Today

Summer burst in without knocking first. Our rainy May turned into blazing May, ninety degree temperatures two days in a row. Originally, the weather forecasters said we’d have clouds and rain over the weekend, but glory be! They were wrong.

At 6:38 a.m., Grace woke me, asking if it were time to go to the “beach.” When she says “beach,” she actually means “pool.” She knew that today the pool would open.

Instead of getting up at 6:38 a.m., I slept in five minute increments, sometimes ten or twenty minutes increments. She woke me over and over again, asking for a drink or socks or a new video. And with much vexation, I’d do her bidding, then crawl back into bed. Then, just as I’d drift back to sleep, she’d appear at my bedside again. I didn’t get up until almost 9 a.m. and then, Grace raced me to the shower, stripping her clothes off and jumping in before I had a chance. She showered for twenty minutes while I cooled my heels, changed the sheets on the bed, put away clean laundry and puttered.

At noon, the kids were splashing in the pool, exulting in the eighty-degree heat. Grace sat for a long time on the edge of the wading pool before turning onto her tummy and sliding feet first into the water. I appreciate her slow, methodical approach to life. I’m like that myself in so many ways.

We stayed only until 1:30 p.m. Grace needed a nap. So did my husband.

After dinner, my husband went to the church to gather his materials for study. I took the four kids for a two mile walk. We are beginning our training regimen for our vacation in Walt Disney World. My boys are not in shape and I don’t want to hear them bellyaching about being tired in the Florida muggy heat. They only complained a little.

When my husband returned home (about 6:00 p.m.), I took the boys to the pool again. This time, less than twenty children frolicked in the aquamarine pool. My twins played a raucous game of water basketball. Zach jumped off the diving board time and time again. I read more of Jayber Crow by Wendell Berry. Then my cell phone rang. A church woman was trying to reach my husband. I told her to call again and I turned off my phone so the call would ring at home. Then a bit later, I turned the phone back on, just in time to receive a phone call from my husband.

A church woman’s husband was rushed to the hospital. He has lung cancer and he wasn’t breathing.

Ten minutes later, we were in the car, heading home so my husband could go to the hospital. So much for his much-anticipated quiet evening of study at home. So much for staying at the pool until it closed at 8 p.m.

He called at 9:30 p.m. to tell me that the man had died. He finally returned home at 10:30 p.m.

Memorial Day weekend will never again be the same for that family.

I thought today how very small children have no concept of the future. They live here, today, not three months from now or next year. I need to stop staring off into the future and focus my eyes on my daughter’s curls as she prances in her ducky float in the swimming pool. Tomorrow is not promised. We have today.

Savor it.

Punchline

One of my 12-year old sons said to me the other day, “Hey, mom, want to hear a joke?”

I didn’t really, but I said, “Okay.”

He said, “I-da-ho, you-da-ho, we-da-ho.”

Somewhere along the line, he’d heard the punchline to this joke: “If two potatoes are standing on a corner, how can you tell which one is the pr*stitute?”

The punchline: “The one with the sticker that says I-da-ho.”

So, he thinks the whole joke is “I-da-ho.”

He laughed at his unfunny joke while I stared with a perplexed look on my face. He raised his eyebrows and offered this hint to me, “Get it? I-da-hoe. Hoe. The garden tool?”

And then I laughed.

I like to keep my kids clueless as long as possible. For a long time, they thought the f-word was “fart.” In fact, I think they still do.

My Hairy Dilemma

I am unpleasable. I used to have hair like this:


Here I am, before my hair cut.  Posted by Hello

And then I had it cut. Now I look like this:


Here I am, after my hair cut.  Posted by Hello

My husband has no sympathy. He says, “At least you have hair.”

Yeah, if that’s what you want to call this disobedient curly mop on my head.

Note to self: Admonish hair stylist not to cut shortish layers in naturally curly hair to prevent the Little Orphan Annie effect.

