link on your Facebook page, or leave it on THEIR Facebook page. I hope you email your friends and let them know that United Airlines is not the type of company one should trust with credit card information or travel plans. If you are brave I hope you send a link to this post to customerrelations@united.com with your own 2 cents. Tell everyone you know they should not use United Airlines, direct them to this post if they ask why.
If you happen to work for United Airlines and are interested in airing your side of the story or, heaven forbid, making amends, you can contact me directly at heidikinsblog ATT gmail DOTT com. I can’t promise I will be understanding or even sympathetic to your point of view, and I certainly will not retract this post, but I will listen to what you have to say.
I had all sorts of important-but-not-really-important things planned for this week and weekend. A pie party to celebrate Pi Day (Happy Pi Day!), dinner with friends at an Irish pub, a bachelorette party of a girlfriend, tickets to see Death of a Salesman, what would have been my 1st Annual St. Patrick’s Day Breakfast party complete with Lucky Charms (and green milk), and a grown-up version of green eggs and ham. It would have been lovely.
But sometimes plans change just like that (snaps fingers). There are some things that are more important than making pi shaped cookies, or laughing in a pub, or green eggs and ham: weddings and funerals, family, friends, and being present and emotionally available when your loved ones are at their absolute happiest and absolute worst. And when those loved ones need you, you go. You go no matter how difficult it was to get plane tickets out of that tiny airport, no matter how long you were on hold waiting for a confirmation number (90 minutes), You go no matter how much the stupid people at United tried to rip you off, or how far you need to drive on top of that (14 hours total) to get to the place where you need to be. Sometimes, there is no choice but to be there. You go.
My plans for this week have changed, drastically. And while I wish I could say I was happy about it, the truth is I am heartbroken. Not about missing the party or the show or the Lucky Charms, I am heartbroken when I hear how much he is heartbroken, so much so that it is hard for me breathe. Plans change, you travel hundreds of miles, pay whatever it takes, and you go. You go because you need to be there. There is no other option.
Filed under: Things That Suck
WARNING: this post is all about boobs, both my own and those of the general female population. If you don’t want to read about boobs, please click here for a few laughs instead and come back tomorrow for something else.
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Ok, so I assume if you’re still reading you are not going to be disgusted, offended, or sport permanent scars from the next few paragraphs where I shall be discussing boobs. Right? Good.
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If you are an adult woman you know at least 3 of the following:
- You can get breast cancer.
- You are never too young to get breast cancer, women in their 20′s have fought it.
- You must have regularly scheduled check-ups and mammograms.
- Do monthly self-examinations and go see a doctor if anything is lumpy or otherwise amiss.
- October is Breast Cancer Awareness month.
Even though I am only 28, I have been careful to have yearly examinations for the last decade and have become very aware of the curvature of my chest. I know my boobs, folks. I know which one sits a little higher, which one has the larger nipple, where those random, errant hairs sprout from (what, don’t act like you don’t have them too), when they change size and what all the moles look like. I know what they feel like and what days they are extra tender. I consider myself and my boobs well acquainted.
In August I woke up one morning with some extreme pain in my right boob, right under my armpit. Initially, as I am a converted back-sleeper, I assumed I had just slept on my side funny and had strained a muscle or something. A few days later it was still there, still painfully tender, and when I starting poking around in my armpit I felt a definite lump, something that felt to be about the size of a ball of cookie dough, to my inexperienced squooshing-of-lumps it felt enormous.
I changed insurance last year when I got my new job and hadn’t been in for a girly appointment since then. So, I clicked around, found a new doctor that had the best coverage under my new policy and called up their office. I was initially told that there was a 3-month wait for new patients, but after a brief explanation of my predicament the receptionist put me on hold for about a minute and then, with what seemed to be a bit of veiled panic in her voice, scheduled me for 7:30 the next morning. I was not going to meet with the woman who would be my regular OB, but it was better to meet with Dr. Fill-In and get this all checked out than to wait for an opening in her schedule.
I tried not to freak out. I tried to keep thinking “This is a routine thing for them, they always have women with possible lumps come in immediately. Just want to check it out. Cover their asses. Total routine, not a big deal. Don’t freak out.“
Honestly, I didn’t do a very good job of not freaking out. I was scared. I was really scared. I called my Dad to let him know what was going on, he is my In Case of Emergency person and if, for whatever reason–surgery, excessive medication, collapse from hyperventilation, death–I wasn’t able to drive myself to work/home in the morning I wanted him to know he’d be receiving a call. He was wonderful to reassure me that this was probably their standard response, he offered to come with me, he promised to be there if I needed him.
