You are on notice, BIATCH!
Posted on October 2, 2007
Filed Under marriage, snark, milestones, letter, death, insurance, bitching and moaning |
Dear Nasty Woman Customer Service Rep, Keeper of My Better Half’s Life Insurance Policy and, therefore, entitled to all manner of Biatchiness,
You have ruined my day. And, if My Better Half is not careful to avoid hazardous situations until we get this whole disagreement resolved, you may also earn the distinction of having ruined my life. Don’t you think it’s horrible enough to lose your spouse (never mind having to deal with that sorrow)? But then, imagine his dying on the day that his policy lapsed due to payment disagreements. There are countless ways that he could meet his end between now and when we get this whole thing resolved. He could be driving down the highway when some drunk and underage fourteen year old loses control of his car and drifts across the median, killing My Better Half instantly in a head-on collision. He could sit down in the barber’s chair and receive a nail to the back of the neck, delivered from the muzzle of a nail gun toting contractor replacing the studs in the adjacent retail space - true and unfortunate stories both of them. Shit happens. Shit happens to me.
I mean really, who do you think you are making me wade through twenty minutes of pre-recorded messaging only to decline to speak with me as I am not the policy holder but the policy holder’s murderous spouse who clearly intends to knock him off and is just checking to be sure the millions are MINE, ALL MINE before I deal the blow? (Are you upset about the arsenic comments? I mean that was then and this is now. I’ve since trained him to make the bed and unload the dishwasher and see the kids off to school at least once a week. Do you think I’d just give up on all that hard work?)
Didn’t I press all the right buttons on the phone? I entered the policy number and the date of birth and the last four digits of the social security number and I even endured having your system disconnect the fucking line twice after diligently punching in all the proper information. I called back. I waited through whole minutes of pre-recorded, chirpy messages about your being so glad we’ve chosen your corporation as our life insurance provider. Was that all bullshit? You don’t seem glad to be our life insurance provider.
And how dare you give me the little speech about being unable to discuss details of the policy with anyone other than the policy holder. You are, in fact, “our” life insurance provider because, though the insured is in fact My Better Half, the insurance policy is really mine. I went through months and months of agony just getting My Better Half to call you, and then there was the full year of nagging him about filling out the paperwork while it languished on his desk and, of course, there was the issue of the physical. He hates needles and really, really hates having his cholesterol checked because then I deny him red meat and whole fat dairy products.
I mean, truly, what does he care whether his policy lapses today or yesterday or sometime in the future. If and when it’s needed, he will in fact be dead. Dead people are a generally apathetic group with few needs and fewer worries. So the need is mine, all mine. And I am the payer of the bills, the punctual, organized manager of the Madmarriage family, the individual to whom you can give thanks for all the on-time payments that have crossed your desk before you decided to change the policy number and confuse things.
Now, at the very least, you are to be blamed for the blow-up fight My Better Half and I will certainly have later tonight when I am forced to nag him, once again, to call you and straighten out this mess before his fragile life is snuffed out by fire or choking or aneurysm. And I hold you personally responsible for my insomnia that will surely plague me until I find a way to make him call you and endure your number prompting, irritating messages and disconnections all to resolve the confusion surrounding his death. There’s just some things a person doesn’t feel a burning drive to confront, head on, and one of them is the terms of their own demise. Shouldn’t you, a woman who deals in making payouts after tragic deaths, day after long and sorrowful day, know this already?
Sincerely,
CCE, Potentially single and destitute mother to two children, two cats, one dog and two fish to whom you’ve denied the millions she is due on the death of her spouse all because she in not the “policy holder” with whom you can speak about such things as your arbitraily changing the account number on the life insurance policy that’s been in place since 1999.)
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