How Amazon Took Away my Will to Live

 It has taken every part of me not to give up on Amazon altogether and simply throw away the possibility of shopping online.  Sadly, pandemic makes online shopping difficult to avoid. Have you ever had impossibly unsatisfying customer service? I have. And then Amazon came along. Suddenly all previous experiences seemed like a walk in a sunny park. Let me take you back.

 

At the beginning of August, there I was bright eyed and bushy tailed and filled with hope for the world.  Amazon would soon shatter this hope.

I decided to voluntarily contact customer service.

I was calling on behalf of my mom and was inquiring about closing down my deceased dad’s account. I explained to them that though I have proper log in information, I cannot cancel the account as it always sends confirmation code to my dad’s cell phone, which has long been disconnected. Easy enough right? Amazon is a global company that surely has a system in place.

 

Phone call #1: Yes; no problem. We have a system in place. We will send an email to your dad’s email address, you simply click the link to confirm you want the account cancelled and it’s done.

 

I hang up, open the email and click the link. Guess what? They have sent a confirmation code to my dad’s cell phone.

 

Phone call #2: I explain the situation. This customer service rep is far ruder than the first. He gives me the run-around and requests last several purchases my dad made, the credit card info that was on the account and – get this – an item he saved but never purchased. I don’t even know that for myself, much less for someone else. I explain the impossibility of getting said information and he concludes: That’s your only chance. Fine. I hang up and call my mom so we start somehow gathering this information at least partially.

 

Phone call #3: Me and my mom call back. Explain situation. This person tells me Amazon doesn’t need anything from us and they will cancel it on their end no problem! Perfect. Confusing that everyone is operating under different beliefs, but fine. They then ask for my email address to which they will send a confirmation when my dad’s account is closed.

I say – and this is important – “Just to be clear, I do not want you to close my account that’s associated to my email address.”

She chuckles at the improbability of this mistake “of course not! We would never cancel your account.”

 

….

 

Two weeks go by and I receive an email from Amazon, asking for a copy of my dad’s death certificate. This seems intense for Amazon. Calm down. You’re an internet store.

I reply, saying I’m confused because last time we spoke with someone, she told us no further action is needed from us.

 

Couple minutes later, I receive a response.

 

“We have cancelled your account.”

 

You read that right, my account. Not my dad’s.

 

Call #4: Once again I explain the situation. But guess what, my account is nowhere to be found. Whoever closed my account deleted it from existence on the server. Puzzled, David W. tells me he’s never seen this before! Me neither, David W. Me neither. After an hour, he tells me he will escalate the issue and that yes, they will close my dad’s account. 

“Someone will get back to you,” he lies through his teeth cheerfully.

 

Weeks go by with no communication from Amazon.

 

Call #5: I explain the situation. I tell the dude I’m frustrated.

“I care!” he fibs loudly.

Turns out, indeed, no one has attempted to cancel my dad’s account and yep, still, no one knows where my account went. He puts me on hold, but jk, actually just passes me onto someone else to whom once again I explain the situation. She can’t help on either front. Says my dad has to call.

….

Well, Rhonda. No. I explain the situation. And she says they can’t “just close someone’s account.” I counter with “Well, how the heck did whichever intern you got to delete my account do it without my knowledge?”

 Rhonda doesn’t know. Me neither. Jeff Bezos doesn’t know.

 

Rhonda says I have to open a new account. But here’s the catch: I can’t because it says an account with that email already exists! But it doesn’t. But it does?

Fine, I start a new email address and create an account while Rhonda puts me on hold.

 

A new person with no knowledge of my situation picks up. (Where did Rhonda go?) I explain the situation. 

She sympathizes and prays. Promises me a solution is on the way: they will cancel my dad’s account AND give me credit on my new account. “Hurray,” I thought prematurely and foolishly.

 

Today, folks. I try to make a purchase with my new account. It is blocked. Why? No one knows. 

 

Call #6: Why is my account blocked? She doesn’t know. Will never know; hopes someone will get back to me tomorrow.

 

For the love of all that is good in the world, Amazon, I beg of you to get yourself together. Jeff – organize your people better. 