At least hair grows.

Why My Sister and I Don’t Speak


Sisters Posted by Hello

I’m in pink. She’s in blue. She was born sixteen months after me. You might imagine that we grew up braiding each other’s hair and playing Barbies together. You might picture us whispering secrets from our matching twin beds covered with pink chenille bedspreads. You might think I am lucky to have a sister so close in age.

You’d be wrong.

My sister and I were never friends. Sure, we lived under the same roof for seventeen years, but we were never, ever friends. We were so different as little girls. I had no patience with her. I didn’t want to play with her–she did not follow rules, she was messy and she couldn’t fold a blanket into a neat square. (That really bugged five-year old me.) She whispered at night, keeping me awake. She left sandwiches under the bed. She bit me more than once.

By the time we were teens, our parents had divorced. I will never forget seeing tears stream down her face in the kitchen while my mother packed boxes. She ugly cried at my mother’s wedding a year later. Her grief swallowed her whole.

I didn’t comfort her.  I didn’t know how. I could barely keep my own head above water. I was broken and distraught but coped by striving for perfection. My emotions were tightly wrapped, under control, hidden.

Of course, from an adult vantage point, I feel sorry for her.  I wish I’d been softer and kinder and less self-concerned. But early on, I switched into self-preservation mode. I kept everyone a safe distance and worked hard at being good and right and smart.

My family might have been in smithereens, but I appeared to be thriving. I continued earning good grades, babysat, attended youth group, participated in student government, played the piano, read a lot, volunteered even more, and kept myself so busy I didn’t have time to worry that I was a failure.  I did fear I was on the brink of catastrophe at all times if I were less than perfect. I coped with our disrupted lives by controlling my own life with grim determination.

My sister struggled. Everything I was, she was not. I overshadowed her, but not with malice. In fact, I didn’t give it a second thought. I sound so ruthless, but in my family, it was every man for himself. We were very separate, isolated in our own bedrooms, never hanging out together. She was a grade behind me in school but I never saw her on campus.

And finally, I left home when I was eighteen.

When we were in college, we became pen-pals. She had pen-pals all over the world.  I was just another name on her list.  We exchanged pleasant correspondence, but we didn’t share our hearts. I always answered her letters, though, and tried to share my life.

I remember the last time we argued. I was newly married and she was newly employed as a language instructor in Japan. She’d come to visit. My youngest sister, my mom, my sister and I drove to the house in Whispering Firs where we spent our elementary school years. (My youngest sister was born in the master bedroom, as a matter of fact, attended only by my completely unprepared father, but that’s another story.) The house was for sale and my sister had arranged a tour. (I think she lied to get us in, actually.)

After our nostalgic tour of the shrunken house (it seemed so much bigger back then) we discovered my youngest sister had locked her keys in the car.  We stood in the driveway, helpless, hapless. My mother suggested asking a state patrol officer friend a few streets over for help. That plan failed. Then my sister mentioned she had a AAA membership. Hooray! We were saved!

Except she informed us, “It’s my membership. I’m not letting HER use it.” I said, “No, no, no, it doesn’t cover your car, it covers you. So, you can use it, even for her car!” I thought she just didn’t understand.

She understood. She was just inexplicably selfish.

We argued loudly and I admit I veered off topic, pointing out her failures, as if she hadn’t noticed them before. I was unkind and mean. She was worse.

Eventually, we called AAA.

After that, I vowed never to fight with her again. No more yelling. Ever. I hate conflict and didn’t want to be vulnerable again. I’d be polite as if we were mere acquaintances.

And so it went. We continued being pen-pals. As years passed and I had children, I thought maybe we could begin again. I wrote, “Let’s start over. Tell me what you like. What color? What music? What dreams do you have?” She said she didn’t have time to answer my questions.

