Barnmaven

Dang, they're THAT good.

***This post has not been sponsored in any way, shape or form by Bank of America or its employees or advertisers.***

I've heard the tales from so many friends, even my own brother.  Someone stole their information and their account was overdrawn by hundreds or even thousands of dollars in transactions generated by the thief.  They waited days or even weeks for the bank to investigate, verify and reverse the charges.  It was a horrible, long, drawn out process.   It will never happen to me. 

Yes, and no.

I was down to about a quarter of a tank this morning and so stopped to get gas on the way to work.  My commute is 90 miles round trip, give or take, and I don't much relish the thought of getting stuck on Highway 14 while the farm trucks and the 18-wheelers speed by.

I flipped the switch on my tank, got out and unscrewed the cap.  I stuck my debit card in the slot and prepared to enter my PIN.  "Card not authorized."  Huh.  Tried again.  "Card not authorized.  See cashier."  Now, it was entirely possible that I had inadvertently overdrawn my account.  It happens from time to time, one of the many drawbacks of ADHD being that sometimes I fail to remember that I bought or did something the day before and that I don't have enough money to do or buy something today as a result.  No worries, I thought, I'll check the account balance when I get to work and transfer funds if I have to.

After back to back morning meetings until almost lunchtime, I finally got the chance to log in to my account.  Account was safely in the green, and nothing to indicate a problem.  Hmmm.  Maybe the card is just getting worn out.  It IS due to be replaced this year.  No biggie. 

But it kept bothering me all day.  Finally, I called the customer service number and selected the option to review my transactions.  The first three were easily recognizable as mine.  But the next:

"A debit card withdrawal in the amount of $236.97 to [something unprounceable]."

"A miscellaneous reversal in the amount of $236.97."

The next word out of my mouth started with the letter F, which the automated system didn't recognize as being a valid option.  I tried a different word:  "Representative."

As it turns out, someone attempted to use my debit card yesterday to book a hotel room in Finland.

Bank of America?  Caught it immediately, reversed the charge and put a stop on my card.  That's how good they are.  One charge, caught and reversed.   One charge.

Bank of America, it was a little inconvenient today to have to dig the ones out of my wallet to buy enough gas to get to work.  However, it would have been a hell of a lot MORE inconvenient if the thieving assholes who stole my account information had charged enough money to put me in a hole I can't afford to be in and tied up my account for lord only knows how long.

Bank of America, if I didn't have a boyfriend, I would KISS YOU.  Hard.  On the lips.  As it is, would you settle for a really tight hug?  Your account protection team is top-notch and I can't thank you enough for protecting my piddly little bank balance.   I'm grateful beyond words right now.

(Now un-lay-off my friend Leslie and we'll be besties forever.)

I get my new debit card in 7-10 days.  Somehow I think I'll be using cash only for a while - even after the new card comes.

I get to keep them

I had a long overdue visit to the Dermatologist today.  About six years overdue, honestly.  I've had two precancerous moles removed in years prior, and since I've moved to the land of everlasting UV rays I've been terribly negligent about following up. 

I have a standard list of responses I know I'll have to cycle through at least once every visit:

1.  Yes, I know my skin is dry.  My skin is always dry.

2.  No, I don't have a "skin care routine."    No, I don't have time for a routine.  Shut up already.  I know my skin is dry.

3.  Yes, those certainly ARE a lot of tattoos.   That?   Its a Claddagh.  Claddagh.    Its an Irish thing.  No, they didn't hurt all that much.

4.  No, I don't want to buy your $40 teeny weensy tube of super duper exfoliating spf 150 perfecting skin cream. 

It wasn't all that bad, though.  Dr. Smith was rather cute and funny, and he very kindly took care of the small broken veins next to my nose for nothing more than the cost of the tears it brought to my eyes when he zapped them.  He did go on rather monotonously about my dry skin, but I'm used to that, so it didn't bother me all that much.  Best thing though was that I didn't have to give up any of my moles to the scalpel today.  As I've written before, I'm not real big on needles OR blood, so any day I don't have to consciously avert my eyes I chalk it up as a win.

He asked me how often I wore sunscreen.  I asked him if "almost never" was a good answer, for which I received a withering glare. 

Sunscreen. 

I was a sun worshipper.  A sun worshipper who turned into a dirt worshipper and an outdoorswoman who could give a crap about whether her nails are clean or her skin has small pores and looks young.  Sunscreen just seems like a good way to waste an opportunity to be outside and turn brown.   The last thing I want to do in the summer, when its 95F is to put on long sleeves and a hat for a trail ride.  I'm not really keen on resembling Moist from Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog, the supervillain whose superpower gives him the inside track on sweaty palms and drippage. 

And yet...

I got to keep my moles today.  And when I look at my beautiful kids, with their clear, soft, white skin, I think maybe its time for me to start modeling better habits. 

I like my moles.