I sat at my computer for about two seconds on Wednesday and contemplated writing a post about all those things in my life for which I am grateful. And there is no doubt that there are more blessings than annoyances but when it came right down to it, I just didn't have the time. Instead, I cooked and baked.
For seven hours straight.
Because I don't seem to possess an off switch.
I was quite organized in the respect that I didn't have to send Dallas out at the last minute to the grocery store for any missing ingredients and I was the queen of multitasking (bread rising on warm oven whilst delicious side dish baking inside) but somewhere along the way, I forgot that there would only be five of us sitting down to our Thanksgiving feast. I could have fed our entire town.
Dallas did his best to help. He suggested that I allow him to deep fry the turkey, even getting downright emotional when describing how delicious this version could be. While I have no doubt that a turkey made to bathe in boiling hot peanut oil is a gastronomic delight, I just couldn't get past the fact that this method of cooking comes with its own public service announcement.
So, no. No deep fried turkey. But we did have carrots au gratin, sweet potatoe and apple bake, green bean casserole with a mushroom béchamel sauce and fontina cheese, garlic parmesan mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, yeast rolls, pumpkin pie and mincemeat tarts. Everything was from scratch because while I believe in things like epidurals, Botox, robotic vacuum cleaners and electronic banking, I'm pretty traditional when it comes to pie crust. And unlike my first husband, who was obsessed with baking the perfect wedding cake (yeah, DING DONG kids), Dallas has no interest in cooking beyond his beloved BBQ, which turns me into a domestic goddess, in his eyes, every time I expend a little culinary effort.
I love that.
Having five days off last week was pretty great, too.
So, we are at the end of the tale, for now. After receiving a second email from Shifty, I felt compelled to reply. As I wrote, every last drop of anger, disbelief and frustration spilled out but the truth is, the world is full of Shiftys and even though their behaviour is destructive and reprehensible, there's not much any of us can do except try to avoid them. They are the people who believe that the universe owes them something. Their sense of entitlement is well developed and their relationship with the truth is slippery. They take no responsibility for the way that their life looks and thus, they feel perpetually victimized. If left to operate unchecked, they are capable of creating serious damage. The good news is that eventually, their bad deeds seem to catch up to them but personally, I wouldn't want to be nearby when that lightning bolt finally hits.
After receiving the email from Shifty, I eventually chose to ignore it figuring that my silence would be answer enough. Two weeks later, Leisa forwarded me a text message from Shifty which nattered on about something stupid and then out of nowhere, he said,
"And by the way, Beth is missing out on an opportunity to make some serious money. It's no skin off my nose as I already have a contact in the US and in India."
I text her back,
"What a f**ing wanker. Besides the fact that he knows absolutely nothing about import/export, freight or retail, every business he's ever touched has turned to shit. I'll pass. Easily."
Leisa asked if she could forward my text back to him and frankly, even though it reveals a serious personality flaw, I have to tell you that I was quite willing to engage with him. For a year, I had been writing a post about the train wreck of the last twelve months because blogging is my therapy. Watching helplessly, as people I love had their lives turned upside down by a single, narcissistic sociopath, was incredibly painful. I didn't publish the post though, because doing so might have exposed my family to some unwanted attention. The internet is a powerful tool and even though my readership is small, I thought we had better play it safe. If nothing else, Shifty is a resourceful guy and I didn't want to unwittingly give him ammunition that he might use against Leisa.
But everything changed recently when we were notified that Shifty was being prosecuted for theft. Over the course of the past year, the Department of Internal Affairs has been investigating him and recently, he was in court facing six charges stemming from the theft of over $100,000. We had been anticipating something like this for months so news of the formal proceedings against didn't really come as a surprise. As his life rapidly began to unravel, I no longer felt that Shifty was much of a threat.
A few days after Leisa presumably forwarded my text, I received this email from him:
Hey Beth,
Leisa forwarded on your text message, thanks for your kind words. Its easy to see how you two get on so well; You speak the same language, have charitable dispositions and positive personalities. Good luck to you both.
