Bank fees and bullshit

About a month ago while making a fairly routine transaction via phone banking I was informed by the customer service representative that they were now using a security token to increase the security of all accounts. I could purchase the token for the very low 'introductory' price of $20.

Er, no thanks. A security token, in my opinion, adds needlessly complicated additional steps without really adding all that much security, since it's a physical device that can be just as easily stolen as my cards, pin number or account details.

It was at this point I was informed that the use of the security token was now compulsory on all accounts and I had 30 days to purchase one at the low, introductory price of $20 or my accounts would no longer have access to the 'pay anyone' feature or the 'bpay' feature. Essentially, my money would be held hostage unless I physically withdrew it from an ATM or branch. On top of this, the security token fee would be increased to $49.95.

I was instantly outraged. No matter which way you look at it, it's another bank fee. I already pay a monthly service fee, ATM fees, excess transaction fees, card fees, EFTPOS fees, in-branch withdrawal fees, a passbook fee, direct debit fees, in-branch transfer fees, phone banking fees. I'm think, but I may have to double check, I also get charged a fee for walking past the bank branch or for thinking about making a transaction. This blog is probably costing me $8.50.

The token was the last straw. I pointed out to the customer service representative that at the rate they are charging me fees I won't have any money left to protect.

"We do offer a rebate to offset some fees. Would you like me to see if you are eligible?" This actually flawed me. It seems the bank is charging so many fees that many of their customers can't actually afford them and go into overdraft (which of course attracts a fee) so they offset that in some cases.

"How about instead of offering a rebate, you just charge less fees?" I said. "This security token is just another bank fee."

"Well we are selling it to you at cost." She said and I took a deep breath.

"I guess you'd like me to thank you, a major bank who's boasted record profits in the last financial year, for not making additional profit off what is largely an unnecessary process you've forced on me." There was silence. "If the bank feels that this level of security is necessary to protect it's customers than the bank needs to absorb that cost or else implement a more cost effective system."

"I understand your concerns but we can't do that." At the end of this conversation we were at a stalemate. The bank refused to waive the fee and I refused to pay it. I made several more telephone calls and emails all with pretty much the same result. They understood my concerns, they just didn't care.

After pissing and moaning about it for 27 of the 30 days they'd given me, I went into the branch today to close my accounts and move on to greener (and hopefully cheaper) pastures. The teller excused herself when I told her I wanted to close up my accounts and returned with the branch manager.

Now they cared.

The branch manager wanted to have a deep and meaningful discussion about why I was leaving. I told him simply "You've pushed me away with all the bank fees and this ridiculous security token is the last straw. As of next week I won't be able to pay my mortgage unless I pay a $20 fee. So I'm done with this bank."

He put on his concerned face and started making all kinds of helpful suggestions about direct debiting my mortgage. I pointed out that also draws a fee. Yes but it's a lower fee. Had I considered switching my mortgage to them? What if, instead of doing online bank transfers I withdrew more money at the ATM to have less transactions and therefore less fees. He was full of all kinds of helpful suggestions, but rather selfishly, I like to manage my finances around what's convenient for me, not what's convenient for the bank.

"How about you just close my accounts like I asked?"

"Well now, I'm sure we can find some way to help you." He was using a tone now that was starting to really piss me off. The "don't worry your pretty little head about it" tone you often get from salesmen and tradies. If he asked me if I'd spoken to my husband about it I would have to insert a sharp object into his eye. "If the security token fee is what's troubling you, we can waive that."

Are you serious? After how many weeks of infuriating phone calls and emails where they insisted that they can't help me, suddenly, as I'm walking out the door, they can waive the fee. I actually had to close my eyes and count to ten. Afterwards, I smiled sweetly at him.

"I've been banking with you since I was 18. I always thought this bank was one of the better ones." He was smiling proudly now. "But the last few weeks have proven me wrong. You guys don't care. All the good will that was built up is now gone." At this his face turned to stone and he informed me that they require two weeks notice to close accounts.