Having terrified fun in the face of an adventure

So, we thought it would be adorable to participate in what was referred to as a “sunset hike.” The idea was magical. Strangers gather in a parking lot and begin an evening hike. We hike during dusk, watch a sunset together and then descend as the sun sets, guided by the luminous glow of the full moon. Sure we will bring headlamps, but almost more as an accessory, because, after all, full moon will light our way.

When we arrived at said parking lot, our anticipated crowd of 20 or so fellow hikers turned into more than 80. My friend and I looked at each other with confidence.

“Well, we don’t really need guidance, do we now?” Not wanting to be stuck in a crowd of hikers, we decided to forge ahead on our own.

The leisurely start to our walk gave us false bravado.

We sat on a rock and looked over at the hillside that spread out below us. Magical, we thought. But sunset was nowhere to be seen. The promise of woods and hills covered in soft orange glow was not meant to be, because it was cloudy. This might wreak havoc with our descent plans lit by the soft glow of the full moon. Never mind, we thought.

We were committed to both fun and survival of the activity.

Darkness was falling and the moon or - other hikers - were nowhere to be seen. We donned our headlamps and that’s when I realized some items simply shouldn’t be purchased from a dollar store. I I assume condoms, pregnancy tests and - as I learned - headlamps.
At first glance, my lamp was competitive enough. But upon even the subtlest glance down at my feet, the lamp aggressively swung into my face, blinding me. I embraced the challenge, vowing to invest into a better lamp immediately upon my return, should I survive. One added element of danger was my friend’s walking sticks. She was ahead of me, swinging her walking sticks wildly with abandon and in her enthusiasm forgot my presence behind her. This led to a couple of near-misses wherein the sticks nearly got my eye, which was already partially blinded by the poorly designed headlamp. Our walk was elevated to an adventure.

We quickly realized why this was not the trail to take during the dark. As we semi-blindly scrambled down the hill, through a creek bed, skipping across slick stones to traverse across a full-on brook, while climbing over muddied fallen logs….we knew we had chosen the path less traveled.

Covered in mud and dirt with bruises that have yet to blossom, we at last spotted the end. From the other end of the forest, we saw the group we were trying outrun.

Like a cult on their way to a sacrifice, 80 headlamps emerged from the forest.
They seemed perfectly clean.

How peeping led to marriage

The other day I was regaling someone with a dating mishap from a couple of years ago. She was amused by my misfortune, and giggled gleefully, as I sipped my beer dejectedly.

But I thought – heck why not amuse more of you?

In this story, I played a key role in reuniting a previously crumbled relationship. Am I a hero? Perhaps. Let’s go back a couple of years. A mutual friend had suggested she set me up on a date. He sounded great. For one, he could spell. I was in.

Following some intriguing texting, we decided to go strawberry picking. It was delightful. But that’s where I should’ve started to pay attention.

You see, it hasn’t even been a year since he broke up with his girlfriend of 10+ years when she rejected his proposal. Ok, I thought, that might not be as final as one might think, but let’s give it a shot. He then told me he wrote a song about their breakup, and would like to tattoo the lyrics onto his body.

Alright, that’s a bit of a sign he may not be over it, I thought, but let’s keep giving him the benefit of the doubt here.

The last droplet of information that should have just forced the red flag right in my face was when he revealed to me that while he no longer lives with his ex, he did move into an apartment immediately next door to hers.

Now it did strike me as peculiar that you would want to run into your ex that frequently. Also, did Ottawa run out of other apartment buildings? But I guess at least he didn’t have to drag his bindle of sadness and memories too far. Once again, however, I shoved that red flag far into the depths of the pockets that represent denial. That was probably the absolutely only apartment available in this city of a million.

On one date, that lasted 14 hours, we got caught in the rain ended up at his apartment.

What I didn’t know at the time was that his ex was peeking through the peephole – presumably not creepily at all – and keeping an eye out on her man. Sure she didn’t want him, but god help anyone else who might! Like a predator watching his prey, she stood silent against the door of her apartment.

 “He left so early this morning,” she likely thought , “why isn’t he back yet to write more breakup songs about me?”

And alas she spotted me. This is when the sheer power of potential loneliness overtook her. What if he won’t mourn her forever? What if he moves on? What if she eventually has to change apartments? This cannot stand. She took a swig of …herbal tea probably (she was a vegan) …and decided to pen a love letter.

The next day, he reveals to me receipt of this letter.

