Here’s a story of something that happened to me a couple of years ago. I posted it on the site “Cowbird” at the time, but I’ve taken my stories off that site now. The style of this post might seem out of the norm for me, but the subject matter is a typical part of my daily life ;).
Here ’tis:
When I answer the phone, she says, “Is this Luanne? Your credit card was declined. I couldn’t get your order of 24 jockstraps out today. Do you want to give me another card?”
“There’s nothing wrong with my card! I’m not even near my credit limit. Let me call the bank and get back to you.”
I scrounge around inside my big shoulder bag, looking for my wallet and the offending plastic, and then I call the number on the back of the card. I get looped around and around, passing go—the original menu—several times. I hang up. Neither the front nor the back of the card reveals another likely telephone number, so I go upstairs to the files and bring down a statement with a phone number.
After passing through several more departments, I finally reach a person. At first I can’t understand her quick robotic cadence. Within a few seconds, I decide she has said, “What may I help you with?”
I tell her my problem, and she researches while I sit on hold. Meanwhile, I file my nails, take off my too-tight bra, and check my Facebook. I can’t wait to call my husband and yell at him for expecting me to order all those jockstraps. 
She finally comes back on the phone, and I have to shake my head to wake myself up. “I am very sorry, but there isn’t any problem with your account.”
I explain the phone call I got from the sporting goods company and how I need to use this credit card.
“Yes, there is not any problem with your account.” Again, I have to pause to figure out what she’s just said.
“Well, obviously there IS a problem or I wouldn’t be calling you. What is the available credit on this card?”
“Okay, let me check that information for you. Would you mind waiting just a moment?”
“I’ve already waited! I’ve been trying to get to the bottom of this problem for,” and here I glance at the clock on my computer, “forty-five minutes!!” My foot taps wildly.
“Yes, I see. I am very sorry that you are having this problem. If you will let me check that information for you . . . .”
“Go ahead!”
After finding out my balance, I ask her how we can solve the problem when there isn’t a problem and how I can get my jockstraps.
“Yes, you want to know what the problem is. There is not any problem. Is there anything else I can help you with? I am glad to have been of service to you.”
I call my husband on his cell. “You won’t be getting your freaking jockstraps, and if you still want them, you can just order them yourself.” I hang up before he can respond. That’s the benefit of being married a really long time.