I called J-Mo and told him what was going on, he was out of town for work and I didn’t want him to be blind sided by some disastrous news in the morning IF something went horribly awry. I didn’t even know what could go awry. I think I imagined this lump in my chest as some kind of ticking bomb, a land mine that would explode at any moment and blow me to smithereens. See how I suck at not freaking out? I was trying to stay calm, but what ended up coming out of my mouth was halting explanations punctuated by bouts of hyperventilation and regular crying. J-Mo was ready to leave the project he was working on and head back to Salt Lake that minute so he could be there to hold my hand.
I love both of these men, my Dad and J-Mo, for being so supportive when I was so terrified. But ultimately, I decided it would be easier for me if I went alone. I knew my Dad was just 30 minutes away, so if my boob, I don’t know, exploded or something he wouldn’t be far away. I promised to keep him in the loop with any updates as the appointment progressed. It took quite a bit of convincing to keep J-Mo away, I promised if it was anything more interesting than a regular visit he could run back here as quickly as possible and take care of me. But going by myself, just like any other appointment, would make me believe more fully that it was just a routine check-up on something potentially weird going on in my boob. Nothing more.
I still didn’t sleep that night.
The next morning I showed up early, filled out all my forms, and answered umpteen billion questions about myself, my body, and my family history of cancer and, specifically, breast cancer. The very wonderful nurse carefully typed up everything I said into my permanent file. She explained things to me, asked even more questions, took my vitals and performed a few other tests, and did a damn fine job of making sure I didn’t hyperventilate right there in the examination room. She did more to calm my nerves than the lengthy, uphill run and hot bath the night before, and the meditative thoughts I’d been working on for the previous 18 hours.
Dr. Fill-In came in, didn’t introduce himself, didn’t say hello, squeezed my right boob twice and said “Well, you’re too young to have cancer, but go up to the Huntsman Cancer Institute and have some more tests done anyway.” And he walked out.
If I could have, I would have shot him in the back of the head with laser beams, the ones that were primed and ready to go right behind my blood shot eyeballs. On the one hand, I was relieved that he didn’t come in, gravely check his clipboard, and tell me I had 2 months to live. On the other hand, what kind of statement is that!? My insurance was billed almost $400 dollars for that one, doctoral sentence. I was pissed! I wanted more than that! Some reassurance, or some explanation, or some literature on the topic. But no, just “go to the CANCER INSTITUTE, you know, that place where the people who have cancer go, and let them figure it out.”
Not cool, Dr. Fill-In, not cool.
Over the next week or so I had several rounds of tests at the Huntsman Cancer Institute. I still don’t have many answers. What I know is this:
- The lump in my right armpit is still there, I can feel it and it still hurts under pressure.
- It is not a swollen lymph node or gland, as that swelling would have gone down by now.
- An ultrasound will pick up images of fluid filled objects (see: baby in a pregnant, amniotic-fluid filled belly).
- Cancer cells are solid masses of gunk and thereby will not show up on an ultrasound.
- Cysts are fluid filled masses, they will show up in an ultrasound.
- My lump is not a fluid-filled lump, my ultrasound did not pick up anything. It was unremarkable in every way. That sounds great, except for the part where cancer cells DO NOT show up on an ultrasound.
I feel like I’m caught in a big, twisting circle of unanswered questions and stressful emotions I am incapable of dealing with in a healthy way. I have been told that everything is fine, it’s nothing, and not to worry about it. Which again, sounds great, but I still don’t know what it is.
“You’re too young for cancer.”
“Cancer cells are solid masses, not fluids.”
“It’s not a swollen lymph node or a blocked gland. It’s not a cyst or otherwise exhibiting any kind of fluidity.”
“You’re probably totally fine….”
Blaaaaarrrrgh! Have you checked my blood pressure!? Clearly, I am NOT fine! (The lovely nurse checked it, on each visit, and despite my preconceived notions of sky high numbers, my blood pressure is smack in the middle of normal range.) I don’t want some unidentifiable lump hanging out in my boob without properly identifying itself. I want answers, dammit! I want that thing out of my body and on a cold, metal slab where it can be poked to death, prodded, dissected and explained!
I have some more follow-up appointments next month. The general consensus from my doctors–besides “Oh, it’s nothing”–is that if it didn’t change in the next 6-8 weeks they would do some more investigating, possibly a biopsy, and try and figure out what exactly is hanging out in my chest. Again, I am trying not to freak out; after my initial, literal dizziness from the idea that I could have breast cancer, I’ve have been doing much better. Then October rolled around and little pink ribbons starting popping up on every conceivable thing. Pink ribbons for boobies! Get checked for lumps! You are never too busy for a mammogram! You are never to young to have cancer!