“well…that’s looking real promising for me,” I mused.

“No, no …I’m only meeting with her to talk. Nothing more,” he assured me.

“Yeah, no, that sounds really great  and chats with exes are usually pretty unemotional and easy and I will definitely continue to be the person you date. I can feel it.”

He was meeting with her on Sunday. Our dinner date was set for Monday. Well long story short - they are now married and have me to thank for it. Well, me and a functioning peephole.

Just when I thought I had it.

Since it’s Valentine’s Day and all that I thought I would share an amusing story that just goes to show what the true priorities in any loving relationship should be. Take note.

This conversation happened almost a year ago while I was visiting a lovely friend of mine. Now, my friend is a stay-at-home mom to two little girls. This will matter to you shortly.

Let me set the scene. It was a beautiful sunny, Hawaiian morning and it was a good time for me to just enjoy the fact that I’m kinda just killing it and hanging out in Hawaii. I don’t need no relationship! (this is what I thought before a pint-sized relationship expert drew me in for a quick dish session.)

I was re-packing my backpack. A backpack that, I should add, had a little pink flower keychain on it. This. This goddamn flower is what started the talk.

“Do you have this pink flower on there because you’re a girl?” asked my friend’s 4-year-old.

Here’s where I thought I had my chance to impart modern-day wisdom.

“Well, a boy can have a pink flower keychain too if he likes it.”

And here it came.

“Ok. So then your husband has a keychain like this too then?”

Fair conclusion.
“Well, I don’t have a husband.”
Her little face tried to hide shock and disappointment in my life.

“….a boyfriend?” she asked hopefully.

“Well, no, I don’t have a boyfriend now,” I answered. This didn’t sit well with her though and you could tell shit just wasn’t adding up.

“But does that mean YOU have to go to work?”

Now, I was disappointed in my life too.
“Yes, yes I do,” I nodded sadly.
Still, more questions were brewing.

“So, what if you want to have kids?” Ah. The question every 30-some-year-old single girl loves to hear. Should I tell her that a kid can be had after just a couple of glasses of wine and zero marriage ceremony? No. I can’t shatter her view just yet.

“Well, I have cute nieces so I can always play with them.”

She gave me a sympathetic look and sat there in silence. After some time, the real bombshell of a question shot out.

“But what if you want to play board games?”
I can’t say I haven’t considered this key element of a relationship in the past, but slamming it out there like that really makes you think. Board games. How do I play board games alone? In a matter of minutes, the attitude I started the day with - one where I was a confident, independent, traveling woman with a good job - was shattered.

“Well,” I said, trying to save my failing image, “I have friends I can play with.”

I think at this point she questioned whether I even had friends. I’ve let her down so much already.

“True,” she conceded, “but you have to leave your house for that.”

 

The one where I realize I was a soul-less child.

Children are strange. They have priorities in life that seem to escape logic and as adults the oddest pieces of childhood are remembered.
The other day, I shared one of those memories with my mom, who looked at me quizzically as if to confirm that I was still hers.

What I had recalled, you see, was my first brush with crime. But it was a crime that I had clearly willfully forgotten about because it was proof that as a child, I did not have a soul or indeed empathy for any other human being. Think pulling kitten’s tail, but worse. Think throwing someone’s prosthetic leg in the fire, but worse.

It’s time to come clean and share the moment that separated me from a loveable child and a heartless criminal.

“Oh, what did you take someone’s crayon?” you’re likely thinking with a forgiving wink in your eye.

“Did you purposefully muddy up your sister’s shirt because she and your cousin had the same one and you didn’t and you were jealous?"

Yes, that happened also, but this was worse.

I stole from an orphan. Nay - multiple orphans.

You hope I am exaggerating or using fanciful terminology, but you’re wrong.

Let me take you back to the years that formed me into a human being.

My mom worked at an orphanage. Now that makes it sound like I grew up at the turn of the 19^th century and she took a buggy to work right after she beat our laundry on the rock, but nope. That’s a thing.

Now, we would go there sometimes to hang out with fellow children, but – let that sink in – you know, they were orphans, while I had parents.

But here’s what you don’t understand. These children had the coolest toy ever and I wanted it. Was it a Barbie? No, you fools. Barbies were owned by capitalist wannabes. Was it Lego? Also no. It was a tennis ball with a slit in it on a stick.

