The Gift That Keeps on Giving

Today, my sister LM texted me a photograph of her Christmas present from our mother. Yep, she too got a box of meat from Omaha Steaks. I stopped eating red meat a while ago, although I was never a big fan before then. LM, on the other hand, hasn’t had a piece of red meat, other than bacon, which doesn’t count, since 1987. She has even less interest in a gift of burgers, hot dogs, and steaks than I.

I didn’t really do anything about my unwanted gift, other than to find the whole story amusing enough to share it. My sister, however, is much more proactive. She doesn’t take shit, or steaks, lying down. She is a problem solver, and red meat or no, she was going to get the gift she deserved. And deserve it she does. She still sees my mother every month or so, if for no other reason than to lessen the guilt that comes from estrangement.  I support her in her efforts. That way I still know what’s going on in the world of crazy in which my mother lives, but without any of the shitstorm that goes along with it.

LM called the 800 number on her meat gift invoice and spoke with some unhelpful asshat in the customer service department. She explained to him that she received the gift of meat, and that as a non-meat eater, she would like to return it or exchange it for some non-meat products she would rather have. The Omaha agent told her they don’t do refunds, and she should just donate her unwanted gift to a neighbor or the fire department. She even offered to take it back to her local Omaha Steak store, but representative told her they don’t take back food, and if she did that, they would still have to throw it away. Better to give it to the firemen.

She sat on that information for a little while, but had trouble digesting it, much like she would with meat.  She called them back and spoke with someone else. This time, the customer service person agreed with her logic that giving meat to a non-meat eater and making her keep it or give it away didn’t seem fair. She made a notation in my sister’s now open meat account that she didn’t eat meat, and then offered her a $65 credit to be used towards other products that they offer, products like side dishes and desserts, products that don’t bleed. She could do what she liked with the meat she received, give it to a neighbor, a fireman, back to our mother, whatever.  She texted me the much abbreviated version of her experience along with the customer service number she found on their website.

I figured, hell, it worked for her, I’ll give it a try too. I called the number she texted me, and spoke with a different asshat who had the same script. I explained to him that my mother had sent me the gift of meat, but as a non-meat eater, I wanted to know if I could return it or exchange it for other products. He told me to give it to my local fire department or a neighbor. Seriously, what is it with the fire department? When I went on to explain about my mother having memory problems, he then told me that it was between me and my mother, and that I needed to tell her what kind of gifts I liked better than meat.

Rude does not begin to describe how that man spoke to me. I have been harassed by collection agencies with more tact and manners. Well, not personally, but I hear they are pretty horrible. I had no intention of calling Omaha at all, but now I was pissed.

I asked to speak to a supervisor, and the asshat put me on hold while he told his supervisor his side of the story. I hate that being on hold part; it feels like waiting while your mugger decides to just stab you or rape you and then light you on fire. The supervisor got on the line and gave me the same speech about the firemen, adding that it would be a shame for good food to go to waste. I told him that was debatable, the good food part. I have no problem with feeding firemen. They are hungry guys.

We went back and forth on the whole confused mother thing. I explained to him the reason I  had asked to speak to him was that his representative was rude. I don’t expect them to be able to do anything about my mother, although how amazing would it be if there were an 800 number for that service? I reminded him about his 100% satisfaction guaranteed policy, and pointed out I was not, in fact, satisfied. He offered to return my mother’s money to her, and I accepted.  

I still wasn’t happy. I just had that bitter taste of frustration left in my mouth, not unlike the metallic irony taste of beef. I got on my computer as a distraction, but found myself perusing the Facebook page for Omaha Steaks. I noticed that every comment that had been left received a reply from an Omaha representative. I thought I would try again. They had a post about sharing your Omaha story with them, so I commented something along the lines of having a shitty customer service experience that I would be happy to share.

Apparently, the customer service pros are all on Facebook over there, because not ten minutes went by before I got an instant message asking me to explain what had happened, followed by a request for my phone number to discuss it further with me, followed by not one but two calls during dinner, just like my mother would do, to try to remedy a negative comment on their Facebook wall.

