Dancing with Glass Slippers
By Ellen Key
March 23, 2008
I was an online auction virgin with too much confidence from watching auction television. At three o’clock AM I wandered in the virtual door and bid on forty-one items. Within a week I found I had “won” each bid. Who knew no one else was interested in three inch glass slippers I had bid on these one particular quiet night as the household slept and I could not. I now have a life paying for the slippers, answering the door as the mail man holds boxes carrying a delivery more familiar at an engineering business I had worked. Boxes come one, four, five and eight at a time. Sometimes three deliveries a day come to the house. I wish for the embarrassment to end. I have found the computer that can connect to the world, late at night, may not be a friendly thing.
As I figure how to pay without touching our private finances I choose a national store visa opportunity, one that people with undocumented residence can surely use without fear and with ease. I found the hidden costs have added to my bids, the high shipping costs of each item, some of which I believe are padded for the low bids that “won.”
I loaded this Visa with two-hundred dollars, thinking this should take care of the total cost of my night of ignorance. Using a visa to pay was easy; finding the high costs in shipping a dollar forty-cent dish totaling twenty-one dollars was my shock. My two-hundred dollars did not pay my responsibilities I had so easily agreed upon.
A rarely used established visa of my own was enrolled to continue paying my debt to the auction house. After four purchases I was notified nothing was accepted. I called this visa card company, they commented there was suspicious activity. I fesssed up on the activity and asked for my visa use again. It only lasted four more times; once again I was shut down. Embarrassed to confess again I did not make a return call to the visa company.
Back to the store to load another two hundred dollars on the new Visa, at a cost of four dollars, mind you I paid eight-dollars for the use of the store visa, a fee of eighteen-dollars per month was agreed upon to have the privilege of the store visa. The temporary card could not be relaoded, the real card would be in the mail. I know was getting three and four text messages to a cell phone that did not have text messaging as a package subscriber. Now, adding the cost of my bidding, the cost of the card fees and the fees of the cell phone notifications I was really racking up real money from my late at night innocent wandering into a national online auction experience.
Glass slippers, Cinderella’s slippers, romance of holding a three-inch beautiful glass piece only a child’s dream could hold precious and wonderful. As ten, twelve and fourteen slippers were added to the kitchen table, their beauty and romance vanished, the embarrassment of the late night decision was a huge burden on my shoulders.
I waited until my real card from the store visa arrived in the mail. It was delivered with four more boxes of slippers. While loading another two hundred dollars, I asked text messages not be used on a cell phone that was racking up costs at a rate of cents-per-letter, the paragraph messages were adding too much to my upcoming bill cycle. I did not understand this “real card” had a different number. The messages stopped only for the temporary card. In order to officially request to stop the text messages, for the cost of two-dollars I could talk to a person on the eight-hundred phone number and make my request. I requested only for the temporary card messages. The two-dollar fee was waisted for that would have been automatic. Now I have messages on my cell phone for the card recieved in the mail.
As I entered my membership to the online auction I deleted the two previous Visa card numbers. I now had trouble entering a third Visa card. Using the eight-hundred help line, at another two-dollar cost, I found I now was in “Fraud alert” at the online auction house. Minutes before adjusting my account I was awarded a star for the wonderful use of this online purchase account. To go from “you are a wonderful customer” to a fraudulant customer in a matter of minutes was beyond comprehension. I needed to wait two to three business days in order to make sure a dollar ninety-cent charge was accepted on the newest store visa account. Three days later I quickly paid my responsiblities, noticing a complaint had been registered by an agent wishing payment by personal check or money order. I did not read beyond my first page of agreed bids to notice this problem. I could have solved this as I stood in line to purchase the original temporary Visa in the store. Now, I needed another ride, I do not drive a car, to get a money gram. Meanwhile the fraud statement and the alert message bothered me. Would I loose my yellow star as a wonderful customer? The pressure of this one night innocent, no longer a virgin, auction bidder was heavy, very heavy to carry.
After three days I was able to use my permanent store card, quickly I used two-hundred dollars, keeping a seven dollar reserve, not enough for the eighteen dollar monthly charge. I then received text messages on my cell phone about the necessity to add more to my permanate account.
Again I added my personal rarely used visa card. I had only four purchases to pay. The band was lifted and now all payments are complete. I get pleasant “feedback” and complements for fast payment. The mail man comes daily and has asked “are you sure this was only one night of purchases? I should have kept a count of boxes.”
Looking at selling back the glass slippers on the same online auction I found hidden costs of their services, both as advertisement and purchases through visa. My husband decided to have a display box for the kitchen wall. “Now we can laugh at you for the rest of your life about your one night stand as an online bidder.”
Oh the choices we make as young and old innocent romantic fools. How many times in a life does one have to wish to be a virgin again?
My shoes are tied today. I noticed the laces are a little frayed. Do I exchange them for fresh laces or enjoy the familiar feel each time I attempt to tie them?
Monday, March 24, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Digital Ghosts
Digital Ghosts: Memories of Momma’s last days
It has been 8 months now, almost long enough to make a baby. The memories of Momma’s passing are as fresh as the few days it took to watch her slip away. Had I known, or understood what was actually happening, I would have done things differently. She taught us how to live with her various cancers and heart disease so well, death was not a thought - not a daily thought as events unfolded.