Is my money employed with them? What is this give notice business? He wouldn't elaborate beyond it being their policy. It seems we were right back to not caring again. He also refused to let me withdrawn the money I had in those accounts because I didn't have my passbook with me, though I did have my ATM card and had always been able to withdrawn that way in the past. "Well you can't now" he said like a petulant child. Annoyed and frustrated I stormed out.

I intend to return (to a different branch) next week and try again. Interestingly, I went to the bank that we have our mortgage with to open an account. I said to the accounts manager "I don't want to pay any fees. I'm serious. I have my mortgage with you so you're already getting two grand a month in interest. I think that's more than enough." He smiled and said "No worries." Then offered to get me a cappuccino.

Awesomesauce... AKA Thai Green Curry

I'm trying to get healthy, exercise more, eat less crap, you know the drill. I've become aware of how poor my diet is and how generally crap my eating habits are. The other day a friend gave me a recipe for a 300 calorie Thai Curry and it reminded me that I did a cooking class and learnt how to make a fish curry. And that fish curry was really good.

Where am I going with this? Oh yes, I adapted the recipe to a turn it into a Thai Green Curry and surprisingly, it's still good and it's still low cals and quite healthy. Perhaps even more amazing is that it doesn't wreak havoc with my Crohn's.

Enough of the preamble. Get to the point, I hear you yell. Well in lieu of anything to actually blog about, I've stolen the domestic goddess theme from a blogger I adore, Redact That and I'm giving you all this quick and super delicious recipe.

When made as below it comes to 370 calories and 17g of fat per serve.

Enjoy!

Ingredients:

• 140ml Coconut cream (with no added water)
• 3 tsp Red or Green Curry (more if you like it hot, less if not)
• 2 tbsp grated palm sugar
• 2 tbsp fish sauce
• 400ml Coconut milk (with no added water)
• *Red or Green capsicum
• *1 medium grated carrot
• *100g cauliflower
• *100g broccoli 
• **500g of chicken breast
• Olive oil for cooking
• 1/2 cup Coriander leaves
• Lime wedges

*You can pretty much add whatever vegetables turn you on. I went with these because that's basically what I had.

** Again you can add what ever meat you like. I've made this with fish, chicken and prawns. I'm sure red meat or pork would work too.

Method:

Heat a small saucepan over medium heat.

Add the coconut cream and cook over medium high heat for 5 minutes until it separates and the oil floats on the surface.

Add the curry paste and cook for 5 minutes, stirring constantly, until fragrant.

Add the palm sugar and cook briefly before adding the fish sauce and coconut milk. Bring the liquid to the boil, reduce heat and simmer for 5 minutes.

Dice chicken and brown in a frypan with olive oil.

Add chicken, capsicum, carrot, cauliflower and broccoli to curry sauce and allow to simmer for another 5 minutes.

Add corriander leaves immediately prior to serving. Garnish with lime wedges.

Serve with rice.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

oh, and I'll blog properly again soon.

Nosy neighbours, nerve and not losing it

I’ve written quite a bit about rage recently. Road rage, parking rage, inspector rage, supermarket rage, pregnant rage, dentist rage and when I find the time I will share with you the joys of the little one’s Naptime Rage but it all pales in significance with the rage I experienced today. Nosy Parker Rage.

Over the last two weeks, my brother and I have been driving two hours (each way) to our parents home to sort through their things as they’ve now both passed away. Packing up, not just a houseful of stuff, but a home full of memories is hard work. It’s exhausting both mentally and physically and it’s an absolutely HUGE fucking task. It was our sixth full day at this.

Somewhere around noon, a woman I’ve never seen before in my life and who I will name Busybody Betty had the nerve to walk uninvited into the kitchen of my mum’s house, where I was sitting on the floor going through the contents of a draw and have a go at me for throwing things out.