It’s frustrating, you see, because the slogans and messaging from Team Komen, et al seem to completely contradict what Dr. Fill-In told me. I tried! I have legitimate concerns and I need some legitimate answers! With the exception of my car accident a few years ago, I have been remarkably healthy. I don’t have a regular doctor, I don’t need prescription medications, I rarely get sick enough to warrant serious concern. Perhaps I just don’t know how to work the healthcare system to receive the information I need? Perhaps I don’t know how to ask the right questions or be the annoying patient who calls every 10 minutes with a new concern? What would you do in my position? I am just a few weeks away from my appointment with my new OB, what questions should I ask? Other than going over this whole mess with the lump in my breast (AGAIN! I HAVE A LUMP! IN MY BREAST! COMMENCE FREAKOUT!) what else should she know? How do you get needed answers from medical professionals? Honestly, friends, at this point I am grasping at straws here, any advice or help would be greatly appreciated.
Just over two years ago I upgraded from my extra-slim, red sliding phone to a brand, spankin’ new SmartPhone with a touch screen, internet access and all sorts of bells and whistles. I was blown away. Within a few days I had synced up three or four email accounts (yes, I have multiple accounts, don’t judge), added a couple fantastic apps that I was sure would change my life, and was happily on my way to a SmartPhone enabled life. I loved my phone, I loved finding new apps that would make my life more technologically advanced, more involved, more connected. I was convinced that this was It.
Here we are, just over two years later and my once amazing Droid is sluggish and frustrating. My touch screen is slow to respond, has obnoxious glitches, and my once screaming-fast 3G connection now takes several minutes to load a web page. I have deleted most of the apps on my phone, and I have not missed a single one. I don’t watch videos on my phone, I don’t stream anything, I don’t store music or listen to pod casts. I use my phone to text, talk to a handful of people, occasionally make or return other phone calls, keep a running grocery list, set an alarm clock, and look up a few things on the internet like directions or definitions to obscure words. I don’t use the calendar functions, I don’t use Facebook or Twitter on my phone, I rarely use it as a camera because the pictures are always crappy and the light sucks. The short story: other than the ability to find the nearest cupcake establishment or check-in for a flight, I don’t use the “smart” features on a smart phone.
A few weeks ago I casually started looking at new phones, trying to figure out what was my next, best option. I looked a dozen different phones, all super sleek and shiny and speedy…and freaking expensive. The cheapest upgrade from the phone I currently have is a small fortune and I can’t imagine that any of these will last more than two years. They just don’t make them like those indestructible Nokia’s anymore. I realize that many people are totally fine coughing up four hundred plus dollars for a fancy phone. (FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS!) Do you realize that there are entire industry’s that are built on the concept that the hugely inconvenient hassle of switching to their service will save you four hundred dollars per year? (See: Every auto insurance commercial that interrupts my prime time TV viewing.) Four hundred dollars! That is a lot of money! To send texts and make phone calls and look up drivel online! Four. Hundred. Dollars.
Clearly, I am much cheaper than I used to be, the idea of spending four hundred dollars (or, to be honest, $150 dollars) for a phone I’ll have to replace in two years anyway makes me sick to my stomach. Four hundred dollars is ridiculous.
I know many people are tied to their SmartPhones and cannot function without them–and that is just fine, I used to be that girl–but I am not that girl anymore. Frankly, I don’t want to be that girl anymore. I am chained to a computer for 8-9 hours a day, and curled up with my laptop working on homework at night, and have two or three email accounts open all the time. I don’t know why I think I need a four hundred dollar device that will only tie me to my email and other notifications for the remaining hours of the day.
I’m disconnecting. Well, I mean, sort of. I will be upgrading my phone in the next couple of weeks, but I am going to choose one without bells or whistles or a grillion apps to run my life. I want a device that will make and receive phone calls, send and receive texts, save a couple hundred phone numbers I have never bothered to commit to memory (okay, all but about 4 phone numbers), keep track of my grocery list and do it’s best to wake me up in the morning.
And another thing, while I’m on the topic of phones and their ridiculousness, let’s talk about cell phone plans for a moment. I would like to know why T-Mobile, my cell phone provider for the last decade, has a plan for unlimited everything (phone, data, text) for $49.99 per month IF YOU HAVE TWO LINES, but not if you have one line. One line of the exact same service is nearly double the price. Double! Is this some kind of scam? Some kind of discrimination against single people? Thank you, T-Mobile, for yet another reminder that my single life is, well, single. And apparently twice as expensive as if I had a pet cactus that needed a cell phone plan. Awesome.
I know there’s another version of the iPhone coming out today. I also know that many of you have been pining for this latest incarnation for weeks or months. To you, mozel tov. Your new life with iPhone5 begins today! Enjoy it! For you other technology-philiacs out there, enjoy your iPhone/Blackberry/Droid/e-Rotary Dial. It’s just no longer for me. Shrug. It’s okay, I’ll probably survive.
Probably.
