Monday, August 07, 2006

Revelations

I have discovered a new pregnancy symptom. I hate everybody.

In the last 3 days, my morning sickness has mutated into an all consuming hatred of everything complicated, fussy and ignorant. I am that girl who would rather die than be rude to someone, even if they had been exceedingly rude to me. No more, baby. Fear me, for I am bitch.

I imagine this won’t last. I’m HOPING this won’t last, because I don’t like not being a nice, patient person with a tolerance for stupidity and ineptitude of all sorts. It makes life happier and less stressful to be zen about having to wait 20 minutes for my sandwich at a fast food restaurant because the 15 year old grill cook is too busy scratching his ass with a spatula. It keeps my blood pressure down when receiving brusque emails from clients demanding delivery of a complicated piece of equipment that they ordered just yesterday even though they were told it wouldn’t be available for 2 weeks. I’m not superwoman or anything; it’s not like these things don’t make me seethe with internal rage, but I’m able to remain calm and polite throughout until I’m able to get into a little space all my own and call them all manner of filthy names.

Pregnancy seems to have taken away that ability to some extent. That guy behind the sandwich counter? Oy, I haven’t got all day. Having worked in fast food myself, I know it’s not exactly brain surgery to come up with a burger with no ketchup on it. The customers with the email? We told you it’ll be two weeks, so cool your jets, you pompus asshat.

This morning, I had to speak to a bank on the phone. Oh yes, a bank.

I left the States when I was 24. Being 24, I had few reasons to want to contact my bank other than if I accidentally went nuts at Old Navy and went into the red on my account. (Only happened once.) Being in my 30’s now and part of a pair of people wishing to purchase property, I have the distinct misfortune to wish to communicate with my bank.

My bank seems to be extremely adept at preventing this.

In a flash of what can only be termed customer service inspiration, my particular bank decided to a) deny access of direct branch numbers to account holders and b) move call centres that will inevitably be dealing with an influx of angry customer calls saying, “where the fuck has my branch number gone?” to Mumbai.

Think what you want about my issue with this. I know myownself that I’m not a terrible racist cow. The fact about Indian call centres is not that their staff is untrained; they are. It’s not that they’re uneducated; they’re not. It’s that you can’t understand a bloody word they’re saying. They get frustrated with you, you get frustrated with them….it just adds up to bad customer service points for the bank. It’s not their fault their accents are difficult for the Western ear, but equally, it’s not my fault that I am possessed of said Western ear. (Hell, I used to dread having to talk to our Glaswegian manager on the phone when I worked my first retail job here in the UK)

Mr. DD is heading into town this afternoon to talk to our local mortgage advisor. Being unable to locate the branch telephone number, I was forced to call the “help”line to get it.

I was fortunate to end up with a “customer service representative” who’s accent was fairly Westernized.

“Hi,” I said, “I’d like the direct number for the Leighton Buzzard branch, please.”

“Are you an account holder?”

“Yes.”

“Can I ask why you’re requesting the number?”

The normal me would have kept my cool at this point. The current me did not.

What I wanted to say was, “Because it’s my bloody bank and my money is there and it’s none of your business why I want to talk to someone at the branch, so give it to me now, or I swear I will fly out to whatever region of the sub-continent you inhabit and choke you.”

“Because,” I said with some restraint, “my husband and I would like to talk to a mortgage advisor.”

“I could put you on the phone with one of our mortgage advisors.”

“We want to talk to someone in person.” I said through gritted teeth, “Someone AT OUR BRANCH.”

“Ok, I’ll put you through.”

“Is there a reason why I can’t have the number so that I can call them myself?”

“I don’t actually have the number here, but I can transfer you.”

My spirit was broken at that point. He didn’t even manage to transfer me to the right person. I suppose I should be grateful that it was even the right branch.

This new bitch girl that I seem to have become is at once empowering and unpleasant. I need my filter switched back on.

6 comments:

Jennie said...

Now if only we could only find a way to harness this energy you have for the good of mankind...

Sorry you're getting the royal runaround with the bank.

Andrew said...

"I have discovered a new pregnancy symptom. I hate everybody."

Look at the bright side. It's really, really good that you don't play favorites. Everybody, right down the line. Simpler that way, really. :o)

To Love, Honor and Dismay

lisalou said...

I love the imagery of the asshat and the ass scratch. I find that there is a least a week out of each month that my hormones cause me to get a little bitch like. I say just go with it.

Brooke said...

Bitch schmitch. They deserved it.

Em said...

Leighton Buzzard...I love the name of that place. My husband's secodn cousin owns a nursery (of the plant variety)on the Leighton Buzzard Road. I am not really that far away in Harrow but I will be moving back home to Australia in the next month or so. Congrats on your pregnancy. I have added you to my blogroll.

4tops said...

I even hate our dog now. His very presence makes me irritable. And unfortunately, I'm his fav person. He follows me freakin everywhere, with this guilty/sad look, and when I go to pee, always tries to come in and sniff my pants. It's making me crazy. A state heretofore not reached by such innocuous dealings. I delight in kicking him off the bed.

Feel your bitchy pain,
4tops