Every time we interacted, I grew frustrated until one day, I realized my expectations were too high. I had grown up, gotten married and had kids while she was still living a weird adolescence. She acted like she was fourteen–completely self-centered, self-conscious, inconsiderate. For instance, she’d fly in from another country, appear on your doorstep and expect you to be excited to drop everything and entertain her.  I expected adult behavior and grew annoyed, but when I adjusted and expected teenage behavior, I could excuse it.  After all, a teen doesn’t know better and they will eventually mature.

So you can overlook their attitudes, make excuses for them, stop expecting things. You can laugh instead of grind your teeth.

Despite my misgivings and vows, I did keep trying. I really did.  After all, my dad was dead (when I was 24 and she was 23) and she had no one but family. No husband, no boyfriend, no children. We were family. I extended myself to her over and over, probably out of guilt, maybe to atone for my careless teen actions, perhaps to redeem my junior high self.

When I became unexpectedly pregnant for the second time (what do doctors know anyway?), I invited her to photograph the birth. I wanted photographs, but I didn’t want a stranger during those intimate moments. She dabbles in photography, had taken classes and owned a fancy camera. I thought I could share the miracle of birth and she could be my photographer. I thought my idea was a generous offer.

I went into labor on Labor Day.  My contractions were two minutes apart when my midwife arrived. By then, I was flinging myself to the ground and howling. Between pains, I telephoned my sister. When she arrived, I was in the birthing tub, clutching the edges of the pool, screaming through the contractions.

I looked up when she and my mom arrived and said, “I’m having contractions. I will scream in a moment. Do not be alarmed.”

And then I slid into another avalanche of pain. She clicked the camera, snapping picture after picture. I was vaguely aware of her camera, but contractions consumed my attention. Less than an hour later, my baby was born.

In the following days, my sister brought the packets of pictures to me. (Obviously, this happened in pre-digital days.)  She told me, “Look them over and I’ll get reprints.” I said, “Why?” She told me she wanted to keep the pictures with her. I said, “Why?” She hemmed and hawed and finally admitted, “I want to show them to people.”

Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding! Alarm bells went off in my postpartum head. “Who?” I said, dumbfounded.

“Oh, our brother and uncle . . .” she shrugged.

I went into full cardiac arrest and when the paddles brought me back to life (CLEAR!”) I sprang into action. When she left, I sorted through the stacks of pictures and removed all which were unflattering and unsuitable for public viewing. She’d taken some graphic shots of things even I didn’t want to see.

The next time I saw her, I handed over a heavily edited stacks of photographs. I explained I had removed the pictures I wasn’t comfortable with people seeing.

She nodded as if she understood my feelings.

After she left, she told my mother that I had stolen her pictures.

She came to say goodbye before returning to her home in Japan, dropping a final packet of pictures on my dresser. After she’d gone, I finished nursing my baby, picked up the envelope and pulled out the pictures. I found the negatives in sleeves, with twelve of them marked for reprints. I held them up to the light and discovered that she’d made copies of twelve of the pictures that I specifically deemed too private. The pictures she’d taken were of me at my most vulnerable, at the moment my daughter was being born.

I was livid.

I emailed her a furious demand that she return the pictures. She ignored it.

I told my youngest sister what had happened and she reported that our sister had showed her a picture. Our sister told her, “Mel doesn’t want me to show you this.”

I emailed her repeatedly. No response.

Almost a year later, our paths crossed at a barbecue held by my brother to celebrate his marriage. The small gathering was held in their backyard. No room to hide. How awkward! I decided I would be polite. I would respond to her, but I would not instigate a conversation. I would not extend myself. I wouldn’t speak first. Would she?

And so, we did not speak. It dawned on me that I had always been the one to reach out first. It was always me to say, “How are you?” “How’s your job going?” “What are you doing for fun these days?” “Did you enjoy your trip?” “Are you classes going well?”

She had never really cared about me before. That realization changed everything.

We had no connection, not because of me but because of her.