I called back and spoke with my third customer service individual, because clearly I had nothing better to do yesterday than fight over some unwanted steaks. The man  with whom I spoke apologized repeatedly for the rudeness I had experienced earlier in the day. He said there was nothing they could do to fix the situation other than to stop it from happening again. His solution? Fax a copy of my mother’s power of attorney to them, so that if she tries to order me more red meat, they can call her authorized representative for approval.  At least he didn’t ask for a copy of my mother’s medical records to prove she actually had a diagnosis of dementia.

Am I 100% satisfied? No, but I am 100% tired of thinking about steaks. I will not be sending a copy of a power of attorney to Omaha steaks. My mom may or may not get her money back. My sister gets to pick out more chicken and a cheesecake. My other sister still didn’t get a gift from my mother. And my husband? Well, he can’t wait to fire up the grill.

Wrong Number

The other night, I asked my daughter, S, to answer the phone while I was cooking dinner. I had my hands busy with washing grapes and lettuce, and she was right next to the phone, so it wasn't an unreasonable request.

I hate answering the phone. It stems from my former work for the state as both a disability examiner and an eligibility worker for social services. Phone calls were a pain in the ass, and no one wanted to talk to you unless it involved yelling and threatening. After almost ten years of that, I am scared to answer a phone. How often is it someone you want it to be?

Now that three of the four of us in the house have cell phones, no one wants to answer the archaic land line. Except S, the only one without a cell phone. The land line is for her and 911 and annoying sales calls. And that’s why I asked her to answer it, because chances were good it wasn’t for me.

She said hello, and what, and then what again, and then she sighed and hung up.

“Who was that?” I asked her while I stirred the pasta sauce.

“I have no idea. Some freak,” she said, popping a grape in her mouth.

Immediately, the phone rang again. We all just stared at it.

“Well, don’t look at me,” S said. “I answered it last time.”

I picked up the phone and said,” Hello?”

Why do we answer the phone with a question, anyway? Is it because we aren’t sure that we want to greet the caller? We don’t want to commit to pleasantries yet?

“Your daughter just hung up on me.” Oh God, it was my mother.

I wouldn’t say that I am estranged from my mother, but I would say that is what I strive for. To say she is crazy is an insult to people with mental illness. Whatever her many untreated mental conditions may be, they are significant enough to warrant some serious boundaries on my part. I haven’t seen her since we met for a cup of coffee last December, and we have no plans to visit anytime soon.

I do talk to her about once a month or so, but not because I want to, more because I feel I should. She doesn’t call us or even speak to her granddaughters on any kind of a regular basis. Had anyone known she was the original caller, we would have let her go straight to voice mail. S didn’t recognize her number, and why would she, so that’s why she answered it in the first place.

“Hi, Mom,” I said. “S didn’t hang up on you intentionally. I don’t think she knew it was you. What did you say?”

I mouthed to S “It’s your grandmother,” and she rolled her eyes.

“I said hello, and when she asked who it was, I told her it was someone who loved her,” my mom said. “When she still didn’t know it was me, I told her I loved jewelry too. And that’s when she hung up on me.”

“Ma, she didn’t do it on purpose. She probably didn’t hear you. Or understand. She tends to be a very concrete person. It’s best to just be direct with her and not be all cutesy,” I said. I was going to add something about how she doesn’t have any use for game playing, but I was trying to be nice. “Would you like to talk to her now?” I offered.

“No thanks, I give up after twice.” You could hear the sneer over the phone.

“Well, technically, this is the second call,” I told her. “So here she is.”

“It’s your grandmother,” I said  loudly and sweetly to S and handed her the phone. She glared at me and grabbed it.

“Hi, Grandma. I didn’t know it was you.” S put on her innocent voice. They talked for maybe ninety seconds, and S handed the phone back to me.

She was only calling to thank me for the plant I sent her for Christmas, but as usual, she managed to turn it into a small scene complete with hurt feelings and misunderstanding. Go big or go home.

After we hung up the phone, I asked S,” So what did she say to you?”

“I don’t know. Something about being a person who loved me and jewelry. How am I supposed to know who that is? I thought it was a crazy person."

Oh, it was, honey. It was. If it’s wrong to be delighted that my child hung up on my mother, I don’t want to be right.