Thursday, August 13, 2009
OMG, fuck me running, what a crappy day. I suppose it might've been better if I weren't brimming with PMS hormones like a swollen tick, and just to top things off, being taunted by a headache that keeps trying to be a migrane. I must've taken 10 Advil today and I still wanted to shut my head in a door just to make it stop.
The first phone call I picked up this morning was that same asshole from yesterday bitchin' to beat hell that The Boss hadn't refunded the fees he'd promised him. I looked at his account information and saw the refunds. "Then why don't I have more money in my account?? [swear swear swear] "Well, check number blahblahblah cleared for $1xx.xx, and you went to an ATM yesterday and took out $60.00." "Oh. OK, thanks." [click]
And it turns out the OTHER bitch who was screaming about calling the paper because we didn't stop her insurance company from debiting her account was hit AGAIN by the SAME transaction being attempted AGAIN! Oh good LORD, woman, pick up the phone and call your insurance company!
Next, a Mexican man comes to the window and shows me a check. He speaks pretty much no English, and points to the account number. I look at the check. It's written out to a local business, and the account holder is a woman. "I can't cash this." I told him. "No, no," he insists, and points again to the account number. "Balance?" I look at the account information on the computer and see there isn't enough in the account to cover the check. "No, I can't cash this." I'd tell him there's not enough money to cover it, but I'm not allowed to give ANY information about an account to someone who isn't on the account. Even "there's not enough to cover this" is too much information. This whole time, he's been talking on a cell phone. Once again, he says, "Balance, this account?" "Are you on the account?" I ask (knowing he is not). He shakes his head. "I can't give you any information about this account unless your name is on it, too." "Here." he shoves the phone in my face. I reluctantly take it. The woman on the other end asks me to give HER the account balance. She also can't speak enough English. I explain as clearly as I can that she must pass 2 security questions before I can give her any information about the account. The last four digits of her SS#, she knew. She had no idea what "mother's maiden name" was. She couldn't tell me what her last deposit amount was. "Where did you open this account?" "In [Retailer's Name Here]." "Yes, but which one?" "In [my town]." "Yes, but there are two in [my town]. Which one?" She couldn't say. She couldn't understand any of the other optional security questions. When I turned to the man at the window to return his phone, he had a wad of cash in his hands. "Did you want to deposit into her account?" "YES!" he said with relief. "OK, we can do that, that's not a problem. How much did you want to put in?" "What is her balance?"
[bangs head on counter] This went on for about twenty-five minutes before they finally decided to just deposit everything he had.
What really pisses me off is that this problem is not confined to the language-gap-disabled. Perfectly grown adults with home-grown American educations routinely don't get how it could be possible for them to know (even approximately) their account balance. They don't know how to keep track of it, even balk at the idea that it is their responsibility. They seem to believe that we are evil maniacs who sit and process their transactions at our whim, hoping to cause as much financial ruin as possible every day. Hell, I'd fall over dead if I could get through a day without having to fill out someone's deposit slip for them. Seriously, it'd take me less than 2 minutes to teach my 11 year old how to fill out a deposit slip, and I am spending probably close to an hour a day writing them out for people who CAN'T FIGURE IT OUT. I hand them the blank slip and they stare at it like I just handed them a scalpel and asked them to operate. Then they sign it and say, "OK, just deposit $10 and give me the rest in cash."
This is another peeve of mine. When you get a paycheck for $xx7.64, and you needed cash back, would you ask for the $.64? You'd be shocked at how many people do. Paycheck for $492.17? Deposit slip reads: Cash out: 472.17, Deposit: 20.00. Really? Did that .17 help you out today? I'm willing to bet it ended up in the bottom of your purse, or sitting on your dresser at home at the end of the day. DEPOSIT the fucking change, you idiot, and you'll be .17 closer to NOT bouncing a check two days from now because you CASHED your check and kept swiping your card instead of depositing it all.
The day didn't improve from there, as you can tell from my multi-paragraph tangental rant.