As I described this broken relationship to friends over the past two years, I sound like the villain holding a grudge. Why don’t I just forgive her for . . . what? Stealing photos I asked her to take? Ignoring my emails? Ignoring me? Cutting off my children entirely? Being rude and selfish?

I mean, it’s just so weird.

But still.

A few months back, I decided that someone needed to be the adult here. I hate for my mother to have her children estranged. I don’t want the rest of our family uncomfortable because I was mortified strangers would see my birth photos.

So I emailed her. I simply asked, “Are you willing to discuss the reason we are not speaking?”

After several days, she emailed back, “I’ll call you when I’m in town.”

I immediately replied, “When will that be?”

She did not answer.

My youngest sister let slip our sister would be in town in May. I emailed her and said, “I’d really like to discuss this issue before you arrive in May. Please email me back.”

She never did.

Ten days ago, she arrived for a one-week visit. She stayed with my mom a few miles from my house. She made a point of taking my niece and nephew on outings. She ignored my kids entirely. She had dinner with my youngest sister. She saw my brother and his wife. She did not call me. I didn’t see her.

I guess that’s the end of my tale. Maybe it’s just the middle, but I think it’s likely the end.

And the pictures? They weren’t even that good.

UPDATE: January 2016

We are still not on speaking terms. She has never reached out to me and in fact, when I reached out her to her in 2009 to send her a gift, she responded with this.  I’m still not sure if I’m the whale or the sloth.

Did you send me an email recently or is it spam?

Mom says I should write to you and talk to you, but I have nothing to say.  I am not angry at you.  There is just absolutely nothing that I want to share with you and I am not interested in hearing about what’s happening in your life.  If you want to write to me, that’s fine, but don’t expect to hear from me.

The way I see it, one of us is a blue whale swimming around in the ocean and the other one is a sloth happily hanging from the branch of a tree surrounded by leaves and noise.  What is there for the whale and the sloth to talk to each other about?  They can’t comprehend or care about the other person’s life…  That doesn’t mean either of them has a better life than the other.  They cannot be compared.  The whale does what feels comfortable and natural for the whale while the sloth does what feels comfortable and natural for the sloth.

You and I are just too different to have anything to talk about.  That’s the way I understand it, anyway…

UPDATE: August 2022: And her final email to me in 2009 after we went back and forth and I explained my viewpoint:

Ok.  You lied by telling me months before the birth that you would pay me for the pictures I took and then never giving me any money or any kind of compensation for them.  You stole the negatives and prints that legally still belong to me and you refuse to return them to me.  You lied to me shortly after the birth when you said you would write down the numbers of the pictures on the negatives so I could make copies of them for you (generous on my part, not even expecting you to pay me for them) at Costco before I took the negatives with me when I returned to Japan.  You agreed to that at the time we arranged it, but then when it came time for me to take the negatives with me, you had hidden them and you refused to give them back to me.  When I was there for the birth, you NEVER offered to give me any money.  I lost close to $5000 for missed work (I had no paid holidays), plane tickets, car rental, gas, film, a special lens that I bought specifically for the birth, a cell phone that I had to rent and leave on so you could contact me any time of the day or night, no matter where I was…  I would not have had to spend any of that money if it wasn’t for you.  I would not have even gone back to America then if it wasn’t for you asking me to be there because you so desperately wanted me there.  You seemed to want me to be there but then after the birth, you never said you liked the pictures I took.  You never said “Thank you.  You did a good job.”  or “Thanks for being here.”  You never said anything…

Yes, I went to Costco and made reprints of the negatives that legally belong to me.  They are my pictures. 

Yes, I showed some of those pictures to Becca.  She was invited to the birth.  She was there to be the first person (other than the midwives and you) to hold your baby.  How can you say that it’s ok for her to see the birth but not to see the pictures of the birth?!! 

