There are some people, both men and women, in the credit business who forget that a woman also has the right to end a high interest rate relationship. So unless you make you living in the same manner as the individuals soon to be described in this article for the reawaken'd midlife woman, there is no reason to read this, just click Poetry and feel non-threatened.

I could just spit! This whirlygig world of finance and economics needs to rewrite every last book on customer courtesy, and they should all be revis'd and authoriz'd by women who bear the weight of their worlds on their shoulders. It is bad to adjust to the curse of MEN-STRAY-SHUN that takes up at least two-thirds of our developing lives without having to spend the other two thirds trying to figure out why the blu-blazes we keep losing our eyeglasses.

We have to change the way we eat (well we all don't have to eat so much), and face the reality of buying roomier cups for our sagging bazooms so that we'll look like maturing women as opposed to unpicked crook-necked squash. Bigger breasts are WAY too overemphasiz'd. (Now class, does anybody want to guess who made the fake boob industry lucrative? It wasn't Hugh Heffner's grandma.) 

Basically all of those things with the exception of corsets giving way to the bra (well, we all don't have to wear a bra) I blame on the first rough draft that God created. Even he figured out that Adam had one bone too many. So what do men do for payback?

Give us a bone pile of problems to deal with that they have no business asking us about.

Disclaimer: Please note that the advice I suggest is not for the woman who feels she owes anybody anything. Like my late mother in law Lillie would say, "

"God gave us all the same air to breathe, and I'm gonna have my share."

Don't get me wrong. I love and respect men who show respect and for me and my feelings. So when any male-dominated entity doesn't like the smoke I blow about a certain unalienable right of mine, and I know he is trying (or a woman for that matter) to pull the wool over my eyes and makes the mistake of trying to "confuse" me with dribble and scare tactics that threaten my intelligence.

Such verbal judo just makes me want to just take out my double-edge sword of Holy Knowledge, and with the guillotined determination just go 'head and slap their medieval nine-to-five necks on the splintered chopping block of truth, take on the spirit of Joan of Arc and proclaim:

Now lookee-here, Buster Keaton, don't make me exonerate the deaths, burials and executions of every one of the six wives of Henry the XIII because my peri-menopausal hormones are 'bout to go Bloody Mary on you in the heat of my debt-free battle in this me-against-you quest Freedom Pilgrimage of Grace crusade.

Now y'all know of my secret of being mesmerized by English history and Masterpiece Theatre, back to the story:

I'm beginning to wonder if due to the fact that--unless they are reading unauthorized liberal websites at the workplace--men who work at credit card companies must feel some sort of advanced masculine surge with that head piece strapped-on that is supposed to be a communication aid. The ear, unlike the stomach of a man, is the true window to a woman's heart,

And I also theorize that every woman who speaks to them, even if she happens to be his superior in the workplace, is seen as a mere talking box (symbolic for the other "box" that they tend to want to conquer in the bedroom or the office supply closet, whichever is most convenient housing the most toilet paper.

I spoke with such a man, let's call him "Mike, The Major Credit Card Company Ogre" (and since these places love acronyms, let's dub him with the title MP3 of the M3C (Major Problem to the Third Power of the Major Credit Card Company) . No offense to Mike Meyers' Shrek--but why does the black international comedian have to play the part of the talking donkey)? Ya' think?

Anyhow, "Mike's" voice struck me as a starving college boy with a matching ego in search of food money and a good woman. The type that has the ego who loved to sport the attitude of "How can I help you?" when the hallmark of his day is probably to stonewall me and a zillion other callers who back down before the 18th hole before reaching "cuss out" point. After all, we gentile creatures are the frail weak rib to be protected by mankind. . . (gag reflex).

Well, I figure this, If "Mike" thinks he's gonna score, and I'm the one with the hole, I'll add a number of contributing factors of difficulty that will make his long drive a challenge. All men like a challenge, right?

Shall we check the play by play? Nine holes in the game. (Jus' c'mon an' hang in there with me on this, y'all, it'll be soup soon. . .. and absolutely finger-poppin' dee-lish-shush!)

Hole No.1: My spouse and I arrange to work with a Better Business Bureau Company of worth to put more money in our pockets on our plan to remove the cycle of in high interest rate, and getting higher, debt.

Hole No. 2: God answers our prayers with a real live person who actually cares about his clients. Usually I ignore these people but God make him keep on calling. And as usual, God was right.

Hole No. 3: My spouse calls me from work to remind about securing the arrangements stop our telepayments at the bank. Spoke with a woman. No stonewalling, no agitated attitude, No Problem.

Hole No. 4: The Problem. I call MCCC. I punch "1" for English, then punch the last four digits of the 38 character account number; then punch the last four digits of account holder's social security number, then the last four letters of my last name (ain't but four anyway).

At this point I'm about ready to punch somebody! But I remember my Sunday school teaching, "Do like Jesus did, and never use a whip unless absolutely necessary."

After being on hold for about 3 more minutes, listening to music that the worst dive in Vegas wouldn't book onstage, I get "David, the humble minion of MP3). And even after punching my telephone buttons to the point of where it needs a support group, "the minion" asks me to verify my identity. For God's sake kid! The CIA doesn't even require this kind of information but then I think to myself, well, at least he seems like a flesh and blood bloke with a soul. So while checking to see if I have any fingerprints left on my right index finger, I comply verbally.

Hole No. 5: "Minion" looks at the screen, I verify more bank stuff, convince him that Donald (pet name “Rusty”) Rumsfeld is my lover and then, figure (wrongly) that everything is taken care of on the "no I'm not a felon" identity end. BIG Mistake. "Minion" now says someone else needs to "handle the account."

LADEEEES AND GENTLEMEN. In the red corner, weighing in at 19.9 percent interest rate, the GREAT, the POWERFUL undefeated high interest holder of all consumer debt, ENTER MP-THREEEEEEE!

BOOM. . . shakalaka

BOOM. . .shakalaka

BOOM. . .

And my reaction to the switch is Fee Fi Fo Fum? Yeah yeah enter MP3. I'm so scaaaared! I need a man. . . gag reflex)

MP3 gets on the phone with that used car salesman inflection, "HI, this is MIKE, how are you today?"

(Of course, give the call to Mikey, he'll threaten anything)

"Hello-Mike-I'm-just-fine-I-want-to-cancel our payment arrangement" in my Woman-on-a mission-Mama-ain't-takin'-yo'-excuse today Christian tone, with a heavenly smile on my face.

"Can I have your account number?

"You have my account number already" I say to myself. all about 89 numbers in succession, only this time at least I don't have to press the pound key.

My mama and my grandmama and my late daddy didn't raise no shakin'-in-her-house-negro boots of a Prissy from Gone with the Wind. Seems to me that MP3 has been duped by the aura of the Sex in the City generation, as opposed to the bra burning generation of which I am a charter member. And albeit just a fledgling guess, MP3 strikes me as one of those guys who doesn't believe women can make significant use their mouths without the rest of the body being involved to get a man's attention.

MP3 says, "Why are you wanting to stop the automatic payments?"

"Because we've made other arrangements."

This broken record goes on for not one, not two, but three times, and I think Jesus would not mind me going off, in a Christian way, on this guy's attitude at all. My smile had a time limit, and MP3's time had run out. And, yes, you thought correctly Sports Fans, that this is this point where I say to my self, "Oh Lord! Why did he have to go there? I tried to be nice. Put the babies to bed because baby, it's Whippin' Time! 

 © 2004 by cynth'ya lewis reedAll rights reserved.