The shit, it is being lost.

There are dogs outside our window that howl every night, usually around ten. They got an early start tonight, and I want to howl right along with them.

As a customer, I consider myself pretty easy to deal with. I never raise my voice when dealing with someone on the phone. I do everything I can to be straight-forward, but also pleasant. I have seen people handle customer services reps by yelling at them for hours and getting frustrated to the point of blood vessels popping, and I have decided that this is not a method I wish to use. It gets things done, admittedly, but I don’t like yelling, and if the person on the other end of the phone can help me, I’d rather have them do so because I made their day a little better, not a whole lot worse.

I say this first because, damnit, there have so many times lately where I’ve wanted to reach through the phone and strangle people because they apparently incapable of doing something simple, like, oh I don’t know, THEIR JOBS.

J’s AF recruiter is currently on the top of my list. Bring me this paperwork, and you can take the test. Okay, awesome, we bring the paperwork. Oh, now we need something else. Done. Now more. We do that too, every time we come in we need something else to prove that my boyfriend should be able to join, even though the last twenty-four things were supposed to be THE LAST THING we needed to hand over before he takes his ASVAB.

Here’s an idea: as a military recruiter, maybe you should make a list of EVERYTHING A PERSON COULD EVER POSSIBLY NEED TO JOIN THE MILITARY. Then you can hand people that list and be like, hey, take a look, get all these things, come back, and we’ll be good. That seems like it would be more convenient for everyone involved, unlike this dance we’ve been doing FOR MONTHS.

It might be a photo finish for The Biggest Pain In My Ass contest, though. Because, my dear Internet, there is this company, you see, a horrid and awful company that has come into our lives and prances around in our misery and frustration like a gleeful troll. Not a pretty troll with a gemstone in it’s bellybutton, oh no, but the kind of troll that drools and eats boogers and smells a bit like the dead goats that it keeps under it’s rotting bridge.

This company was supposed to be helpful, and we believed it. There was this thing we needed to do so that my boy could walk and move like a normal human being, and the company said YES! OF COURSE! DO THESE MIRACULOUS THINGS AND WE WILL TAKE CARE OF IT!

Oooh, but this company is tricksy, and after we did aforementioned miraculous things, the company cackled Bwahaha, you fools! You did not fill out and send us the magical form, so you must give us a million dollars dipped in a calf’s blood and the soul of your first born child to pay for the procedures!

It was at this point we asked, durrr, what magical form? Oh, the magical form that was supposed to be sent. The one that was never sent. Not from the company, not from J’s workplace that recommended the miraculous treatments in the first place. No one had seen this form, ever, not even a little. Nor could it be found on you, sweet Internet. This magical form is very elusive.

So J, being the proactive guy that he is, called this company. Of course we will mail you the form!, they promised. You will get it by the end of the week!

End of week. No form.

Another call. Still polite, but a bit more firm. They’ll call back.

No call back.

Again. Yes! Oh, we are so sorry! The form, the form of hope and wonder, it will be in your mail box by Friday at the latest!

That was a little over two weeks ago.

Monday, I will be calling. And I will demand, calmly, to speak to someone in a position of power. I will explain this all over again, and explain that the form will either a) be mailed first class and in our box by THE VERY NEXT DAY, or b)emailed or faxed while I am on the line. If nothing comes of that, there will be a complaint, a loud and biting one, because here’s the thing: I don’t like being rude. I don’t like causing problems. But there are only so many times when you are allowed to brush someone off and give them the shaft. You work in customer service. I am a customer. SERVE ME.

And now I have to slowly pull myself together. J will be home from work soon-ish, and only one of us is allowed to go batshit insane at a time.

Dinner tonight: still unsure. Could be tuna salad, could be chili, but it’ll be something smaller. We’re trying to keep big meals before eight.

This post has been brought to you by the letters H and yperbole.

One Response to “The shit, it is being lost.”

  1. D. Says:

    As specimen “A” of your blood vessel popping experience, let me attest that it is not the way to go. Maintain an even strain – assess and approach the issue methodically to attain the desired result. The other approach – just doesn’t.
    I won’t say Welcome to Life” because that just makes it seem to occupy a larger portion of life than is warranted or wise to endow. It is always around. Train to be cool and skillful in handling it.

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