Cheers!
Below is my reply culled from my year-long blog post. You might want to get a bite to eat and something to drink because it is a long one.
From: Beth To: S____ Sent: Thursday, 3 September, 2009 7:53:34 AM Subject: Re: Text
S____,
What did you expect? Did you honestly think that I would spend a second contemplating a business arrangement with you? Are you really that out of focus with reality?
Have you conveniently forgotten about the last year?
The financial distress that you caused Bruce and Anne as they watched their ENTIRE LIFE'S WORK circle the drain and how you basically shrugged it off is mind boggling. Oh, I know you'll say that you spent hours trying to figure out what to do and how it was tragic, terrible and NOT YOUR FAULT.
Whatever.
My mother in law, the woman, who until recently loved you unconditionally, spent months in the type of emotional distress that lands people in the hospital. My father in law, who treated you like a son, scrambled to figure out where the hell he was going to move his workshop so that when his house was sold to pay the debt YOU created, he would still be able to generate an income to feed his family.
When the bars went into receivership, a responsible person would have immediately secured a job. A person equipped with a conscience would have taken the necessary steps to rectify his mistakes. Your response to watching your in-laws drown under the financial burden of your insatiable need for MORE was to fuck off to Australia. Nice one.
You were full of irrational chatter about how you were going to secure a big, fat paycheque from the mines in spite of the fact that you had none of the skills necessary to obtain a job like that. And then, when it became clear that your "connections" couldn't overcome the obvious gaps in your resume, you further compounded the folly by not securing a job, ANY JOB that might have earned a wage. Instead, you set your sights on yet another bar and you chose to emotionally harass, threaten and cajole Leisa in an effort to get her to pack up and leave New Zealand and her entire support system to follow you down that fucking rabbit hole so YOUR needs could be met.
I especially loved how you dragged your innocent children into that particular argument with her. Nothing says "dedicated father" like using your children and their fragile minds as weapons to force your wife to acquiesce. But Leisa turned out to be stronger and smarter than you had anticipated. Over the years, she had watched each pub deal you crafted turn to custard and she knew better than to put all of her eggs into the S___ "great pub opportunity in Australia" basket because the track record for success wasn't exactly lined with diamonds, was it? And your response to her perfectly reasonable, level-headed resistance to the move was to emotionally batter her and accuse her of disloyalty, which was painfully ironic, since it was you who chose to shag another woman barely a year earlier.
The truth is S___, you just don't like to work all that hard. You've got your head full of excel spreadsheets with pie-in-the-sky numbers and you talk about your "talent" but at the end of the day, you are not prepared to get your hands dirty. Even worse, you don't appear to seek the counsel of people who have expertise in those areas where you are deficient. Your ego gets in the way of your common sense. While you should have been minding your business and getting your arms around the basics of cash flow, debt and sensible budgeting, you chose instead to fancy yourself as some sort of high rolling deal maker. In your pursuit of status and a spot on the porch with the big dogs, you left behind your conscience, your soul and ultimately, your family.
And, I know about the all of the debts and the Crown charges stemming from the funds missing from the pubs. I know about your physical altercation with Leisa. I know about your ongoing refusal to accept responsibility for your behaviour in any aspect of your life. I know about the near fight with another parent on the soccer field in front of children, including your own. I know about you taking Dallas's money and how months later, Anne had to sign for that so he could get his funds back. I know about the threats to seek custody of the children. I know that you claim to have lived off of a woman's credit card for several months this year. I know that twelve months after the pubs went belly up, you still don't have a job that pays you on the books. And I know that your need to punish Leisa is still greater than the love you have for your children because you continue to place them in the middle of your argument with her.
So, no, I'm not interested in doing business with you. I generally don't enter into deals with people that I can't respect, trust and who abuse those that I love. I find it very hard to digest that _____ and _____ would turn over an export enterprise to someone who has absolutely no experience whatsoever, regardless of their affiliation with your girlfriend. It's not especially sound business practice.