Lately I have become increasingly nauseated by smells. So much so, that I would almost swear I was pregnant. Or, maybe just my nose is pregnant. (Note: I am not pregnant. Nor am I considering or attempting to become pregnant in any way any time soon. Okay? Okay. I’m glad we’ve got that out of the way.) I’m not sure if it has something to do with the changing seasons and the upheaval of allergies and hay fever that I am again forced to deal with on a daily basis, or if it is because cooler temperatures will find me outdoors more often and my nose muscles are stretching the limits of their smellingness, or if it’s just something about September. At any rate, I am far more conscious of, and disgusted with regular, every-day smells than I have ever been. And it’s starting to slowly (quickly?) drive me to CrAzYtOwN.
- Last night I was walking past a bakery and the smell of frosting made me queasy. Frosting! I love frosting!
- My apartment building smells like soup. Not a delicious, homey, fall-ish smell, but the glop served by the hairiest lunch lady in elementary school; it’s like the scent of over-boiled peas with dirty socks.
- During lunch the other day a not-unusual combination of tuna melt, pickle spear and broccoli cheese soup nearly killed me. Seriously, I almost died. And it was my lunch!!
- My office building is having some repainting done, I usually don’t mind the smell of fresh paint because it covers up a wealth of other, muskier scents, but this? Lawsy, I thought my nose was going to be burned off. I swear they mixed that paint with some kind of toxic acid. Thank heavens it isn’t my cube that is getting freshened.
- Part of a routine evening walk led me past a gorgeous old Catholic cathedral, one that I usually don’t associate with any kind of smell at all. But there it was, lingering around the entire block, calla lilies mixed with baby powder. Who makes calla lily-scented baby powder!? If this was right after Sunday morning mass, I could perhaps understand it, what with the stream of old ladies and babies coming in and out of the cathedral. But no, it was almost midnight and the stench was overpowering, it was like walking into a wall of flowered babies.
- The smokers who light up outside my bedroom window–which is left open year ’round because I need the fresh air, a dilemma only slightly complicated by the nicotine-suckers who live next door–have either switched to a higher tar brand, or have started smoking three cigarettes at a time. The smell, which is usually slightly annoying but never long lasting, seems to have permeated by nostrils. It’s second-hand smoke all-the-time in my bedroom and even cleverly angling the industrial-strength fans doesn’t seem to keep the smell out.
- The smell of printer ink nearly made me dry heave. Printer ink! Is nothing sacred!
- The usually wonderful aroma of spring rolls, particularly the Southwest spring rolls from, say, Chili’s, has the overpowering smell of stale sweat and vomit. Is this normal? Why would anyone put that on their menu!? Gah, I nearly lost my lunch.
I am normally not terribly sensitive to smells. But the last few weeks I have been nearly knocked on my arse from the stench emanating towards my virgin nostrils in the above-mentioned scenarios. What about you, what smells make you sick? (Are you pregnant? Has that changed your olfactory sensitivities?) Has anyone else had an intensifying of nasty smells lately? Is this just me? Do my nose and my OB need to have a chat to figure out what is going on?! Please help!
I’m sure by now you have heard that it is Shark Week, right? The Discovery channel is airing dozens of slots of shark-related programming, and I have found myself DVR-ing episodes that go into great detail about shark sightings, shark attacks, and all other subjects in which sharks and people do not mix. I cannot NOT watch this stuff! Am I afraid of sharks? Yes, yes I am. The thought of them gives me an uncomfortable tightness in my stomach. Seeing footage of gaping mouths of teeth–even though they are safely contained in my TV–makes me shudder. I have nightmares about being chased by a shark, or having one use me as a chew toy. That Bruce character in Finding Nemo freaked me right out. I have never seen Jaws and I think it is safe to say that I never will. I have to look away when they show the “scary” or “gruesome” parts during Shark Week. On public television. Aimed at educating children. “Scary” to me basically means anything where teeth or jaws or blood is involved, which means I spend most of any given program with my face buried in my hands. Four year olds see more of Shark Week than I do. Have I ever met a shark? No. Have I even seen one in the flesh? Um, no. Not really. Baby-sized ones that are sometimes kept in an aquarium, yes, but never a “real” shark, the kind that could chew your arm off. Does this make my fear of sharks slightly irrational? Uh, yes, probably. I live in a landlocked, desert state; the chances of me coming face-to-face with a hungry Great White Shark are minimal/non-existent. I am SCUBA certified, but I have never gone diving in the ocean. In fact, when hanging out on an ocean beach I rarely get in the water at all. I don’t really care for salt water in my eyeballs/on my face, and the chance of coming into close quarters with a) clingy seaweed, b) stingy sea creatures, or c) sharks, is more of a risk than I am willing to take. I’d much rather hang out on the beach with my nose in a book, carefully tucked up under an umbrella with a sundress covering me shoulders-to-my-knees and the rest of my body completely slathered in SPF 85. Sexy, no?
