Faithful Minions will recall that there are very, very few times that I've shared actual dirty laundry on this here blog. Normally, if there's a personal story I have to tell, I keep it in the realm of macaroni and cheese or cute animal stories or how I nearly broke my knee in a fall at work.
The events of this weekend, though, have prompted me--because I am insanely pissed off--to do something I've never done before, which is call somebody out and name names.
It all started with a seemingly innocent phone call.
NCO Financial Corporation, I am looking at you.
You keep calling. You call during the day, you call during dinner. You call in the morning, in the evening, while I'm working out, when I'm otherwise indisposed.
And you will not get it through your thick collective head that the name "Jo Lastname" is in no way related to "Jim Lastname".
You refuse to believe me when I tell you that Jim doesn't live here and never has. Your last collections caller said snottily, "Well, ma'am, this *is* the Lastname residence" leading me to say "Okay, it's time I spoke with your manager."
"I don't have one," the caller, who I'll call "Chris" because that's the name he gave me, said.
"No manager?" I asked. "Nobody who supervises you?"
"You're all alone in that big, big call center?" I persisted.
"Ma'am, I don't have a manager, and I need to speak to Jim Lastname."
Listen up, boys: Jim Lastname has no connection whatsoever with me, aside from his initials. Not only does Jim not live here, but to my knowledge, he has never had this telephone number. I'm the only one who's been at this number for the last decade. I do not know Jim, and wouldn't recognize him if he showed up on my front porch in flames and covered with angry baby velociraptors. I am not Jim's wife, Jim's mother, Jim's sister, or any other relation to Jim. The only relative I have named Jim has a completely different last name and lives a thousand miles away from this telephone number, which, I hasten to remind you, is mine and mine alone.
No, there are no other people in the household, not like it's any of your business. If you really, really want to talk to a male, I'll have to put you on the phone with the dog or one of the cats (if I can get 'em to slow down long enough to meow at you).
No, I cannot get a message to Jim. See above: I have no clue who Jim is.
And you know what, NCO Financial? Even if you call me every twenty minutes for three hours like you did yesterday, these answers will not change.
Once I'm able to craft an email that won't sear the inbox of whoever's unlucky enough to get it, I plan to complain formally to the gentlemen (ha) at Giant Collections Agency, dba NCOF. First, though, I'll have to wait until my temper is such that anything I write won't be read as a single painful burst of high-pitched noise, with knives thrown in.
The best part of this whole saga is that it looks like, from what I've been able to find on the Innerwebs, that these folks often call people who've already resolved their credit issues through the original creditor. I feel sorry for Jim, whoever and wherever he is.