If you can make this latest, greatest, thing work, then all the more power to you S___. Perhaps, as a gainfully employed person, you might actually do the right thing by your children and support them in the manner that they deserve because frankly, that $64 a month you're shelling out really isn't cutting it.
Please don't misunderstand this email as an invitation to a prolonged discussion. I'm really not interested. I sincerely hope that you "get back on your feet again" as you put it, because your children need for you to be whole. They are what matters. But understand that the first step in that direction is to get real with the guy in the mirror.
Beth
After I clicked "SEND", I immediately felt lighter. My only regret is that I didn't have the opportunity to share my thoughts with him in person.
Just yesterday, we learned that Leisa had received permission to move away to the south island with her children and we couldn't be happier for her. In February, she met someone and right away, we were pretty sure that it would turn into something serious. The chemistry was undeniable. It's amazing how clearly one can assess a situation after some distance is gained and some time has passed. Surviving inside a troubled marriage requires the ability to ignore, bury and repress. Once away from it for any length of time, the blinders come off, the peripheral vision returns and that stomach churning anxiety disappears. In this circumstance, on the other side of divorce, there is hope.
Shifty buggered off to Australia and after being harassed with phone calls from creditors and threatened in person by an unpaid, angry contractor, Leisa moved herself and the three kids out of the new home and into something more cost effective. Did I mention how dreadful it was?
Over the months that followed, we learned so much more about Shifty than any of us could ever have dreamed. And none of it was good. There was money owed ALL OVER. There were lies, half truths, shady deals and revelations that caused our jaws to hit the floor. One woman, who had to deal with Anne and Bruce in an official capacity pulled Anne aside one day and told her off the record, mother to mother, to tell Leisa to distance herself as far away as possible from Shifty financially through every legal means at her disposal. It was serious stuff.
This past year, predictably, Shifty has behaved badly. When it became clear that Leisa would not reconcile, he clicked over from suitor to thug. As of this writing, he still hasn't secured a job that pays on the up and up and most recently, he was charged with several counts of theft resulting from missing funds from the trusts that run the slot machines in the pubs.
A couple of weeks ago, I received this email from him:
Hey Beth,
I have been doing some work for a couple of brothers named *. They own a large complex with hot pools, accommodation and bar in a little town northwest of Auckland.
The pools are fed by a spring and with the rising popularity of bottled water around the world they have set up a bottling plant and are now ready to start production.
The product is really very good and although early days the potential is very good also. They have had some interest from Germany through a local contact and whilst we were having a beer the other night, your name suddenly popped into my head as perhaps an opportunity also.
A similar operation for carbonated water based in the Bay of Plenty has orders for 40 containers per week to the U.S.
This is very much the early stages as brochures, labeling and website are yet to be done, however if you think that this maybe of some interest to you and something you could run with, they are prepared to give you an option of an exclusive arrangement, perhaps worldwide exclusivity if the volumes were there.
The town sits in the electorate of John Key, New Zealands Prime Minister, who would certainly get behind the product if it were to create jobs, especially in these tough times.
You might like to check out the website of Waiwera Mineral Water as that product is very similar and bottled nearby. Dallas may also be able to give you a rundown.
I suggested to the boys that I just pass your contact details on, so you could deal with them directly, but they have asked me to look after it and actually want me to manage all their sales and marketing, which hopefully will help me get back on my feet again.
My contact number is still the same (+64________) if you want to text or call.
Hi to Dallas and the kids, hope all is well for you.
Cheers,
Well, after I got over the shock of receiving the email, I laughed myself senseless. It was vintage Shifty. As if guaranteeing the participation of New Zealand's Prime Minister wasn't kooky enough, he made out like he was just going to pass along my name but was tapped by the "boys" instead, to look after their new venture.
Because, you know, he has such a demonstrable track record of success.