“Excuse me, but I hope you’ve been taking things to the Op Shop.” She said in a tone that was completely condescending. Quite stunned and not sure whether this person wasn't slightly unstable, I got to my feet. I smiled and nodded as I ushered her towards the door.
“Oh yes, 10 or 15 loads*.” I said sweetly, stepping into her so that she had no choice but to exit out of the house.
“She had a lot of very good things, all her patterns, wool, sewing machines. We’ve been absolutely crying over the things you’ve thrown away.” (I’ve not thrown away any such things).
“It’s under control.” I said still smiling sweetly. “Thanks for stopping by” and just as I was about to swing the door shut I heard her say something about going through the skips. Whatever.

I stood in the kitchen for a few moments wondering if I’d just been the victim of a very poor taste practical joke. Once I was sure she’d left I ran out to the backyard shed where my brother was dealing with a white ant situation and told him what had just happened. My brother, who is forever telling me to calm down when I start to get stabby and who is always urging me to avoid confrontation was completely outraged!

“What the fuck?!? Is she still here?” He charged down the driveway with me in toe (nothing’s really changed since we were kids) but Busybody Betty was long gone. “You should have told her to fuck the hell off!” he said and then ranted for a few moments about the absolute nerve of the woman. “Wait, what did she look like?” he asked suddenly and we soon realised that Busybody Betty was the same woman who had had a go at him on our first day there for taking so long to sort out the house. “Finally some action. It’s been sitting there empty for too long”.

So, it seems we can’t leave the place as is but we can’t throw anything out either. Her unwanted intrusion into my space pissed me off so much I was physically shaking. Who the hell does she think she is? What business is it of hers? Who walks into another person’s house and starts lecturing them on what they are doing? Seriously, what could she possibly be thinking. How is that OK in any world?

When my mum died in December I was 6 months pregnant. While she had been ill for about a year prior, I did not expect her to die that day. I was with her at the time and her death was sudden, horrific and traumatic. It has given me nightmares on more occasions than I care to remember. Not long after the funeral my brother, the only other member of my family of origin, returned to New Zealand where he was working.

Pregnant, orphaned and grief stricken, the last thing I even wanted to think about was trifling through my parent’s house. I needed my mum more than ever before and every time the baby moved I felt just a little bit heartbroken, scared and alone. It’s no easy feat trying to reconcile the grief over the death of a loved one and the sublime joy of being pregnant with your first child.

Fat Cat

So I put it off. I focused on the happy stuff. I put my energy into the little person that was about to join us and took comfort in Fat Cat (my mum’s cuddly 15 year old cat who came to live with us).

Not that I owe anyone an explanation. If we choose to sit on the house and contents for 6 months, 6 years or 6 decades that’s our choice to make. If we choose to throw out, keep, sell or give away the contents of the house, that is also our choice to make. There is no right or wrong in these situations.

I’m kind of proud of myself for not losing it with her and for giving her the least satisfying response that could possibly have been given. I can guarantee that when she brings it up with her sewing circle (or who ever she gossips with) and they ask her “What did she say to that?” Busybody Betty wont quite be able to recall and when they ask about the stuff she mentioned, Busybody Betty will realise that I didn’t actually give her any answers. That will no doubt annoy and infuriate her, albeit not quite as much as a punch in the nose would have.

*I should also mention that BOTH of the Op Shops in the town told us after several full carloads of things that they just couldn’t handle any more stuff. Plus I completely filled one of those clothing bins. They also can’t take electrical goods, bedding, furniture, baby stuff, mattresses or intimate apparel**.

**I don’t even want to know who buys second hand skivvies.

Car park rage and profanity.

I have been privy to some fun and games during my Infliximab transfusions. Never with the transfusion itself, that’s always easy, but I do seem to encounter some interesting characters. It could be because the hospital is on the edge of Fitzroy; a stones throw from Smith Street and the conveniently located drug rehabs, or maybe I’m just lucky.

The transfusion takes the best part of the day so I always park in the hospital car park, one of those cramped high rise jobs that require even the most skilled driver to do a 5 point turn to get in (or out) of. As I stood waiting for the elevator, I watched as a guy in a Falcon that was as large as it was old, attempted to back out of a very tight space.

