You Have Got To Be Shitting Me
The house phone rang yesterday and for once, I answered it. I don't know why, since we usually don't. After much coaxing, I learned it was someone from Macy's, one of the cards we allegedly paid off with the recent refi that also brought us Betty Shinkah. The lady wanted to talk to Andrea, but since she wasn't home, the lady asked if there was a husband she could talk to.
Yes, you know what's coming next. I said, I'm her partner, you can certainly talk to me about this.
Oh, no, she said, I can only talk to someone in her family.
HER FAMILY? YOU FUCKING MORON! I AM HER FAMILY. And more importantly, why do I have to explain that to some collection chippie from Macy's and why, if the law has changed so that we would have to go to divorce court if we broke up, why the fuck does that not give me enough authority to say, with authority, "look, bitch, there is a check in the mail for that measly $60, it is being paid off. Just write that down."
But no, she went on and on, in a pleasant voice about how only an immediate family member was good enough to answer this stupid question, the one she couldn't even ask because she decided I wasn't Andrea's family.
Nobody is more Andrea's family than I am. And though I know that every day, all day, sometimes, some bitch from Macy's calls you and brings up every insecurity you've ever had, tries in one short phone call to take away all the rights we have and you have to ask, is collecting the $60 that's already been paid really worth doing that to someone?