Friday, December 6, 2013

Call That Shit.

     Many of my blogs discuss happenings while I am driving.  I feel this is because I am pretty much driving for my whole life.  You'd think all these life lessons would have been previously learned.  You'd think.  Regarding happenings while driving and the lack of life-lesson-learning, this blog is no different.  It also uses profanity.  So close your ears, Mom.
     It started this morning.  I checked my email on the computer.  I specified computer because I usually check it on my fancy pants smartphone and then don't do anything about it because it's hard to use my smartphone.  So then I read the emails and I forget about them.  Well, today I checked my emails on my real computer and realized, hey, that credit card statement was from a long time ago.  I should check it.  And yes, it was overdue.  But only by 5 days - 2 of them the weekend - which TOTALLY doesn't count as regular days - so only 3 days late.  That's it!  Also, I should mention that this is the credit card I've had since I've had credit cards starting approximately a whole friggin decade ago.  Always paid on time, most of the time to zero.  I am a good credit-card-paying American.  I paid the bill and the late charge without complaint because it was totally my fault that it was late and I am a good credit-card-paying American.
     After work tonight I needed gas.  Like, soooooooooooo needed gas.  I had actually run it to empty yesterday and made it home and made Zach go buy some in town in his little red gas can and bring it back and fill my tank to almost a quarter-full.  So by the time I made the incredible journey west to work, it was empty again.  Luckily, there is a Conoco right next to where I work.  I slid on in on what I presume to be fumes and ran my credit card.  "See Cashier," it said.  I blinked a blink longer than a standard blink and swore a little under my breath as it was exactly 6 degrees outside.  I ran the card again and pushed "no I do not want a carwash thank you very much quit asking me" for the second time and did the cold dance (like the potty dance, but with arms held close to one's body).  Again, "See Cashier."  Normally I'd be like, "Whatever, screw you Conoco.  Diamond Shamrock wants my money," but I was seeeeeriously on empty so I went inside to "see cashier."  She ran the card and gruffly grumbled, "It's because it's denied."  I gasped like the entitled rich white girl I am and shook my head disdainfully.  "I'll just call them."  I spun on my heels and walked back to my car and got in, turned the heater on high, and called the number on the back of my card.
     After a circling conversation about my delinquent bill (I think they use that word to make you feel like a criminal.), I was notified that online payments don't post until midnight.  What?!  What are they doing that whole time?  You had ONE JOB, people!  I said something along the lines of, "Weeelllll, how do you suppose I'll get home tonight?" or something obviously intelligent like that, to which she replied, "Oh goodness!  Let me see what I can do!"  So then I felt even more stupid - the girl who can't pay her credit card bill on time also can't fill up her tank on time.  I was actually feeling quite introspective sitting there in my car being reminded of my faults as a human.  Thanks, Mastercard.  So, the two solutions ended up being 1) Sit in my car until midnight when the payment posted or 2) Pay the amount due on this month's bill straight from my bank account, although they would have to contact the bank to make sure the money was in there ( phone payments happen immediately but online takes 12 hours?).  Seeing as though I didn't really want to spend the night in my car, I of course agreed for them to call my bank.  But weren't they closed?  It was after 6:30.  I ended up talking to Delinquent-Payment-Man, who, of course you'd figure by that name, is a straight up dick.  I gave him all the information he needed and then he put me on hold while he contacted my bank.  And then hung up on me.  STRAIGHT UP DICK!  Well, I don't know about you, but ain't nobody got time for that.  So I angrily buckled my seat belt (safety first) and stormed out of the gas station.
     I should tell you that part of being an entitled white girl is having fancy gadgets.  I have my fancy smartphone and also I have a fancy new car and my fancy smartphone works through my fancy new car.  I know, right?!  So I can push a button in my fancy new car and it makes my fancy smartphone go to voicedial.  I hastily pushed the voicedial button so that I could call Zach and warn him that he might be picking up my stranded ass on the side of Highway 24.  Buuuuuut smartphones are actually real stupid and I hate them.  "Call Zach."
     "Call Zach."
     "NO NOT CANCEL CALL ZACH!"  This time I pronounced it Za -ch- because sometimes smartphones need a little help in the spelling department.
     "Call that shit."
     "Call that shit."
     "Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!"  By this time I could have totally just picked up the stupid phone and hit the call button, but it's just the principle of it, right?
     I tried again.  This time, "Call Home."
     I must have a fucking lisp.  "HOME. CALL HOME."
     "Calling Home."
     Thank Baby Jesus.  The phone rang and Zach picked up.  I told him of my predicament and how I was slowly approaching Falcon with the gas light on.  He offered to meet me there, but I replied that I'd like to see how far I'd get.  Just wanted to warn him that I might be on the side of the highway in -6 degree weather.  Chillin'.  See what I did there?
     I continued on my long journey, the fancy gas mileage gauge both a blessing as a curse as it silently reminded me that coasting down hills was awesome, and also that I have to use the accelerator to go up hills, and when I did that, I would most likely run out of gas and get stranded and die and everyone I knew would be alone forever without me.  I even wondered things like if the radio used gas, so I turned it off and rode silently, creepily, even breathing shallowly as if normal breathing would use up more gas.
     I called Zach (CALL HOME.  FUCKING CALL HOME!) one last time before I entered no-man's land (no reception for about 6 miles from the highway to my house).  We decided that after 10 minutes, he'd come rescue me if I wasn't home.
     Amazingly, my bad decisions and I arrived home safely!  Then I ate a burrito and now I am sitting here.  The End.
I lurve you, Yaris.
     Wait.  Good stories have morals.  Okay.  Moral 1: Pay your credit card bill on time because they are seriously fucking assholes.  Moral 2: Yaris' get AWESOME gas mileage, even without gas!