Yes, I told you when you asked that I wanted to show some of the pictures to a few of our close family members.  I think I take good pictures and I am proud of some of my work.  Why should I not be able to share MY pictures with a few special people?!  Of course I wasn’t going to invade your privacy by showing all of your pictures to everybody.  You asked me to not show pictures of the birth to people who weren’t there or weren’t invited, so I didn’t.  What kind of a horrible person do you think I am?  I DO have the wisdom and the conscience to not do what is wrong and what I have been asked not to do!!!  Give me a little credit!!!

Her final email to me

To which I say:

I did offer to pay for the film and photos after the birth. She said no.

She “legally” owns the negatives and prints of MY BIRTH, the one I invited her to attend? Come on. That’s crazy. If I took photos at your kid’s birthday party at your request, would you expect me to keep them? I did not hire her. I allowed her to attend my birth as a personal favor to her. I cannot even begin to understand her viewpoint.

(And I’ve been in her situation. Before I had kids, a midwife friend invited me to a birth. When I arrived, I was handed a camera and asked to take photographs. I did so, and then GAVE BACK THE CAMERA ((and negatives, obviously)) to my friend. In a million years, I wouldn’t have thought I owned them.)

I invited my sister to my birth. I never, ever mentioned paying for her flight, car rental or anything. In fact, in those days she visited the U.S. every year and often went on holiday to other places as well. She could have declined, citing the lack of vacation or the expense. I just figured she’d work around my due date since she’d be in the States anyway on one of her frequent trips. But mainly, she NEVER EVER EVER mentioned this before this email. She simply agreed to come to the birth and seemed excited to do so.

I did not desperately want her there. I invited her as a favor to her. At my previous birth, I simply had a church friend photograph it for me (and guess what? that lady did not keep any of my photos!). I invited my sister in the spirit of generosity knowing that in all likelihood she’d never get to be present when a baby was born.

I was very disappointed by the actual photographs. They were poorly lit, not focused well and extraordinarily unflattering.

The bottom line was that she believed she owned the photographs that I had asked her to take. (This is still baffling to me to this day.) This was not a contract between strangers but an agreement between sisters and I guess that’s where I went wrong.

Can you imagine showing photographs of someone’s private birth to random friends across the globe? Imagine.

Finally, I started to really think about her outrageous beliefs and behavior and came to believe she has narcissistic personality disorder. So maybe I should feel sorry for her. It must be difficult to be her. This also explains why she thought that my daughter’s birth was somehow about her. It’s baffling.

And yeah, we still don’t speak, twenty years later.

Nothing . . . and Something

The problem with shopping at 9:30 p.m. is three-fold.

1) The grocery store aisles are clogged with pallets of food and products waiting to be shelved. Shopping is an obstacle course, one in which you manage to be stuck in traffic jams even though only three other women are shopping. I kept having head-on collisions with one woman who seemed to forget she was in a public place. She stood mid-aisle, pondering items, oblivious to me. If I’d been sitting in my car in an intersection, I would have honked my horn.

2) The items on sale for 10 for $10 are sold out.

3) Simple fatigue. Babygirl woke at 5:38 a.m., and though I didn’t drag myself from bed until 6:40 a.m., I wandered through a cloud of exhaustion all day. It didn’t help matters that I was completely out of Diet Coke today. By lunchtime, my head ached. I left my house reluctantly tonight, wiped out, but in dire need of provisions. Especially Diet Coke with Lime.

I contemplated cracking open a 2-liter bottle and swigging that precious brown fizzy liquid mid-aisle, but instead, I kept moving.

Oh, and I thought of another problem with shopping at 9:30 p.m. When one shops late, one returns home late. One does not begin to blog until 11:00 p.m., which results in a truly pathetic string of words talking about nothing. Who do I think I am? Seinfeld?

And that list from yesterday? Still mostly undone, but now I did create a beautiful organized to-do list, tasks numbered one through twenty. That counts for something.

Now Where Did I Leave My Brain?

You know when you are packing for a move and you end up circling a room, trying to figure out exactly what to shove into a box next?