Life is one day at a time when hospital visits are so close together. The normal life is listening to doctors tell softly spoken warnings in gentle voices that run into long sentences. Time suggested differently.
Momma's home was my home for nearly two years. I was exhausted. Each night, during Momma's sleep, I bent toward her mouth to make sure she was breathing comfortably. Not as if she were dying, just wanting her to be comfortable. One night my long hair brushed against her face and startled her. A quick visit to a strip mall salon was the effective resolution. I did not mind the short, nearly one inch, clip from the “new girl.” Hair grows back. Not a week later I was standing in front of my home town community with this ridiculous hair during Momma’s funeral.
Pictures were taken. As if we siblings were gathered for a reunion or vacation. Why? What was the point of marking the occasion? I felt like I had fought my own war. War against Momma’s diseases, war against the attacks my dearest friend, that happened to be my sister, surged upon me in public humiliation, and numbness that takes root to get one through the unthinkable.
Three days of a long week Momma left us. I did have three days but used it as a break. My dearest friend/sister traveled from many states to take Momma for yet another fractured vertebra treatment. As I “rested," trusting all was well, my sister staged a movement of Momma from my home; undermining the fact I could understand her needs and disregarding that twice a week nursing visits never detected problems in the home, problems with Momma's care or Momma’s own need for removal.
I will write about those days. But they are too raw still.
My sister used my own fight against Parkinson's in order to make Momma’s care a primary sacrifice on her own part. Tools that were used to stop me from talking to doctors were: betrayal, overbearing our hospitalized, weak mother and manipulation with the hospital staff -having them call her "Doctor" when she holds a PHD, not a medical degree.
What need did my sister have to push, twist and manipulate hospital staff to call her “Doctor” in a medical environment when her PHD is in Political Science? Maybe that is the root. Political Science, the science of spin. The spin master in her that made all to see, in her own world, that only she was the one person that fit the imediate cause.
Eight months is only measured by seasons changing. I still can close my eyes, feel her presence, hear her breath; her oxygen machine can still be heard humming in my memory. The hole in my heart still aches as I think of standing at Momma's open grave. There is a gap, a loss of my most prized friend/sister as I witnessed a dark side she had never shown me.
Maybe the camera was my sister's shield, a tool. The pictures were proof of a bond with the family she helped raise; colorful digital images that are the true ghosts at our Mother and Father’s graveside.
My shoes are tied today. I can tie them myself. It is a good moblity day. Stress from Momma's passing has not waned. Stress of betrayal has not waned. My medicines help me, just as they helped me while caring for my Mother.
It has been 8 months now, almost long enough to make a baby. The memories of Momma’s passing are as fresh as the few days it took to watch her slip away. Had I known, or understood what was actually happening, I would have done things differently. She taught us how to live with her various cancers and heart disease so well, death was not a thought - not a daily thought as events unfolded.
Life is one day at a time when hospital visits are so close together. The normal life is listening to doctors tell softly spoken warnings in gentle voices that run into long sentences. Time suggested differently.
Momma's home was my home for nearly two years. I was exhausted. Each night, during Momma's sleep, I bent toward her mouth to make sure she was breathing comfortably. Not as if she were dying, just wanting her to be comfortable. One night my long hair brushed against her face and startled her. A quick visit to a strip mall salon was the effective resolution. I did not mind the short, nearly one inch, clip from the “new girl.” Hair grows back. Not a week later I was standing in front of my home town community with this ridiculous hair during Momma’s funeral.
Pictures were taken. As if we siblings were gathered for a reunion or vacation. Why? What was the point of marking the occasion? I felt like I had fought my own war. War against Momma’s diseases, war against the attacks my dearest friend, that happened to be my sister, surged upon me in public humiliation, and numbness that takes root to get one through the unthinkable.
Three days of a long week Momma left us. I did have three days but used it as a break. My dearest friend/sister traveled from many states to take Momma for yet another fractured vertebra treatment. As I “rested," trusting all was well, my sister staged a movement of Momma from my home; undermining the fact I could understand her needs and disregarding that twice a week nursing visits never detected problems in the home, problems with Momma's care or Momma’s own need for removal.
I will write about those days. But they are too raw still.
My sister used my own fight against Parkinson's in order to make Momma’s care a primary sacrifice on her own part. Tools that were used to stop me from talking to doctors were: betrayal, overbearing our hospitalized, weak mother and manipulation with the hospital staff -having them call her "Doctor" when she holds a PHD, not a medical degree.
What need did my sister have to push, twist and manipulate hospital staff to call her “Doctor” in a medical environment when her PHD is in Political Science? Maybe that is the root. Political Science, the science of spin. The spin master in her that made all to see, in her own world, that only she was the one person that fit the imediate cause.
Eight months is only measured by seasons changing. I still can close my eyes, feel her presence, hear her breath; her oxygen machine can still be heard humming in my memory. The hole in my heart still aches as I think of standing at Momma's open grave. There is a gap, a loss of my most prized friend/sister as I witnessed a dark side she had never shown me.
Maybe the camera was my sister's shield, a tool. The pictures were proof of a bond with the family she helped raise; colorful digital images that are the true ghosts at our Mother and Father’s graveside.
My shoes are tied today. I can tie them myself. It is a good moblity day. Stress from Momma's passing has not waned. Stress of betrayal has not waned. My medicines help me, just as they helped me while caring for my Mother.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)