I did speak with my father last night. It's such a bitch to reach someone there, because they go to bed at the ass crack of evening. No seriously, he admitted they usually go to bed at 8pm. My KIDS go to bed at 8pm. When am I supposed to be able to reach these people?? Rrrr. Anyway, we chatted for a bit, and before I could mention it, he tossed off a casual comment about attending my aunt's funeral this coming weekend. "Yeah, I was going to ask about that. I didn't even know she was sick." (Last I'd heard, she'd recovered from breast cancer.) I refrained from sarcastically thanking him for letting me know. He was on pain killers, apparently, so for all I know he thinks he DID tell me. It just kills me that my sister had the balls to claim I only call them when I need something (the last thing I needed? Help figuring out a formula in Excel. This is an apparent inexcusable imposition.), and that I think I'm the center of the universe. Yeah, clearly my folks don't want to call me when they HAVE something to tell me, and I'm supposed to think they want to hear from me when I have no news of any kind? And somehow my failure to impose myself on them is a sign that I think I'm the center of the universe? Yeah, she's jealous. I have no idea of what. There's nothing here to be jealous of. I just wish it made sense.
And one more gem: when I got home from work last night, I noticed DS was wandering around the house in his underwear. I'd been home about 10 minutes when I finally cornered him and told him to get some pants on (H was here, I can't believe Rusty wasn't screaming at him to get some pants on). He mumbled that he was sleepy and he was about to go take a nap. Nap? At 6pm? I went to feel his head to check for a fever. "OW!" he jerked away from me.
Long story short, he and his sisters were horsing around in the bedroom and in the mayhem, he hit his head on the TV table. He had quite a goose egg on his head, with a cut in the middle. I was about to chew Rusty's ass for not telling me right away, and said in his general direction, "And when was someone going to tell me??" DD and SDD hung their heads and admitted that they were afraid they'd get in trouble for roughhousing and so they had hidden it from him. Like I've needed a reason to get pissed off this week, right? So I took him to the bathroom where the lights are brighter and looked closely at his eyes, which seemed normal. Asked him some general questions which revealed he was feeling normal, just sleepy. He couldn't decide if he'd felt sleepy BEFORE he hit his head, but given the fact that the injury involved his body flying through the air from a height of about 6 feet and bouncing off a cushion, my money is on "No" in the "Not Previously Tired" question. He wants dinner. So... concussion or not concussion? *sigh*. I look for the Ask-A-Nurse line at the hospital, but their page doesn't want to load. I post a quick question to some nurse friends online, and dig out my phone, and call the pediatrician. I really don't want to have an answering service bother her over something that Ask-A-Nurse can tell me, but... oh wait, their voicemail lists the Ask-A-Nurse number. I try to write it down, but the pen won't work. I have to call them back and listen again after I've found a pen. I dial the number. "Oh, you need to call another number." I write it down and call the other number. They're all busy, but leave a message and someone will get back to you. The longer this goes on, the more I convince myself that my child has a potentially fatal brain injury and I'm going to be regretting not swooping him up in his underwear and rushing him to the emergency room ten minutes ago. Finally they call back. Did you know it's no longer protocol to keep someone with a concussion awake? You can let them sleep, but you have to wake them after 2 hours to check their ability to arouse themselves and move their arms and legs. As it turns out, she wasn't much concerned about the concussion (turns out my 11 year old, while making the horrible decision not to tell an adult about the injury, at least had the good sense to make an ice pack for him), but the cut will require stitches if it's over a half inch long. While I was on the phone with her, I thought it looked to be about .75 inches long, but afterward, in the brighter light of the bathroom, and after a few dabs with a wet washcloth to clean it up a little, I found it was probably right at a half inch. Now, do I take him for stitches or not? He didn't want to go. OK, but I need to tell your father about it, and if he insists on stitches, then we're going (LORD knows I don't need to hear about how neglectful I am from HIM). He writes back and says if DS doesn't want the stitches, and I don't think it's necessary, then he should be fine. NOW DS wants the stitches. We spend another 20 minutes describing in great detail all the needle sticks and skin-threading that would be involved in such an endeavor, and finally convince him that perhaps a better solution would be some antiseptic and an early bedtime.