That’s how I’m feeling at the moment. I’m trying to stuff all the loose ends into a tidy braid, but the braid is as long as Rapunzel’s and I can’t do it.

Remember how you felt in college when you couldn’t keep your eyes open another second and you finally declared, “Well, if I don’t know this material now, I’ll never know it?”

That’s how I feel now, which is why I’m going to bed. Tomorrow I can write a to-do list. I can work on attendance records for school-at-home. I’ll fold more laundry. I’ll wash more dishes. I might even mop. I’ll purchase Amtrak tickets.

Tomorrow, I’ll book that extra room at Disney and order that book from Amazon. I’ll pay the phone bill and remember to put chicken in the crockpot. I’ll send email to the decorating committee people for Vacation Bible School and I’ll remember to ask my husband to order that acacia tree for a prop.

I will write that letter to my volunteers. I’ll pull some weeds. I will fill the dishwasher and empty the counter. I’ll grocery shop. I’ll force the children to do history and literature lessons and I’ll worry that they aren’t actually remembering anything. I will rock Babygirl. I’ll match socks. I’ll write a check for the pool fee. I’ll look for swimsuits in the Lands End catalog.

But tonight, I’ll sleep.

It Creeps and Crawls and Lives Indoors Now

I have a single tent caterpillar imprisoned in a plastic cassette case sitting on my desk. My youngest son found this delightful creature in the mud behind the church. Ignoring my protests, he brought it into the car. I am just grateful I found a container for the little creepy crawly.

When I was a girl, I used to collect these leave-munching pests. They would crawl up and down my arms. I’ve grown sqeamish over the years, though. I can’t bear to even touch anything with teeny-tiny suction-cup like feet.

And I don’t pull the legs off these anymore, either. (I used to think those were daddy longlegs, but google tells me they are called “harvestmen.” My day is complete now that I’ve learned a practically useless fact.)

The Little (Digestible) Things

Sure, I could discuss a wide variety of issues, but I am too distracted by the comments on a previous post. I mentioned how CuteBaby’s mom discovered digested paper in his diaper. Misery truly loves company, because I am greatly cheered by your reports of the following objects discovered in infant diapers:

1) Two Barbie shoes and a marble (in the same diaper!);
2) Needle;
3) Spider;

(I must comment on the urban legend about eating eight spiders at night while you sleep. . . my advice? Wear pantyhose over your head and prevent this from ever happening to you!)

4) Tinsel (by a cat, but still, it could have been a baby).

Does anyone else have something to add?

Tomorrow, I will have something of substance to say, I promise. I know this because I have phone calls to make to recruit volunteers and paperwork to complete and I hate these tasks and will need a way to look and feel like I’m working without actually facing the dreaded chores at hand. Behold, the blog!

An Hour and a Half Segment of My Day

Prepare lunch. YoungestBoy returns home from his half-day of school. Instruct 12-year old to watch CuteBaby roll on floor. Hear Babygirl say, “The baby spit up!” Tell her, “Get a tissue and wipe it up!” Phone rings. Agree to let YoungestBoy go play at his friend’s house.

Give lunch to DaycareKid. Turn on dishwasher. Get distracted by stuffed-full refrigerator. Begin cleaning it out. Stop.

Check on baby. Discover he’s eaten half a tissue which is now wadded on the roof of his mouth. CuteBaby’s mom arrives. Confess that her baby ate a tissue. Wave bye-bye. Sit at computer so YoungestBoy can dictate the novel he’s decided to write, even though naptime begins in five minutes.

DaycareKid appears, whining. “What’s wrong?” He points to feet, mutters. Sniff, sniff. What’s that smell? Oh no! He pooped his pants! Cart him to bathroom. Phone rings again. Talk to husband. NeighborKid walks in, starts talking to me. Wave him away. DaycareKid cries in bathroom, waiting to be cleaned. Get off phone.

