Well, I got upset today because justfly didn’t cancel my flight. Instead, they changed it to the one with the eight- or nine-hour layover. I should’ve maybe accepted this, because as it is, I cancelled through the airline and now have to pray to recoup my money sent to justfly.
Justfly is pretending that they’re still in the process of cancelling the ticket and waiting to hear from the airline. Yeah, right.
Their customer service is horrible. What are the odds that I’d speak with the Praggy lady all three times I’ve called? Go figure. I think she’s running the company, or was left in charge by people who should’ve known better.
I called the credit card company to dispute the charge, and that was disastrous. They wouldn’t discuss it with me because it’s my dad’s card, and he wasn’t on hand to give consent. So I asked to speak with a supervisor.
He came on the phone and said, “Am I speaking with [M-word] Kimball?”
“NOOO!” I shrieked.
He seemed taken aback. About fifteen seconds of silence passed. I wondered if I’d given the wrong answer… No, that had been the right answer, I decided.
“Fine. Then whom am I speaking with?”
“My name’s MEG Kimball, MEG! And I strongly suggest you call me that. Do we understand each other?”
We understood each other. But he still refused to talk about the charge. He asked for my dad’s phone number so he could reach my dad and get consent. I gave it to him. He reappeared on the line five seconds later and said my dad hadn’t answered.
I told him where he could shove it, what he could do to himself, and to drop dead.
“Ms. Kimball, for the millionth time, this phone call is being recorded.”
“Then provide better customer service, you moron! You’re a supervisor for God’s sake. Act like it.”
“No, that’s not why this call is being recorded. Ahem.”
“Oh! Is that supposed to intimidate me? I see it as a challenge! Record this, buddy, and imagine my beautiful hand gestures!” I then called him every dirty word I could think of. You know, since my commentary was being recorded for posterity, and all that. (It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.) [Facepalm.]
He hung up on me, which was too bad.
I blame my dad for doing business with Capital One. Their customer service is worse than their idiotic commercials.
Concerned about myself, I checked my handy wall chart that lists things to do in case of anger. Like how, if you’re on fire, you should stop, drop, and roll. But for anger.
Ah, Valerian tincture and aromatherapy. And breathing! I ran downstairs and drenched some toilet paper with bergamot and lemon, and I spent around fifteen minutes inhaling it. I also downed two vials of Valerian mixed with flat diet Coke. While I was doing the breathing, my mom called, and I eavesdropped on her phone call with my dad. (He had her on speakerphone due to his extreme hearing loss.)
“Oh, Phil,” she lamented, “I want to save as much money for my children to inherit as possible; especially for Meg, since we all know she’ll never be self-sufficient.”
I snorted and wound up blowing scented toilet paper out of my nose.
Breathe, Meg. Inhale the bergamot. It’s very calming. It smells like love.
My dad tried to give her good advice about where to live and what to do with her properties. I kept inhaling.
My mom said, “Phil, you’re not being very helpful here,” and I felt guilty because I was sucking up all my dad’s attention with my day of drama. “You’re always telling me that I’m my own worst enemy, and not to do stupid stuff. Show me some wisdom here!”
My dad shrugged. “Uh… I guess it would work out wherever you lived. If you were to live here… or there… or both… or neither… or some other combination…”
I rolled my eyes. That seemed less than insightful, but it was possibly serviceable.
“Oh, Phil, you’re so wise,” my mom gushed. “You’re my favorite ex-husband.”
I was impressed. I gave my dad a thumbs-up.
Afterward, I forced myself to become very zen and to quit being reactive. It felt like a major accomplishment.
My dad and I took a walk to the grocery store. It was quite pleasant.
When we got home, I filed a complaint with the BBB, and from there I got justfly’s actual phone number (not their useless 800 number) and their mailing address in Canada. I called the actual number, which led to their parent company, and left a message at the beep, explaining what I’d done to get my money back, how the cancelled flight wasn’t my fault, how I wanted to leave scathing internet reviews all over cyberspace, but that I wouldn’t leave any if I could get a refund. I was very calm and assertive, and not aggressive at all. Just straightforward and matter-of-fact, like, “Your company justfly is really poorly run. Send help.”
Hopefully tomorrow I’ll get some good news. Worst-case scenario, I’m out $1,000. That’s not pretty.
My anger’s coming back now, though, just from typing this. I can feel it like a buzzing in my head. It means that my alter ego, Large Flatulent Marge, has come out to play. (I don’t have multiple personalities, but I named my anger Large Flatulent Marge in order to see it as being funnier than it is. Sort of like how I call my niece Li’l Sweetmeats. That’s not her actual name.) No, really, Meg? Like anyone thought your niece was actually named Li’l Sweetmeats?
Oh, shut up.
But I’m still choosing to see this as a victory because after I told that guy off, I didn’t spend hours and hours raging. Instead, I just decided that he wasn’t worth it.
Oh! And after talking with the airline, my second-bought flight is still set up. So all systems are go for vacay! (Yeah, the airline cancelled the first flight for me, but justfly’s still pretending it hasn’t happened.)