Ha! No. Not really. Well, not in the way that any advertisement, fashion or beauty magazine published in the last 80 years would lead you to believe.
The thing is, do you want to know what scares me more than sharks? (And bobble-head dolls, but that is another post entirely.)
Tan lines.
Sunburns.
My sensitive dermis baking under sweet, sweet, sunshine.
Melanoma.
Skin cancer.
Like many children, I had white-blonde hair as a kid. Unlike most of those children, when I grew up my natural hair color never really darkened and still hovers in the distinctly “platinum” part of the color wheel. My skin is a fair, creamy white and mostly freckle-free. My foundation color is “parchment” for heaven’s sake. I’m a pale person. And unlike many people who share my coloring, I don’t make any efforts to darken my pasty-white skin. I have never been inside a tanning bed. I have never “laid out” or gone sunbathing. I am terrified of the idea of getting “that healthy glow” or even “a little color.” I don’t know if I can properly convey the fear I associate with my own skin being a “healthy”, “sexy” bronze shade, or, frankly, a shade that can be described by any color not resembling printer-paper.
You probably think I am overreacting. I’m not. I’m not being irrational, or even overly fearsome. Allow me to explain:
About 25 years ago the University of Utah–a premier research institution, particularly in genetics–did a massive study to see if there was any genetic linking to skin cancer. (The short version: there is.) For several years they studied hundreds of families, choosing ones who had multiple cases of melanoma. My mom’s family was chosen. My dad’s family was chosen. As a result, all of us kids were tested; I was 3 but I still remember that day. My oldest brother was 13 at the time and the researchers were shocked–SHOCKED–to discover a chunk of skin cancer on his shoulder. He was the youngest person to ever be diagnosed with skin cancer; it was such a big deal that it made the cover of the Wall Street Journal, and his case was the subject of professional medical conference keynote addresses for years. THE COVER OF THE WALL STREET JOURNAL!! It was is a Big. Freaking. Deal. Yes, this was twenty-five years ago and in the years since there have been more cases of skin cancer discovered in younger children (a trend that is disturbing enough on it’s own), but please understand that this very real, tangible fear of inherited skin cancer has been ingrained in me–and for good reason–for the last two and a half decades. I am a carrier of the melanoma gene. I inherited it from both my mother and father. While I have always had regular check-ups with my dermatologist, have gone back to the University of Utah for follow-up studies, and I have been vigilant in sunscreen application; I am still scared.
Ten years ago I had two moles taken off my head in a routine check-up, one came back positive for melanoma. I was 19. I hadn’t had a sunburn or even a tan line in at least six years. But there it was. Cancer. On my face. Can you imagine your 19-year-old self? Now imagine her going to the doctor by herself to be scrutinized head to toe and everywhere in-between for questionable moles. Imagine the doctor carefully cutting off a few tiny bits of her face because they looked “a little suspicious.” Now imagine 3 days later–Dec. 23 2002 at 4:30 pm, to be exact–when the doctor calls her to tell her that the moles were malignant and cancerous and “I am having my office staff come in from holiday on Dec. 26, first thing in the morning to cut out some more of your face. We need to make sure we get it all.” Imagine that 19 year old girl sobbing into the phone, thinking she is far too young to have to deal with this kind of news. (I still get choked up when I think about that phone call. The fear was palpable then, and even now it makes me breathe faster and my chest become tight.) I am lucky, my dermatologist caught my case really early and was able to cut out the offending pieces of my face, his plastic surgery skillz left only one small scar near my hairline that is hard to see, even if I point it out. I didn’t have to go through chemo or radiation or spend months of my life in a hospital. Yes, I am lucky; or more accurately, I had been vigilant my entire life, luck really had nothing to do with it. Even so, it was still far too close a call for me to be willy-nilly with the sunbathing and beach time. Like, ever.
I wear sunscreen every single day, even if all I’m doing is walking from my house to my car to go to work. SPF 30. Every day. No matter what. (Except that one time I forgot, I am still kicking myself for that. In fact, just thinking about it gave me a knot in my stomach.) Outdoorsy activities will have me bump up the SPF to 45 or 65, with 85 on my face and shoulders. (I don’t want to hear any arguments about how “oh, anything after SPF 30 doesn’t make a bit of difference.” I. Don’t. Care.) (And who made you an expert on hereditary melanoma anyway? I’d like to see your degree and credentials.) (Also, to all former boyfriends–you know who you are–who cruelly and publicly mocked my beach wear, with full knowledge of my genetic misfortune and medical history, I hope you get testicular cancer and have to go through life as a One-Balled Wonder.) (And to the irritatingly, insipid women who make fun of my summer sleeves and long skirts–especially those claiming to have also had skin cancer but not caring about getting sunburned–you are ridiculously stupid, shallow and naive. And douchebags. Sadly for you, getting a tan won’t eliminate any of those qualities. *smirk* I hope you have gross, permanent sun spots on your face and hands by the time you’re 30.) (/rant.) (Man, it feels good to finally get all that off my chest!) (/parentheticals.)