I wrote several responses and sent none of them. Finally, I chose to just ignore him. Until yesterday, that is. ___________________________________________________________
That was back in September and at the time, I think Shifty had convinced himself that he would be able to skate away from his troubles like he had done so many other times in the past. In the last twelve or so years, he has been involved with no less than five failed ventures. In each instance, investors were duped, people hurt and bridges burnt. I'm sure he felt that his latest issues were no different. At one point, after the shit hit the fan and my in laws watched their entire life's work disappear, he approached them with a plan to fix everything by buying yet another pub. All they needed to do was to pony up twenty five or fifty thousand or so (which according to Shifty, wouldn't be a problem because apparently, my in laws most definitely had secret money squirreled away). Then, he would run the pub (!!!), have my father in law do maintenance and odd jobs and Leisa and my mother in law would tend bar or something else equally foolish. Shifty told my father in law that he could, "even bring his boat if he wanted". The conversation redefined delusional.
This past year has been a doozie for our family in New Zealand because my nearly former brother- in-law is bereft of a conscience. You know how it is when you meet a person and you try like hell to develop some sort of affection for them because they rank in the life of someone important to you? You know how you struggle to find the positive in them and how you convince yourself that they must be in possession of at least a few redeeming qualities because isn't everyone?
The answer is no. It really is.
I have learned, first hand, that there are those that walk among us who are so damaged that they cut wide swaths of wreckage where ever they go. My brother in law is one of those people. I'm not sure what the professionals would call him but I'm guessing he'd be classified as a sociopath with narcissistic tendencies. We just call him Shifty.
Recently, a court date arrived and surprisingly, Shifty plead guilty to several charges ending months of speculation as to what would happen. His sentencing hearing was scheduled for the spring and for the first time in fifteen months, we can finally see an end to fiasco that was the Shifty years.
We all knew that he was guilty but it was an odd mix of emotions to finally have it confirmed. I certainly didn't feel compassion for the man that caused so much grief to the people I love but his guilty plea had me thinking about my niece and nephews and wondering how it would be for them the first time they each found themselves having to "explain" their father.
Below is the story I couldn't share openly before now. Some of you have seen it before on my private blog.
Last year after we arrived home from honeymoon, Dallas and I heard the first rumblings of problems in New Zealand. It seems that my brother in law, Shifty (as we like to call him), was in serious trouble both financially and legally.
He owned three pubs and was trying to put together a deal to buy a fourth except the first three were in the red. The financial side of pubs in New Zealand is quite complex because they often combine drinking and slot machines. The slot machines are owned and operated by non-profit trusts and in exchange for housing the slot machines, pub owners have their rental obligations paid. Seems like a win win for everyone and for the most part, I think it works. From what I understand, the pub owners are responsible to collect the profits from the slots and deposit them into the trust's bank account less any funds owed. Unfortunately, when Shifty ran into personal financial issues, this left the door wide open for him to get his hands on a serious quantity of money, quickly. And this is what the government believes happened last summer.
It really all started back several years earlier when Shifty and Leisa decided to buy their first home. Mortgages work very differently in New Zealand and as it turned out Leisa's parents agreed to underwrite a small portion of the loan by cosigning and putting up their own home, which they owned outright, as collateral. The chain of events gets a bit murky here but from what I understand, Shifty was not content with the house and soon after, made plans to build their dream home in one of the most exclusive neighbourhoods in their borough using appreciation in the first house to help fund the second. He also decided, at this time, to have an affair.
Well, building costs went way, way over budget and Shifty presented my in laws with a number of documents to sign dismissing their questions with a wave of the hand and a slick, prepared reply. My in laws were trusting people and unfortunately, they didn't ask a lot of questions.
Then the affair came to light. After months of pain and anger, Leisa decided that it was important to keep her family intact and she made the conscious decision to work at her relationship with Shifty since they had three children and twelve years together. They reconciled, moved into their new home together and a few months later, in February of 2008, they decided to officially marry. Unbeknownst to Leisa at the time, things in Shifty's professional life had been unravelling at the speed of sound.
