My DNA harbors waves of repressed anger. Sometimes it emerges without my authority. Sometimes it pops out long after any seeming cause, like this:
“I’m still incensed by the ridiculous, CONTINUOUS front-page stories about Hillary’s emails during the 2016 presidential campaign, while your lack of thorough, consistent investigative reporting contributed to the horrendous election of our most incompetent president ever.”
My anger typically goes wild on phone calls to 800 numbers, although I know that phone reps aren’t responsible for corporate snafus.
Yesterday, by phone, I cancelled my Sunday NYTimes home delivery subscription. I’ll miss reading the newspaper, curling up on the couch with my coffee. I’ll have to find new activities to take up my Sundays.
“You’ll receive a 16-week Sunday subscription at 50 percent off,” the sales rep tries to hook me into not cancelling. Poor guy.
I burst out laughing, which is Dan’s favorite part of hearing my tirade from the next room.
“Are you kidding? That’s what I’ve been told on at least four calls since October, but my credit card bill shows the full monthly price.”
The sales rep was professional. “Is there anything else I can do for you today?”
“Sure, how about talking with your supervisor, getting free Sunday papers delivered to me for the next four months? That would make up for being charged full price for the past four months.”
“I can’t do that,” he replies dutifully.
Whipping off an email to customer service, I sign it, YOUR DISGUSTED FORMER READER.
Immediately, I receive a reply from someone with a real name.
“We’ll look into this and get back to you,” she writes.
I’m flummoxed. Does persistence help? Does exposing repressed anger? We’ll see.
I wish I could ask my mother. But it’s too late for that.
*Dedicated to my polite, lovely, mature friend, Anne Sibley O’Brien.
Pretty good. Knowing the story in advance made me question at first the order in which you wrote it, but ultimately it came together well, I think.