The first phone call I picked up this morning was that same asshole from yesterday bitchin' to beat hell that The Boss hadn't refunded the fees he'd promised him. I looked at his account information and saw the refunds. "Then why don't I have more money in my account?? [swear swear swear] "Well, check number blahblahblah cleared for $1xx.xx, and you went to an ATM yesterday and took out $60.00." "Oh. OK, thanks." [click]
And it turns out the OTHER bitch who was screaming about calling the paper because we didn't stop her insurance company from debiting her account was hit AGAIN by the SAME transaction being attempted AGAIN! Oh good LORD, woman, pick up the phone and call your insurance company!
Next, a Mexican man comes to the window and shows me a check. He speaks pretty much no English, and points to the account number. I look at the check. It's written out to a local business, and the account holder is a woman. "I can't cash this." I told him. "No, no," he insists, and points again to the account number. "Balance?" I look at the account information on the computer and see there isn't enough in the account to cover the check. "No, I can't cash this." I'd tell him there's not enough money to cover it, but I'm not allowed to give ANY information about an account to someone who isn't on the account. Even "there's not enough to cover this" is too much information. This whole time, he's been talking on a cell phone. Once again, he says, "Balance, this account?" "Are you on the account?" I ask (knowing he is not). He shakes his head. "I can't give you any information about this account unless your name is on it, too." "Here." he shoves the phone in my face. I reluctantly take it. The woman on the other end asks me to give HER the account balance. She also can't speak enough English. I explain as clearly as I can that she must pass 2 security questions before I can give her any information about the account. The last four digits of her SS#, she knew. She had no idea what "mother's maiden name" was. She couldn't tell me what her last deposit amount was. "Where did you open this account?" "In [Retailer's Name Here]." "Yes, but which one?" "In [my town]." "Yes, but there are two in [my town]. Which one?" She couldn't say. She couldn't understand any of the other optional security questions. When I turned to the man at the window to return his phone, he had a wad of cash in his hands. "Did you want to deposit into her account?" "YES!" he said with relief. "OK, we can do that, that's not a problem. How much did you want to put in?" "What is her balance?"
[bangs head on counter] This went on for about twenty-five minutes before they finally decided to just deposit everything he had.
What really pisses me off is that this problem is not confined to the language-gap-disabled. Perfectly grown adults with home-grown American educations routinely don't get how it could be possible for them to know (even approximately) their account balance. They don't know how to keep track of it, even balk at the idea that it is their responsibility. They seem to believe that we are evil maniacs who sit and process their transactions at our whim, hoping to cause as much financial ruin as possible every day. Hell, I'd fall over dead if I could get through a day without having to fill out someone's deposit slip for them. Seriously, it'd take me less than 2 minutes to teach my 11 year old how to fill out a deposit slip, and I am spending probably close to an hour a day writing them out for people who CAN'T FIGURE IT OUT. I hand them the blank slip and they stare at it like I just handed them a scalpel and asked them to operate. Then they sign it and say, "OK, just deposit $10 and give me the rest in cash."
This is another peeve of mine. When you get a paycheck for $xx7.64, and you needed cash back, would you ask for the $.64? You'd be shocked at how many people do. Paycheck for $492.17? Deposit slip reads: Cash out: 472.17, Deposit: 20.00. Really? Did that .17 help you out today? I'm willing to bet it ended up in the bottom of your purse, or sitting on your dresser at home at the end of the day. DEPOSIT the fucking change, you idiot, and you'll be .17 closer to NOT bouncing a check two days from now because you CASHED your check and kept swiping your card instead of depositing it all.
The day didn't improve from there, as you can tell from my multi-paragraph tangental rant.