Long story short, by August of last year, the mortgages hadn't been paid on either the old house, now occupied by a renter and the new home, in MONTHS. When the bank finally stepped in, the situation was bleak. There was 1.2 million owing and at best, they thought they would be able to recoup around $850,000 for the houses at auction. Shifty told Leisa. Understandably, Leisa FREAKED.
Then, Bruce and Anne were notified. They were guarantors. Turns out, they were likely to be on the hook for roughly $400,000. They were completely blindsided. It was a terrible time and about to get a whole lot worse.
I think it is safe to say that I hate them. I hate the stress that they bring upon our household. I hate the fact that my children seem to think that they have to reinvent the freaking wheel; that they need to have the most creative, technically difficult and absurdly expensive presentations.
Oh, and did I mention the nagging?
There are only so many ways that a parent can harrass gently prod a child about his/her project. And it all comes down to that last week, anyway, because no matter how much time the teachers have given to complete the project, these are MY children. They came out of the womb with finely-tuned procrastination DNA. There is an unwritten rule that NO PROJECT SHALL BE COMPLETED BEFORE ITS TIME.
Olivia had to create a family tree showing at least two generations beyond herself and include a timeline of significant events in her life. Easy, right?
Not so much.
Because I am an idiot of the highest order, I suggested that her tree should list four or five generations. Finding this info would be no problem for my side of the family because I was the first born, when my parents still had white picket dreams of sweet-smelling cherubs and thus, unlike my cheated siblings, my baby book was painstakingly compiled by a first time mother and featured a very detailed family history. But, Olivia does have a father and when she called him to find out the names of his grandparents, my ex said, "Pops and Nanny". I am not kidding. So, we ended up sticking with the minimum requirements and as she tottered off to the bus today with her poster board, I noted with relief that we had one down, one more to go.
Dylan is in the seventh grade. School projects at his level are serious. Detailed rubrics are handed out months before the due date. The children are expected to work on them a little at a time, doing experiments, research and following up with thoughtful notes and summaries. To say that this year's science project has caused us grief is an understatement.
Dylan's first idea was to make a hovercraft. In his defense, when he suggested the idea, I really wasn't paying much attention and gave him the perfunctory nod of approval because he seemed enthusiastic. The whole conversation was a bit like a Charlie Brown experience in that Dylan was talking and all I heard was bah bah blah, ba blah, ba blah.
Not one of my stellar parenting moments.
Then, I was presented with the supply list. Some things were expected: bolts, a plastic sheet, plywood.... What I didn't count on were the BATTERY POWERED LEAF BLOWER, CANNISTER VACUUM CLEANER, BLOW DRYERS, STAPLE GUN, SABER SAW, DRILL AND FREAKING RAZOR KNIFE!!! Dylan was upset when I told him that unless he found a way to print dollar bills, he needed to come up with something other than a hovercraft for his project. What I didn't mention was besides the insane expense of the whole thing, I had visions of him and his equally impulsive friends on the hovercraft taking my suggestion to go play in traffic literally. So, Dylan resorted to making batteries out of fruits and vegetables, which was cheaper and less likely to land us on the ugly end of a lawsuit.
I thought that agreeing on what he would do would be the hardest part. No so. Getting him to complete this project has been about as pleasant as being clubbed to death. I don't get it. The rubic clearly defines the expectations and provides a detailed outline to be followed. His science book, the internet and his school library give him everything he could possibly need in the way of research. All that is required of him is to spend the time and actually get the work done. But that's the trouble. I've had to threaten CONSEQUENCES (you know, that conversation that sensible, loving, rational parents have with their kids). He has until Friday to turn it in and he assures me that I'm getting my panties in a twist over nothing.
*exhale*
Okay.
Something tells me that I'll be medicating with chocolate on Thursday night, though.
So sorry. The rest of the repo man story will have to wait until next week because I have better blog fodder. Because I am the ass end of a giant cosmic joke.