I have been told by my doctors–ones who are experts on my skin, genetic skin cancer, and my family history–that even if I live in a cave for the rest of my life with absolutely no sun exposure whatsoever and develop those creepy, beady-white, cave-dwelling-eyes, I will still contract melanoma again by the time I’m 40. Cancer. Again. Sometime in the next 10-15 years. No matter what. On the upside, my team of dermatological experts tell me that my lack of tanning will make me have fewer wrinkles and clearer, smoother skin as I get older. So I suppose when I’m 40 and going in for Round Two (or three) of having skin cancer removed from my body the medical staff will think I’m only 29. Hey, at least I have something to look forward to! So, while you and your blessed olive skin can prance around the beach or pool in SPF 4 (now with coconut oil!) and a teensy little bikini without a care in the world, I’ll stick with the SPF>45 and a drop cloth. I am not olive, or brown, or tan, or even beige. I am pale, the color of parchment, and always will be. And my bikini has never seen the light of day. True story. It has taken itself–and me–out for some night swimming on several occasions. But obviously in a pool and not the open water, because–honestly, don’t you ever watch the Discovery channel?–night time is prime feeding time for large, carnivorous fishy creatures who are drawn to white, glowing, reflective surfaces (see: heidikins’ entire body) and WHAT ABOUT THE SHARKS!?!)
Did you all have a lovely holiday weekend? Canada Day? The Fourth of July? Whatever your flavor? My weekend was, well, it was a mixed bag. On the one hand, there was the awesome, and on the other hand there was the not so awesome and then the freaking annoying.
The Awesome:
- Lots of nieces and nephews saying and doing lots of adorable/hilarious things
- Homemade lime rickies, I take mine with extra sugar, extra lime, and a maraschino cherry
- Laying on the grass with my brothers and sisters, laughing and chatting and giggling until parenthood called and it was time for their kiddos to go to bed
- Dutch oven breakfast, with fireworks (yep, I’m just gonna link to that whole post instead of try and recreate with pics and what-have-you)
- Going to movies when it’s too hot to do anything else (Larry Crowne, which I loved, and Super 8, which I will have nightmares about for weeks.)
- Playing on the swings in my childhood backyard – I had to sit on the trapeze because everything else was so low my knees dragged on the grass. (Better my knees than my ass, right?)
- Showing my sweetheart around my hometown
- Afternoon naps snuggled up with that very charming boy of mine
- Snow cones and sour patch kids
- Playing Monopoly while waiting for the fireworks to start
- Fireworks, lots of them, right above my head
The Not So Awesome:
- The bookcase I bought from IKEA was too skinny, I picked up the wrong one which required a return trip to exchange it
- A chopped a piece out of the left thumb while making salsa (don’t worry, the salsa was phalanges free, pinky promise)
- I misplaced my keys, forgot where I parked, forgot I was driving, and had several “oh crap!” moments when I spied a police officer seconds after I *almost* (maybe) broke a minor traffic law.
- I dropped things, broke things, ran into things (big things, like people and furniture and walls) and generally had one of those days where nothing seems to go quite right
- I forgot how freaked out I get by scary movies, even moderately scary movies, or not-scary movies with moderately scary scenes. Super 8, I’m looking at you in your zombie-make-up spider-alien face.
- During one little game of Monopoly I was sent to jail no less than 11 times. The boy? He maybe went to jail once. For the record, I also went bankrupt due to his blasted hotel on Park Place. *shakes fist in the general direction of the dark blue properties
The Freaking Annoying:
- I love fireworks. Last 4th of July I didn’t get to see any big ones up close, so I was particularly excited about seeing some things year.
- The boy and I went to the park pretty early to grab a good parking spot, help stake out a spot on the grassy hill and enjoy the lovely evening. When I say “we went early” I mean we showed up almost 5 hours early. We scored a killer parking spot, brought some snacks, and some games, listened to some live entertainment, took a little nap, more snacks, a hilarious round of Monopoly (see above)… it was lovely.
- A few hours later some friends showed up and we chit-chatted for a little while, sharing picnic munchies and telling stories. Then some of their friends showed up, and then friends of the friends, and more removed “friends”…and by the time the fireworks started at 10:00 pm I knew perhaps 8 of the 30 people suddenly crowded onto too few blankets. More people stopped by, really LOUD people.
- One stepped on my hand, one almost sat on my head, one complete stranger plonked herself right in front of my fireworks view and I admit, I was not oozing charm and friendliness when I asked her to please move to somewhere that was not 3 inches in front of me on the blanket that I wove myself from cotton I grew myself and sewed together by hand using wool thread from sheep I raised myself…ok, that last part is a bit of a stretch. But seriously? I was getting bugged.
