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the latest
waddle: good morning, wordpress - 10:36 a.m. , 2009-07-03 elaborate murder attempt - 2:56 p.m. , 2009-07-01 building a tractor in the basement - 10:42 a.m. , 2009-06-19 ask no questions tell just a few lies - 3:17 p.m. , 2009-06-09 my long lasting flavor really lasts long - 1:10 p.m. , 2009-06-04
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In case I needed more evidence that my life is not normal, there was this weekend. Arrggggh. Friday night I go out drinking. Oh, what a surprise, you are thinking right now. Mimi Smartypants drinking alcohol? Well, I'll be damned. That is what you are thinking right now. (Note to you: Is that sarcasm I detect?) Anyway, yeah. Friday, drink drink, bitch bitch about work with colleagues/friends. Stay out too late but nothing drastic. Up at around 10 am on Saturday, but still in my pajamas and definitely unshowered, when the door buzzer sounds. It's the mail lady, postwoman, letter carrier, to be gender-neutral about it, with a certified, registered letter that I have to sign for. I sign for it. What could it be? First of all, it's been forwarded a bunch of times: the original address on said letter is two addresses ago. Second, it's from a Honda dealership in Elmhurst, Ill. I have never been to a car dealership in Elmhurst, Ill. I don't think I've ever even been to Elmhurst. Inside is a handwritten xeroxed piece of paper, that says 10-DAY LEGAL NOTICE in block letters, and informs me that I had better get my ass down to the car dealership in Elmhurst and pay them $940 or they will begin criminal prosecution of my aforementioned ass. [It doesn't really say "ass" even once, let alone twice. There was an implied ass, however. Ass implications were made.] How odd, I think. I shall call and clear this matter up. I call the car dealership in Elmhurst and am tortured with their godawful hold music for nearly 20 minutes. Peter Cetera will fight for my honor, be my hero, he did it all for the glory of love, etc. I'm every woman in the world to that guy from Air Supply: I am also his fantasy and his reality. (How confusing for him.) When I finally get someone on the line, we discuss this weird situation, I emphatically state that I've never bought a car from them, and it slowly dawns on us both (me and the car salesman I'm talking to) that the person who DID buy this car was a member of the ring of thieves who stole my wallet back in March. She posed as me, made a down payment on a used Ford Explorer,* and used one of my stolen checks to make it with. Of course, one phone call to the bank would have told these idiot car salesmen that the account was closed and the check was no good. Idiots. But apparently they let her drive away and then, months later, I get this registered letter. So let's fix this, I tell the car salesguy on the phone. I have documents coming out my ears (or "ass," if you wish): the police report, the affidavit of forgery, the letters from my bank stating that the account has been closed as of March 10. He suggests that I come down there on Monday at 10 am to talk with the owner. Is that convenient? Well no, it is not convenient. See, I work on Mondays. Plus I have to interview someone on Monday, and have meetings and all that jazz. But clearing my name and credit is pretty darned important to me, and what good is it being the boss if you can't take sudden unexplained personal days once in a while, so I say fine. I will be there on Monday. Now it's Monday morning. (Well, it's not, but you know, the writerly present tense and all that.) I realize that the bulk of my stolen-wallet documents are at my office, and there's no way I'm going to be able to stop at the office AND make it out to Elmhurst by 10 am. So I decide to call the car dealership owner, the guy I'm supposed to meet with, to see if it�s okay to have this meeting a little later. Same godawful hold music. Here's the surreal part: the minute I identify myself to this guy, he explodes all over the phone. He calls me a "little bitch." He wants his goddamned money. He threatens me, saying that the police are going to come after me. I explain that I am the victim, not the perpetrator, of this forgery and fraud. He seems to understand this, but is still pissed and gets even more nasty. I basically take the receiver away from my ear and stare at it, completely gobsmacked. Then I hang up and go cry a little, mostly from shock and rage that this asshole would dare to speak to me like that when I was trying to do the responsible thing and fix my credit. LT, who is still home, tries to call the guy back and find out what the hell his problem is, and is subjected to the same treatment. As far as I'm concerned, the deal's off. I do not intend to help the car dealership recover their money in any way. If the police want to see my reports and documents and affidavits, they are welcome to them...in fact I WANT to talk to the police, because with something as unwieldy and traceable as a Ford Explorer it seems that we actually have a chance of catching these thieves. But hey, Kurt at Grand Honda in Elmhurst? Bite me. I felt a lot better when I got to work and drafted a letter to that effect, which I faxed to his attention at the dealership. It included these lines: The way you treated me on the telephone has made me unwilling to help you in any way. I would be happy to assist the Elmhurst Police, State Police, or any other law enforcement agency in their investigation of this crime. I would be more than willing to talk to the relevant credit agencies, but after the way you behaved today, I am not going to lift a finger to help you. Perhaps you should take this as a lesson on the benefits of being nice to people. If you want people to help you, try treating them with respect. Oh, and if you must verbally abuse someone regarding this matter, try the salesman who sold the thief this car. One phone call to the bank would have revealed that the account was closed and the customer a forger. Duh. Good luck getting your money back. Sincerely yours, Mimi Smartypants *Could there be a bigger hint that this is fraud? I, who cannot drive and who hate SUVs with every fiber of my being, buying a Ford Explorer. Please.
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