Yesterday after work, I had my hair done, which is usually a little slice of nirvana for me. I get to catch up with my stylist (who has her finger on the gossip pulse of our town), read all of the latest celebrity rag mags (did you know that Brad and Jen are having clandestine meetings?) and for nearly three hours, I get coloured, waxed and delightfully pampered with nary a child in sight. It is worth every single penny.
Last night we had a wee hiccup, though.
Everything was going along as it usually does and after my colour had finished processing, I walked over to the shampoo area. Like usual, my girl removed the foils, washed my hair, gave me a fabulous scalp massage and then prepared to wax my brows and upper lip. For the men that are reading this, try not to be shocked. Women are not naturally hairless, especially after a certain age. Along with sagging boobs, wild mood swings and deepening crow's feet, Mother Nature has also seen fit to bless the aging woman with facial hair. It's a freak show.
Anyhoo...
I have been having my brows waxed every six weeks for seven years. It hasn't hurt in ages. Now, the upper lip ranks right up there with childbirth on the pain scale but the brows are easy so I was surprised when the first strip was ripped off my left brow and it felt like someone had set me on fire. I didn't say anything, though. Then, it began to throb.
Completely unaware of my discomfort, my girl moved over to the right side and when that strip was ripped off, I yelped. I opened my eyes to find my stylist looking at me, horror etched on her face. Something was wrong. She was bent forward, blinking rapidly and slightly shaking her head as if to clear it.
"Have you been using something different on your face?" she asked.
When Dallas and I were in Mexico in July, I had picked up a tube of Retin-A at the local pharmacy. In my quest for the holy grail of youth, I'd heard that regular use would repair some of the sun damage and diminish my wrinkles. Sign me up, right? Unfortunately, I couldn't read all of the directions for use that came in the box since they were in Spanish and so, I'd stuck the tube in a bathroom drawer, promising myself that I would Google the instructions. Well, I didn't get around to doing that until about ten days ago. I've been using it five nights out of seven since then.
One side effect that wasn't mentioned anywhere in the published literature was the fact that if you use Retin-A within a week or so of waxing, you could expect AN ENTIRE LAYER OF SKIN to be removed along with the hair. Stylists know this. Regular Retin-A users know this and I would imagine that dermatologists warn their patients that waxing is a BIG no no. But for those of us who trot into the Mexican pharmacies and stock up on all of those drugs that require a prescription here in the US, it's caveat emptor, baby.
And oh sweet baby Jesus, I look like I have had surgery. Or an accident of some sort. It's hideous. And while make up has helped to diminish the angry red appearance somewhat, the gash running just below my eyebrow is like a blinking neon sign. Every single person that I have greeted this morning has found themselves involuntarily staring at it, their eyes narrowing in revulsion and a sick sort of fascination.
"WHAT HAPPENED?" they ask, slightly breathless.
The truth is just too stupid to even contemplate sharing so rather than be the subject of a cautionary tale, I mutter, "pirates," and leave them standing there, wondering if they heard me correctly.
Yesterday was something right out of one of Rod Serling's Twilight Zone episodes. It went from a weird inconvenience to hysterical disbelief to relief tainted with residual anger.
In a nutshell long winded diatriabe, here's how the day unfolded.
After we discovered that the truck was gone, we called the police. The dispatcher informed us that this was a civil matter and not a police issue but that she would certainly have an officer call us back if we felt that was necessary.
Um, YES.
While we waited, Dallas and I tried to get our heads around the fact that our vehicle had just been repossessed by Capital One Auto Finance, a bank we've never used. When something like this happens, your brain automatically tries to find a reasonable explanation. Neither of us could come up with anything plausible and thus, we were forced to sit on our hands for two hours until the Repo company opened for business and we could speak with someone there.