- Piles of loud, obnoxious strangers were holding inane conversations at eye-twitch-inducing decibel levels. ” LIKE, OH. EM. GEE!!1!11 DID U C STACY W/ THAT MANWHORE!? SRSLY, I DUN KNOW WHUT SHE’S DOING W/HIM. AND, LIKE, JUSTIN!? HE COULD DO SOOOOOO MUCH BETTER THAN THAT TIFFANY GIRL, LIKE, I MEAN, REALLY!!1! TIFFANY ISN’T EVEN HAWT! OHMYGOSH, DID YOU, LIKE, WATCH THE BACHELORRETTE? THIS IS JUST LIKE THAT, ONLY REAL LIFE! JUSTIN IS A TOTAL BENTLEY!! HAHAHA! I’M GONNA FACEBOOK THAT! LIKE IT, OKAY?!?!1!”
- I wish I was kidding. Sadly, I am not. And you guys, they were loud. Really, obnoxiously loud, and right next to my ears, and putting their feet and asses far too close to my face, and stepping on my hand (an accident, I admit, but still freaking annoying). I know that I was in a public space, and I can’t control the environment, and technically they had every right to be there, but this was a little ridiculous. They were loud, and pushy, and rude, and generally obnoxious.
- I’m usually one to roll with the punches life throws, but I was really disappointed in my fireworks show being taken over by this loud, pushy, rude, generally obnoxious ilk. The worst part is they showed up right before the fireworks started, it was already dark, and it was a little impractical for me to try and find a new, less annoyingly populated place to enjoy the fireworks spectacular.
Weekend Recap:
- Little people that are related to me are hilarious
- I get ridiculously excited about food (see multiple mentions above
- My man is awesome (I swear I’ll properly introduce you as soon as this fireworks etiquette rant is out of my system, mmkay?)
- I love fireworks but can’t stand obnoxious people, good thing I have another 12 months to come up with an alternate plan. And/or alternate “friends of friends of friends.”
Yesterday I got an email from my landlord that she had not yet received my May rent. Let it be known, I mailed the check on the 3rd like a good tenant. Let it be known, I have always paid my rent on time (“on time” means before the 5th, as per my contract). So, it seemed a little odd that she would wait THREE WEEKS to casually mention “hey, I never got your rent.” But whatever. The point is, either USPS lost my check or the mail sorter people at their office lost it. Whatever, the point is I did what I was supposed to, but to make sure my check hadn’t fallen into nefarious hands, I checked with my bank online.
And then my heart dropped out of my chest.
I didn’t even get to the part about my rent check, because I was staring hundreds and hundreds of fraudulent charges in the cyber-face. ATM withdrawals in California (I haven’t been to California for at least six weeks, and I have never been to Monterey Park, the location of the crimes against my bank account), there were online purchases from sites I would never in a million years shop, more ATM withdrawals, more online charges. I stared for a minute, not quite comprehending what was happening. My debit card was safely in my wallet and I had my credit card locked away for emergency use only. What the what!?
Instead of freaking out and running around my office waving my arms, I decided to take immediate action. (Ok, I may have freaked out a teensy little bit first.) There was a branch of my bank on the same block as my office building, so I shouldered my purse and walked over there. I found the offending mis-charges at 11:55 and ten minutes later I was sitting down with Tyler: Personal Banker and Nice Guy Extraordinaire and he was on the phone with the bank’s fraud department.
I won’t get into all the nitty-gritty details, but the end result was 90 minutes at the branch, brand new accounts for me, new cards on the way, and a money order to drop off to my landlord (because I am a responsible tenant, even in the face of debit card-hackery). I guess I’m supposed to feel violated, or hurt, or bothered, or something–but I don’t. It’s just numbers in the computer to me. The bank will replace all the funds that were stolen. I can prove 14 different ways that it wasn’t me making those purchases. And yes, I realize my identity resides in my computer, and I pinky promise to keep close tabs on all things related to my financials and identity and if there is more to it than a stolen debit card number, I promise to stay on top of it and all that jazz. But here’s the thing. I had about 3 minutes to freak out before I was doing everything I could to fix the problem, it eliminated 99% of the drama associated with this type of situation.
Is there a life lesson here?
Absolutely.
Stop creating drama where it doesn’t need to be. Hear that, Self? Stop it. You know when a situation arises that can potentially rock your world. So instead of wallowing in it, getting the crocodile jaws of despair clamped down on you and then being rolled around, flailing and drowning and whining and causing a ruckus, all you have to do is shoulder your purse and head out to solve the problem with your stiletto heels clicking on the pavement. Lesson: learned.