I did speak with my father last night. It's such a bitch to reach someone there, because they go to bed at the ass crack of evening. No seriously, he admitted they usually go to bed at 8pm. My KIDS go to bed at 8pm. When am I supposed to be able to reach these people?? Rrrr. Anyway, we chatted for a bit, and before I could mention it, he tossed off a casual comment about attending my aunt's funeral this coming weekend. "Yeah, I was going to ask about that. I didn't even know she was sick." (Last I'd heard, she'd recovered from breast cancer.) I refrained from sarcastically thanking him for letting me know. He was on pain killers, apparently, so for all I know he thinks he DID tell me. It just kills me that my sister had the balls to claim I only call them when I need something (the last thing I needed? Help figuring out a formula in Excel. This is an apparent inexcusable imposition.), and that I think I'm the center of the universe. Yeah, clearly my folks don't want to call me when they HAVE something to tell me, and I'm supposed to think they want to hear from me when I have no news of any kind? And somehow my failure to impose myself on them is a sign that I think I'm the center of the universe? Yeah, she's jealous. I have no idea of what. There's nothing here to be jealous of. I just wish it made sense.
And one more gem: when I got home from work last night, I noticed DS was wandering around the house in his underwear. I'd been home about 10 minutes when I finally cornered him and told him to get some pants on (H was here, I can't believe Rusty wasn't screaming at him to get some pants on). He mumbled that he was sleepy and he was about to go take a nap. Nap? At 6pm? I went to feel his head to check for a fever. "OW!" he jerked away from me.
Long story short, he and his sisters were horsing around in the bedroom and in the mayhem, he hit his head on the TV table. He had quite a goose egg on his head, with a cut in the middle. I was about to chew Rusty's ass for not telling me right away, and said in his general direction, "And when was someone going to tell me??" DD and SDD hung their heads and admitted that they were afraid they'd get in trouble for roughhousing and so they had hidden it from him. Like I've needed a reason to get pissed off this week, right? So I took him to the bathroom where the lights are brighter and looked closely at his eyes, which seemed normal. Asked him some general questions which revealed he was feeling normal, just sleepy. He couldn't decide if he'd felt sleepy BEFORE he hit his head, but given the fact that the injury involved his body flying through the air from a height of about 6 feet and bouncing off a cushion, my money is on "No" in the "Not Previously Tired" question. He wants dinner. So... concussion or not concussion? *sigh*. I look for the Ask-A-Nurse line at the hospital, but their page doesn't want to load. I post a quick question to some nurse friends online, and dig out my phone, and call the pediatrician. I really don't want to have an answering service bother her over something that Ask-A-Nurse can tell me, but... oh wait, their voicemail lists the Ask-A-Nurse number. I try to write it down, but the pen won't work. I have to call them back and listen again after I've found a pen. I dial the number. "Oh, you need to call another number." I write it down and call the other number. They're all busy, but leave a message and someone will get back to you. The longer this goes on, the more I convince myself that my child has a potentially fatal brain injury and I'm going to be regretting not swooping him up in his underwear and rushing him to the emergency room ten minutes ago. Finally they call back. Did you know it's no longer protocol to keep someone with a concussion awake? You can let them sleep, but you have to wake them after 2 hours to check their ability to arouse themselves and move their arms and legs. As it turns out, she wasn't much concerned about the concussion (turns out my 11 year old, while making the horrible decision not to tell an adult about the injury, at least had the good sense to make an ice pack for him), but the cut will require stitches if it's over a half inch long. While I was on the phone with her, I thought it looked to be about .75 inches long, but afterward, in the brighter light of the bathroom, and after a few dabs with a wet washcloth to clean it up a little, I found it was probably right at a half inch. Now, do I take him for stitches or not? He didn't want to go. OK, but I need to tell your father about it, and if he insists on stitches, then we're going (LORD knows I don't need to hear about how neglectful I am from HIM). He writes back and says if DS doesn't want the stitches, and I don't think it's necessary, then he should be fine. NOW DS wants the stitches. We spend another 20 minutes describing in great detail all the needle sticks and skin-threading that would be involved in such an endeavor, and finally convince him that perhaps a better solution would be some antiseptic and an early bedtime.
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