Turn on television for Babygirl’s pre-naptime show (“Max and Ruby”–we call it the “funny rabbit show). Wave good-bye to YoungestBoy as he climbs into his friend’s van. Find wipes, clothing for DaycareKid. Begin cleaning him. Get poop under fingernails. Put him in tub, wash, rinse. To bed he goes. Deposit poopy clothes in washing machine.

Nap with Babygirl. Answering machine clicks on. I’ve slept for ten minutes. She’s asleep on the floor. Go downstairs. Eat lunch. Wonder what to make for dinner. Call Greyhound to see how far $150.00 will take me.

Don’t Mess With Me: I Have Stamps and I’m Not Afraid to Use Them

A couple of years ago, we had our mortgage refinanced. The mortgage company set up our account to hold funds in escrow for our home owner’s insurance and our taxes.

A year later, a representative from my insurance company called and politely requested that we remit the $441.00 we owed for our policy.

“Oh,” I said, “Our mortgage company is responsible for that payment.”

“Oh,” she said, “They said they weren’t and that we should call you.”

“Oh,” I said, “Let me call them and get this straightened out.”

I called my mortgage company and the customer service representative was unhelpful, but did notice that they failed to withhold the funds. Oops, they said. Sorry. We’ll fix that and you’ll have to pay the insurance company yourself.

We live on a very tight budget and at the time, I did not have an extra $441.00 lurking in my bank account or my pockets or even under the couch cushions. I can’t remember how I managed to scrape together the cash, but I was irked at having to do so.

I used to work in customer service in the correspondence department, and I know a thing or two about writing a compelling letter to a company. I whipped up a complaint letter. I asked that they “make me happy.” I demanded an apology and a refund of my $441.00. I did this all in a tone so sweet it could give you a cavity.

Some numbskull called a month or so later. As I recall, I was holding my infant daughter while she cried and he explained to me that there was nothing he could do for me. I said, “Well, let me talk to your supervisor.” He left me dangling on hold for a while, then returned and said, “My supervisor says this is our regular procedure and there’s nothing we can do.”

“Then send my letter to your supervisor and tell her that I want a written response that makes me happy.”

I never heard back.

About six months later, I sent a second polite letter, decrying the insurance company’s lack of responsiveness, describing my unhappiness. I asked again for $441.00 and an apology. In writing. I am unable to accept phone calls during the day as I am busy taking care of two babies, I wrote.

Soon after, I received a phone call. My annoyance abated when the customer service representative asked for a copy of the $441.00 bill. I mailed it in. And never heard back from them.

Six months later, give or take, I sent another letter, still polite, more insistent, suggesting that I would never be able to refer anyone to this particular insurance company if they did not make me happy. I received a generic response telling me they were researching my issue and that they’d respond within three weeks.

Another six months passed. I wrote yet another letter, attaching my previous letters. This time, I researched the name of the company’s president and including a notation at the bottom “cc: President’s Name.” (I didn’t actually send a carbon copy, though–I figured just the idea of him getting a copy would motivate them.)

Yesterday, I received a phone call from the office of the company’s president. She explained my problem (as if I were clueless) and said, “So, we could reimburse you the $441.00 from your escrow account, but then you’d have a negative balance in that account.”

I said, “NO! I don’t want the money to come from MY account. I want the money to come from the company’s account to compensate me for my inconvenience. This was not my mistake. This was your mistake.”

So, she offered to reimburse half the amount to me.

I agreed. (Now, I think I should have held out for the whole amount.)

Don’t mess with this housewife. I have a computer, a printer and a supply of postage stamps and I’m not afraid to use them. If you are a company who crosses me, I will prevail or bug you until I die trying because at some point, composing demand letters highlighting your incompetence and demanding satisfaction becomes a hobby to me. Your “no” only means I need to talk to someone higher in the food chain at your company.

Persistence pays. And so does my mortgage company. Ha.