Also, I feel the need to pass along some very wise information a friend shared with me a few years ago. He was the victim of a bank account heist (which sounds so much more intriguing than “someone stole my debit card”) and he said the hardest part was the week or two between the time they found it and the time he got his checkbook/debit cards for his new account. His financials were basically frozen. He told me to keep a couple of hundred dollars in a separate bank, one that is not linked to your primary bank, isn’t associated with your credit or debit cards. So in the case your funds are frozen due to theft or you lost your debit card or a retail store/gas station is “holding your funds” for whatever period of time, you can still put gasoline in your car and take yourself out for a therapeutic cupcake. This is brilliant. My primary bank is doing everything they can, but until my new cards come I have a little “rainy day” fund that I can use for a gorgeous emerald green dress that was marked down in crazy kind of ways. It’s things like that beautiful dress that is currently hanging in my cube that make this whole thing much easier to handle without resorting to dramatic psychosis.
Does it kind of suck? Sure, but really it’s fine. It’s inconvenient to call and adjust all my automatic withdrawals (student loan, car insurance, power bill, cell phone bill, etc), but it’s fine. It’s annoying, but it’s fine.
Have you ever had your bank account hacked? Or heisted? Any tips on how to deal? How to clean up the mess? Am I so oblivious to other, real problems here that I don’t even know I should be worried about them? Please advise.
Under normal circumstances, it is pretty difficult to rock me, I usually only fight the Big Fights, and they have got to be pretty important for me to get involved. I don’t lose my temper, I don’t throw a fit, I let most things slide off without a second thought.
When I do get hurt, I usually react like a potato bug/rolly polly/pill bug*. I curl up inside a hard shell and wait until the danger is gone. Then I come back out and mosey along on my way.
Most of the time.
A small, small, percentage of the time when I am poked and prodded long enough and hard enough instead of curling up into a little ball I explode into a puff of thorns and spiky bits. When I get upset and I lose my cool, I turn into a porcupine.
No, not like that. That is an adorably cute baby porcupine with a charming case of bed-head. When I turn into a porcupine, I am not cute, I am terrible. I become a pissed off, barreling ball of spikes and anger heading directly towards your jugular.
It’s not pretty. In fact, it’s downright terrifying for the person on the other end of my rage. And the worst part is at that point, after I’ve been provoked long enough to become a porcupine, I rarely feel much remorse about my explosion. I feel completely justified. The good news is that in the last 6 years I have only lost it twice. I have learned to keep my cool and I know when I’m about to turn into the Wicked Witch (Porcupine?) of the West, and I get out of the situation before that can happen.
Calm down, I won’t chomp down on you and chew you into little bits, nor will I spear you through the face. It takes a hell of a lot of poking to result in my exploding in prickles and biting someone’s head off
This week has been a potato bug kind of week. I’ve been poked, and prodded, and pushed, and barked at, and accused, and bossed around. Last night it kind of came to a head and I spent 45 minutes in the shower sobbing I curled up in my ball, snuggled in an oversized hoodie with my ultimate chick flick and a cookie (or three). I thought that would be it, I’d had my cry cookie and I would be fine.
Nope. Today my boss made me cry.
No, I did not cry in front of him. Nor will I tell him that he made me cry. And no, I do not have a habit of dissolving into tears at work. In fact, this is the FIRST time I’ve ever shed tears of frustration at work. I am completely unfamiliar with the alignment of elements in just such a way that I can no longer keep my shyte together while at the workplace, and I don’t like it. I quickly excused myself to the loo, made myself as small as possible, and had a little cry. Then I washed off my face, gritted my teeth, and went back to work.
I feel like an emotional disaster. Not to say everything is bad, not even close. There are some things that are really great; really really great, exciting, wonderful, you get the idea. But most things are really sensitive and stressful and must be handled carefully; these are my things and also the things that I handle for other people. And after several days (or weeks) of walking on eggshells and juggling all these balls I inadvertently stepped a little too heavily in my 4-inch heels and the whole thing came down in a pile of goo and shattered shells.
I’ll spare you the run down of all that is not going well. Frankly, it’s exhausting to think about (again, some more) and if I get into it I can guarantee that the tears will start leaking again. For now I think I’ll just stay curled up in this little ball and wait for the worst of it to pass. Is this the most adult, responsible, emotionally healthy way to deal with this situation? No. It’s not. But I can feel the porcupine quills flexing and this fight isn’t worth turning into a monster.
*I seriously don’t know what these are supposed to be called. When I was a kid we always called them potato bugs, but doing an image search for potato bugs leads one to these nasty, waspy creatures that I certainly hope are not something that would ever infest a potato crop, because they are creepy looking. I think my nieces and nephews call these critters rolly polly’s, and then the more scientific set refer to them as pill bugs. Which one is the most prominent? Most accurate? Please advise.