This sort of gives you an idea of the barometer of coolness against which  I was judging life’s luxuries. And while the parentless children looked on, I took this toy home.

It was not until later on in life (some might say, shockingly later) that my conscience alterted me that stealing from orphans is uncouth.

Did every child NOT clean a gas mask?

Let me preface this by saying that by all accounts, I had a really awesome childhood.

But, every time I speak with someone who was born and raised in Canada, I am reminded of how different my own experience was. When I mention the main colour of my childhood was beige, I’m not exaggerating. For some reason, most of the outfits you could buy behind the ol’ Iron Curtain seemed to be beige in colour.

I remember the excitement I felt when our exotic Canadian uncle sent us purple jackets.

I was all like “daaaamn son, I’ve got it made now!” I was almost blinded by the colour of capitalism.

Yet another reminder came a few months ago when we were all getting ready for a Halloween outing and one girl came by with a gas mask clipped to her belt, claiming to be a Russian Spy.

Everyone was amazed at the ludicrousness of such a realistic accessory. To me it just seemed like a fond childhood memory.

“Oh! That looks just like the ones we cleaned as kids during our exercises!” I squealed with the delight of a child who just spotted his/her favourite childhood snack.

Blank faces turned to me in horror.

“…Pardon?”

“Well, I mean we had to be ready, right? So we each had a gas mask – sometimes had to share one among a couple of us – and we cleaned them and made sure they still fit!”

I mean, I’m not suggesting everyone needs to clean a gas mask to have a happy childhood memory, but then what DID you people do in school?

Yet another thing that made me a tough kid, I think, were the regular camp games that we all participated in.

Sure, there was colouring and all of that safe stuff. But we also participated in something called the grenade toss. That’s right, give your kids what – I assume now in retrospect were inactive – grenades and we competed to see who can throw it farther. No biggie. This I thought was yet another childhood activity that everyone could relate to. Turns out, not so. Again, what DID you people toss if not a grenade?

I’m still grappling with my ability to relate to other children as they quote their experiences of day camps without grenade toss, colourful outfits and masks they wore for fun rather than as a prepper.

Damnit,Meredith - you're ruining my ER expecations!

I realize that I’m about a decade too late on my diatribe about Grey’s Anatomy. But I only recently started watching Grey’s Anatomy and it has left me with some pretty strong feelings. And I just need to get it out of me. Much like an aneurism might explode on Derek’s table, so too do my emotions in this blog.

First of all, can we just talk about unrealistic expectations this show sets up for us in terms of healthcare? Now, I’ve been to an ER once or twice but my experience was vastly different from that of the emergent patients riding on up to the doors of Seattle Grace/Mercy West/Grey Sloan Memorial hospital.
Generally speaking there is never a welcome parade of ridiculously good looking doctors just waiting outside the emergency entrance, ready to fight over who gets to give you better service.

Here’s what my latest ER experience was:

You walk in and are immediately hopeful that perhaps this time it will not take 6 hours to be seen. But that’s where you’re wrong. You’re shuffled from one waiting room to the next, your hope slowly fading into nothingness with each step you take towards the mirage of health. Once you’ve been there for good 2 or 3 hours, you start to question the severity of your injury. Could I just maybe go home and die quietly? Is this worth it? But then your sense of commitment kicks in and like a girl at the end of a never-ending bathroom line, you are determined to see it through. You’ve put in too much time to give up now. You will not give them the satisfaction.

Though there are some weak ones out there who just can’t take the pressure. While I was stoically in my 4^th hour of wait time, a sickly looking gal was brought in. She was supported by two of her friends and barely mobile. She looked on the verge of death and the human side of me wanted her to go ahead of me. But then also, I was all like: she should’ve gotten sick sooner. This spot is MINE.

But also, she looked like she only had a couple of hours left. They even brought out a gurney so she could await the sweet release of death in comfort. That’s when she whispered:

“How long before I can be seen?”
And the nurse answered, “Probably in 2.5 hours.”
“That’s ridiculous!” the sickly girl shouted, hopped off the gurney and marched out the door.

 

But this side is never seen on Grey’s Anatomy. And it just hurts my expectations. One episode should just be from the point of view of someone in the waiting room. Just 45 minutes of waiting. The episode would end with “to be continued.”