At nine o'clock on the button, I called Justice Brothers Recovery and spoke with Lynda Justice who while very sweet, basically told me that there was nothing she could do about this "unfortunate" event and that she would have Walter (presumably one of the "brothers") give me a call. I'm not really known for being a shrinking violet so I sort of pressed the issue with her and made her aware of the fact that I had the clear title in my possession. That gave her a moment's pause but apparently, it wasn't enough. She still insisted that the disposition of the vehicle would be decided by Capital One Auto Finance. We went over the VIN number, the auto history and the fact that the person who had defaulted was named Brandy Porter. They even knew she lived in Rogers. Obviously, we were not Brandy and we live in Bentonville so what in the blazes were they thinking? Moreover, we had purchased the truck in July of '07. What finance company do you know of who would allow non payment on a vehicle for 28 MONTHS before instigating repossession proceedings? Exactly. Didn't smell right to us either.
Clearly reasoning wasn't working with Lynda but she finally did agree to allow me scan and email our title to her.
Walter eventually got on the phone and he exuded all kinds of southern charm, sympathizing with our plight, peppering his conversation with , "I understand why you might be upset" and "believe me, if it was up to me..." but he still refused to make the sensible decision to BRING OUR TRUCK BACK. He claimed that it was out of his hands and that he couldn't release the truck until Capital One gave him the okay to do so. When I specifically asked him where the vehicle was, he played dumb, blaming his ignorance on the lack of communication with his driver. At this point, I wasn't so understanding anymore and as I felt the last vestiges of my self control seeping out of my pores, I contemplated making a donation to the NRA.
"Do you realize that you have proof of our ownership?" I asked, "This is no longer just a clerical error. You have stolen our truck." And to this, Walter chatted on about a hold harmless arrangement with Capital One and how his hide was covered. My jaw hit the floor and realization dawned. Walter didn't give a flying fig. As long as his arse was legally protected and he got paid for the job, I might as well have been conversing with a houseplant.
Walter promised to get back on the phone with the bank but I'd had enough. I asked for the number of their contact at Capital One and reluctantly, he gave it to me. I left message after message for some woman named Amy but she never called back and I was told that Miss Amy wouldn't be talking to us because we weren't the ones listed on the account.
MY POINT EXACTLY.
After ending the call with the repo family, I rang Dallas and keened like a crazed, wild animal. For the first time since discovering the truck gone, I understood that we might actually have to call an attorney, which sent me right over the edge.
And then an angel appeared. His name was Officer Simmons of the Bentonville PD.
He returned our early morning call, got all the details and did a bit of research into the matter. After a few hours of digging, Officer Simmons came to the conclusion that our truck had indeed been improperly repossessed. He spoke with Justice Brothers Recovery and told them that they had 15 minutes to produce ownership documentation or he would file a stolen vehicle report on our behalf. Well, apparently this got the repo man's attention because he couldn't get the truck back to us fast enough but not before he asked why the police would get involved considering it was a "civil" matter. I guess this question chapped Officer Simmons who acidly commented that a stolen vehiclewas police business.
Late afternoon, our truck arrived back in town. We met the driver in the parking lot of our gym, inspected the vehicle and then Dallas was presented with a document to sign. It was a hold harmless agreement releasing Justice Brothers and Capital One Finance from all liability in the matter. Dallas's name still wasn't on the paperwork AND it listed Capital One Auto Finance as the owner. Dallas, in his polite, charming and reasonable Kiwi manner refused to sign the document.
Me? I had four letter expletives rolling around on the tip of my tongue just begging to be spat out. But I didn't say a word.
So, the truck came home and once or twice last night, like anxious new parents, we each peered out the front windows to make sure it was still in the driveway. We have since learned heaps about why this happened but I'll have to save that for tomorrow. I've babbled on long enough for today.
This morning started out like any other. Showers, breakfast, the packing of lunches, garbage bins to the curb and the final brushing of teeth before heading out the door.
And that's when things got weird.
I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth when Dallas walked in, waited for me to look at him and said,
"My truck's been stolen. I don't know how else to tell you that."
Well, I think he did a pretty good job. I got the message loud and clear.