On about his 5^th attempt to reverse, with the arse end of his car sticking out about a meter, three pedestrians walked directly in front of (behind?) him. Despite the moving obstacles, he continued to back out at a slow crawl. One of the pedestrians stopped to thump the boot of his car with her fist. She was dressed in trackies and a T-shirt with bleach blond hair displaying about two inches of dark regrowth. She looked pissed off.

“Oi! Watch out, Dickhead” Ms. Angry called, pausing directly behind him to give him the finger and stick her tongue out. I honestly can’t remember the last time I saw somebody poke their tongue out and even then I sincerely doubt they were over the age of 8.

The guy threw the door of his car open and jumped out, rage oozing from his every pore. He was obviously over it. I don’t know how long he’d been trying to get out; he was there when I arrived so I can only imagine it was at least 20 minutes.

“What’s your problem? You can see I’m backing out. Would it bloody kill you to walk on the other side of the car park?” He bellowed. Ms Angry, who’d started to walk away, stopped in her tracks and spun around. The look on her face clearly communicated her outrage.

“YOU have to give way to ME!” she yelled using that finger she loved so much to point in illustration of her words.

“YOU are on the wrong bloody side of the road. Keep LEFT.” The old guy said, pulling out his own finger.

“This isn’t a road. I don’t have to keep left.” She actually put her hands on her hips at this and I had to stifle a laugh.

“Well if it’s not a road, I don’t have to give way to YOU.” His face was red and he was spitting as he yelled across the car park at Ms Angry.

Some say...

Ms Angry’s companions, a man who looked really irritated and a younger woman, who just looked embarrassed, had stopped walking and were waiting a little further on. At this point the elevator arrived with a loud clunk.

“I wish I had hit you, you little bush fart. It might have knocked some sense into you!” With that he got back into his car, reversed out in one motion like he was The Stig and peeled out of there. It seems rage improves driving skills.

I had the good fortune to ride in the elevator with the trio. As we all got into the lift, Mr Irritated punched the ground floor button so hard I thought it might break. Ms Angry told him to ‘settle, petal’ and he took a deep breath and quietly said “Why do you have to get into a fight with someone every time we go anywhere?”

“I can’t help that people are dickheads.” She replied simply.

“I manage to get through life with relatively few confrontations with strangers, so do most people. You have them daily. Maybe it’s not everyone else who has the problem.” This was met with a brief silence and in that moment I wished I’d waited for the next elevator. Fortunately for us all, the comment was lost on her and she raged the whole way down about the dickhead who nearly killed her.

It really does beg the question though, what the hell is a bush fart? 

knives, chocolate cake and the zombie apocalypse.

There's a knife in my kitchen that scares me. I never use it and if I accidentally grab it out of the knife block, I very slowly and carefully place it back in it's spot and then take a deep breath. It's got teeth on it like a crosscut saw that are razor sharp and is easily a foot long. I've only used it twice and both times I almost severed a finger. It was a bloodbath. It came as part of a knife set and according to the information book it's supposedly a bread knife.

A BREAD knife!?!

All I can wonder is: what the hell kind of bread are they cutting over in Denmark that they need this monster??? I could be wrong here, but generally bread (even the crustiest of varieties) doesn't need a hacksaw to slice pieces off. Usually, I manage to cut through even week old stale Vienna bread which has started to morph into a bread shaped rock with just a regular bread knife.

How would you even eat such bread? Why would you want to? If your bread is that hard and tough that you need a serrated knife on steroids to cut it, it might be time to consider switching bakers.

There was a time at work when a colleague brought in a chocolate cake she'd baked herself to share for some poor bastards birthday. This thing was rock hard, it's quite possible she mixed up the icing sugar with concrete mix. I remember trying to cut it. I had to put my weight into it and it didn't so much cut as snap open. This knife would have been handy that day.

