Catastrophe 1: Hacked Bank Account
On Monday I received an email from Amazon alerting me that someone had opened an account with my card number. They knew it was lame, so they shut that shit down right away. I'm thinking "Wow, that could have been really bad." Then I check my bank account anyway, who knows why and HOLY SHIT! I don't remember spending that...or that....or that! Oh, no...I did spend that, but those other things I did NOT spend, no siree!!! So I call my bank. They are open, but no one is answering. Damn it. I text my friend who works at the bank and she gives me an extension to call (holla to having friends in mildly important places!). I tell them I have things on my statement that I did not do. They go into full "Holy fuck, we are incompetent" mode and shut off my card. Great, I'll be writing checks at Casey's general store and Walmart for the next 2 weeks because not a single goddamn other place in town takes checks anymore and when I carry money it magically disappears. Then the bank informs me that I must personally try to collect said stolen money. They only step in when I am denied. Ugh...I hate being on the phone...and talking....to strangers...about business and money. There are phone numbers on every transaction on a bank statement. Good to know. The fraudulent transactions were all through Pay Pal. I call the number and even the girl at Pay Pal is like "Oh my God! I can't believe this happened to you!" I seem to be the only person underwhelmed by all of this. Pay Pal broad assures me everything will be fixed. I found out that my money was used to buy online gaming subscriptions. Oh ho ho, fuck you, internet nerds! I feel violated, angry, tired? Livid. In hindsight though I realize that if this had happened any other time of the year except tax time, I would have been royally ruined. I'm normally quite broke and the bouncing fees would have been blinding. I might have gotten out of them, but I know my bank. It's a dick. And there would have been some heated argument.
Catastrophe 2: Fuck the Police
In case I've not mentioned it before, I am a commercial driver. As with any job, I am continually pressured to rush everything I do. This is a bad combination. On Tuesday I was driving back from Willow Springs, a town 20 minutes away. The speed limit is 65. I was driving 75. I was caught doing so. The cop was a prick. They usually are. I am very polite to police until they hand me my ticket, then all bets are off. I'm a bitch, I hate them, and I want them to know it. He asked if I had any questions. I said "No thanks, I'm going to lose my job, you've done enough, bye." He says "I don't know what to tell you about that. You can talk to the prosecutor." Whatever, ball sack... I still had 7 more miles to think about what just happened. Am I really going to lose my job, why the fuck was I speeding, how far away is Mexico from here? I got back to the store and handed my boss the ticket. He and everyone acted like it was nothing. Apparently commercial drivers are allowed one ticket a year. Seems really irresponsible, but ok. I was laughing about it later.
Catastrophe 3: Last Minute Bad News
Boss calls me into the office this afternoon. There's a phone call for me. It's the territory manager, a big wig who's actually not bad to deal with. He says "What's this ticket I've heard about?" I think I'm in trouble. Then he gives me a website to go to try and fix the ticket. No biggie. My boss tells me he has to write me up for "ignoring safety rules." Fucking fine. I call the prosecutor to make all this go away. On the ticket there is a box that says "Court Date." This box should have a date in it. Ta-da! It doesn't. It only says "Due in 30 days." I tell the prosecutor this and his tone turns somber. This means the cop, the dickless, fatass, prick cop, has intentionally denied me a court date and therefor "bypassed" the chance of the prosecutor fixing it. In my head, I am screaming. I really thought I could get through Friday without the 3rd catastrophe happening. Silly. I spent the rest of the day ignoring the feeling of worry in the pit of my stomach, taking deep breaths, and choking back to need to expel the screaming. I even escaped to the bathroom a couple times to get my shit together before someone discovered I was upset and asked me about it. As soon as I stepped in the door I started crying. My husband asked me what was wrong and I really started crying. I gave a truly accurate, but colorful explanation of how the week has beat me down and had a full on fit. Now, I feel fine. I'm not worried and I'm not upset. It is what it is.
And now, it is the muthafuckin weekend!
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