I stopped what I was doing and followed him into the garage. He hit the opener and as the garage door rolled up, a very empty driveway came into view. No truck. It seems kind of funny now that the two of us went out there to confirm that, yes indeed, there was no vehicle. He told me about how he had used his remote to open the truck, failed to hear the telltale, "Beep, Beep" and assumed that he had a dead battery. That would have been a reasonable conclusion and right in line with our luck lately but to walk out and find it GONE...
Well, we called the sheriff who let us bleat on about the truck only to tell us that it wasn't under their jurisdiction. We needed to call the city police, which we did. They told us the truck had been repossessed for non payment, which would have been understandable except THERE IS NO LIENHOLDER! We've had the title since April 2008.
So, we call the repo company and clearly something is wrong. They have a different owner name and a different owner address but Capital One Auto Finance (apparently, they want to know what's in your wallet AND your driveway) has the year, make, model and VIN number of our truck.
Weird. Makes my stomach hurt.
So, after scanning a copy of the title and emailing it to the Repo Man, Dallas and I have been asked to sit back and wait while the powers that be sort things out.
What has struck me as mind boggling is that in the middle of the night, while we lay snug in our beds, a bank that we don't do business with, was able to send out the goon squad to an address that doesn't match their files to pick up a vehicle that has been paid for and legally registered in a name since 2007, that doesn't match the one they have on file.
What's worse is that nobody will call us back and they don't seem terribly concerned about the fact that they have, in essence, stolen a vehicle.
So, in addition to being one of the great credit card rate hike offenders and one of the guys that accepted 3.56 billion dollars in taxpayer bailout funds, Capital One can add car thief to their resume.
I'm sure we'll get our vehicle back but I wonder just how long we will be inconvenienced because of someone's clerical error.
You hear that gurgling sound? No, it's not a retch although I can understand why you might have confused it as such. It is me, just below the surface, DROWNING.
In work.
Issues? Of course because if I were to actually get several days strung together, IN A ROW, where everything ran smoothly and according to plan, the world might tip off its axis and twirl away into another galaxy.
What is worse than building a chair, shipping it to the Middle East to a new, high profile restaurant and having it break when your buyer sat in it for the first time? Tough one right? Wracking your brain for an answer? Well, how about building lots of chairs, shipping them to the Middle East to that new, high profile restaurant and having GOBS of them breaking right out from underneath their occupants? Yes, it's true. And the restaurant grand opening is set for tomorrow. And replacement chairs will take 90 days to deliver. Welcome to my life.
Oh yes, there is that meeting I had last week. Remember? I fretted about that baby for a week and a half. For nothing. The buyer was charming, respectful and completely reasonable. But like most in his position, he is faced with crazy deadlines, enormous responsibilities and limited help. To be considered for his new modular plan that rolls out next spring, I have exactly 6 days to get him pricing, samples and concept packaging on no less than eight items. For those that don't know, that's a bit like asking Britney Spears to chew gum and think at the same time: CHALLENGING.
Dallas and I are scheduled to fly home to Canada on Friday. It is not a pleasure trip. Over the weekend, one of my clients is scheduled to be on television with his products and between props, customs, couriered samples and on air protocol, I'm buried alive in the details. To top everything off, my daughter is sick with a cold. It's not horrible and yesterday, after a hasty nasal swab at the doctor's office, we learned that she isn't suffering from the flu, which is great. The trouble is, she goes to her father's house on Thursday night and conditions over there are less than ideal. Under normal circumstances, I can live with the thought of her foraging in the trash for scraps of foods and going unwashed for days but now that her little immune system is compromised with a cold, I'm concerned. So, I'm home with her, forcing heaps of vitamin C and cleansing her sinus cavities with saline and running to the school to pick up her schoolwork... DURING ONE OF THE BUSIEST WORKWEEKS OF MY LIFE.
I've been pretty good at treading water but lately, I can't feel my fingers and toes. I understand why some people give up and allow themselves to sink. I'm not there yet but I could sure use a mouthful of air.