Hey Mick, that's not a knife! Forget the Ginsu crowd, if you were ever trapped under a vending machine and needed to saw through rubber tubes, a pair of leather shoes and an aluminium can in order to get out, this knife might just be your guy. In the Zombie Apocalypse, this would be handy to have in your backpack. If you wanted to do some impromptu tree lopping, you wouldn't go past this bloke.

For everyday kitchen usage, this knife is a ridiculous example of overkil. Even if you're incredibly coordinated, a master of the slice & dice and a knife wielding sensei, the use of this knife is only going to end in tears. Stories that involve dinner time rushes to the A&E dept and end with the phrase "and then they reattached it" start with this knife.

Tanty Time!

Today I chucked a tantrum at the dentist and walked out.

I should preface this by pointing out that I have a really high pain tolerance. I once hurt my wrist scaling a fence. I heard a crack and felt a harsh pain. I rubbed it better and went on my way not really giving it much more thought. A year later when getting x-rayed for some other reason (can't remember what) I was asked when I'd broken it. Huh? never. I was promptly shown the x-ray and the old fracture pointed out. I have a similar story with a bone in my foot. I'm sure Crohn's has helped my pain tolerance. Crohn's is a painful fucker, having a high tolerance is a survival mechanism!

But it's been a really shit week. Skin cancer involving painful biopsy, stitches and then burning with dry ice, sprained back muscle triggering sciatic nerve pain and involving instructions from the Chiro that I not lift anything (hello, I have a newborn!), sore foot which just aches all the time, tooth pain hurts on biting, sometimes it just throbs for the fun of it and to top it all off some Crohn's abdo pain. Seriously why does everything that goes wrong with me have to be physically painful???

So from the get-go I was not exactly fighting fit or in a great place. Just saying.

This morning the dermatologist convinced me to let her freeze the remaining skin cancer cells that hadn't been removed by the biopsy. I was obviously a little delirious from the collective pain. "You have a few choices, a chemotherapy cream with you rub on for a month or laser or cryotheraphy." Interesting selection Doc, lets burn my face with dry ice.

"Little sting" She whispered as she aimed the coffee machine type spout at me.

Little sting my arse. Seriously. I drove home, tears streaming down my face, wishing I'd chosen the cream. Sure it was going to leave a horrible sore on my cheek for a few weeks but it probably wouldn't have stung like this. It still hurts now, as I write this.

Next I had the dentist. I have a tooth which has been hurting for a long time. I first saw a dentist about it in April 2010. I've since seen five different dentists. They all say the same thing. The tooth is healthy. There's nothing obviously wrong. The tooth has had a root canal done on it many years ago and for some reason dentists refuse to accept that it could hurt. So I got all the usual questions: Are you sure it's that tooth? Not the one in front? Behind? Below? Yes. It's that tooth. How do you know? Er it friggen hurts when I push on it. Then to test the theory she decided to bash against it and the surrounding teeth with one of her dentist tools. I did mention it HURTS when I put pressure on it right? Satisfied that I was in pain but not convinced it could be coming from that particular tooth she pulled out the cold water spray.

Happy Place, Happy Place, go to your Happy Place!

From there she decided that she needed to do a scale and clean. The assistant comes over with the cold air sucker that she insisted on holding towards the back of my throat which was stimulating my gag reflex. When I told her she nodded and then put it right back where it was. The dentist then attacked my teeth and gums (which are sensitive at the best of times) with both the cold water spray dodad and the scaler thingy on high.

"Now if you feel any discomfort, just raise your hand" Raised my hand three times before she'd even managed to get round the back of my top teeth. She acknowledged the discomfort and said she lower the setting. It didn't help. Then she did something that actually made me cry out.  Now on any other day I would have grimaced and bore (bared?) it. But not today. Today I hit the pain ceiling. I reached my pain tolerance threshold.

"Stop." I said with a mouth full of dentistry tools. They both pulled their respective crap out of my mouth. "That really hurt." She gave her assistant a look that indicated she thought I was being difficult. I lost it. I pulled the bib off, wiped my mouth and pushed the tray of tools away. Why the hell am I doing this to myself? This is just a clean and scale. It's not vital procedure. It's just one of those bullshit things dentists like to charge you half a fortune for every 6 months. Fuck it.

"Forget this." I said. "Life's too short to suffer through unnecessary pain. Shove your clean. I'll stick with my toothbrush." They exchanged looks again and I got a lecture about dental hygiene. Then she offered to do it under anaesthesia... for $1,149!!! I pretty much walked out at that point. I must've looked a picture storming down the street for the first block, red faced, muttering to myself. No wonder people were moving out of my way.

I have had some pretty painful experiences during procedures in my life. I've never walked out on one before and for a scale and clean too, it's a bit pathetic. I'm smiling to myself at the ridiculousness of it all (although that may be the floaty effect of the pain meds kicking in). I'm sure the dentist has made a little note in my file: "Patient is a wimp with no tolerance for discomfort. Pretend you're booked out next time."

Can't (hardly) Wait

The other day while rummaging around in a draw looking for something, I found my ‘Can’t Wait’ card. I was so excited to get this card when I first joined Crohn’s & Colitis Australia. It was one of the main reasons I first joined. I pretty much thought this card was going to save me from so many hassles and problems when I left the house.

That was before I realised that nobody has really heard of Crohn’s Disease, unless they either have it or know somebody who has it. The population at large generally have no idea and now the card lies abandoned in the bottom of the junk draw. I’m not sure I ever even used it.

For those of you unfamiliar, during a flare-up, trying to hold on for any amount of time results in agonising, doubled over, just fucking kill me, abdominal pain. Often, holding it in, is impossible. The ‘I hope I don’t crap my dacks in public’ anxiety attack is still one of the worst feelings in the world for me, hence the ‘Can’t Wait’ card. Developed for just these situations. In theory you would pull out the card in a busy shopping centre toilet and the crowd of understanding and sympathetic people part like the red sea to reveal a makeshift path to the shining porcelain oasis ahead. In theory.

Can you imagine...

I don’t know what the men’s are like, but the women’s toilets always seem to have a line of at least three people (denoted below by different colours).

Flashes card to a line of impatient people.

"I have a 'Can't Wait’ card. I'm sorry but I need to go next”
"You have a what now?"
"A 'Can't Wait' card. It means I'm physically unable to wait to go to the toilet."
"Why?"
"I have Crohn's Disease."
"What's that?"
"It's a type of inflammatory bowel disease. It means I can't hold it and I get massive pains in the stomach when I need to go."
"What? Like lactose intolerance"
"No. Sort of. Look, I've got to go. NOW"
“Yeah me too.”
First person heads into the toilet.
"Where'd you get that card anyway?"
"From the ACCA."
"Did you have to pay for it? How much was it?"
"I could use one of those. I don't like waiting in lines, especially at the Supermarket"
"What? No. It's for the toilet. And you have to have IBD."
"I have IBS. I gave up dairy. It's fine now."
"You should eat more fibre. That’ll make you regular as clockwork."
"I can't eat fibre..."
"Well that's your problem right there. Change your diet."
"What's it called when you can't eat bread?
"Celiac’s."
"Oh, my niece has that."
Toilet becomes available. I make my way to stall.
"HEY! I was before you."
"Yeah, no pushing in."

Seriously, you’d spend more time explaining why you have the card, it’d be easier and probably a whole lot quicker to either push in and risk being accosted by angry toilet goers or go somewhere else. Personally, I’ll use another toilet. Men’s. Women’s. Parent’s room. The Disabled. I’m not proud. If I’ve got to go, I’m going.

I think orange lady has something though; I wouldn’t mind a ‘Can’t Wait’ card for the supermarket. Or the petrol station. I hate that line the most. Those guys are relentless trying to sell you more stuff. No, I don’t want to buy 2 packs of mints for $7 to save 2 cents on my petrol.

Has anybody actually used their Can’t Wait card? I’d be interested in hearing what happened.