Two wrongs. You're right.

When my kids get caught doing something wrong or have screwed up, I have this thing that I tell them to do - it's the same thing I was told to do when I was a kid: Admit your mistake and apologize.

Sorry. Begging your pardon. Let's sort it out and we can move on. Let's let bygones be bygones.
But that can only happen when you admit it's your mistake.
Otherwise the 'sorry' could really just mean  "Sorry, I got caught." "Sorry, you're such an arse." "Sorry, I have to spend my time talking to idiots"
My kids are 10 and 6. They understand this. Granted, they don't always live by it, but they understand it, perfectly.

If you follow me on Twitter, firstly thank you you gorgeously foolish thing,  and secondly, you may have noticed that the content of my tweets has included the odd barbed comment to @chasesupport about stuff going on with my bank account.
And I'd like to apologise.
Twitter isn't meant for stuff like that.  It's meant for cheekiness and important news reports.
Everybody's just trying to get through the day dealing with their own fair quota of assholes: bad drivers, wrong bills and annoying wee numpties whose sole purpose seems to be to annoy the Hell out of everybody.
Nobody needs to be brought in to some stinking wee gripe of mine.

BUT when I'm mad about something I talk about it. and I talk and talk until I'm not mad anymore. I think that may be why some of my closest friends are deaf. (True)
So, I figure I'd put it all down in a blog and that way, I'll get it off my chest, and if anyone wants to read it they can, and if they'd prefer to look away and smell some pretty flowers, or notice how blue the sky is today, or marvel at the sheer concept as to how many universes there are out there yet to be explored, then that's totally fine too.

OK, so here goes.

It starts in June 2012. I'm out shopping in LA for a dress.
I remember this for two reasons
1. Because I was shopping for an actual dress rather than jeans, pants or something made of flannelette,
and
2. Because the dress was for the premiere of Brave. I had sorted my kids with suits, my other half was wearing his kilt, so that just left me to be suited and booted. I was stressed.

I had tried on all sorts of stuff to no avail, (pressure) and was, not secretly, cursing the genes that had bestowed me the "child bearing hips" (they had proved useful twice in my life and otherwise were the proverbial pain in the ass.)
Having wandered around the stores most of the morning I found myself in need of a snack and passing a Panda Express (classy right?) decided that this would be the time to try there.
My brother-in-law Eddie, told me once, that whenever he visits the States he likes to go and have a chicken thing at Panda Express. I figure if it works for him it will work for me.  (We are a classy family)
So I ordered something chickeny, paid for it by card, sat down to eat, deciding that maybe I feel about Eddie's chicken stuff, the way that my kids feel about fresh green vegetables.
Anyway, the point is, whilst I was here in LA eating on something chickeny that I'd paid for with my Chasecard, someone had walked in to a branch in Texas, supposedly saying they were me, and had withdrawn thousands of dollars from the very same bank account.

I know. I can't believe there was actually thousands of dollars in our bank account either, it was a fluke, honest. But the point is, someone went into a bank in a completely different part of the country from where I live and withdrew it-  cash first and then a bankers draft.

I know what you're thinking. Chase are a big respectable banking institution, surely they noticed, or maybe called to double check I was me? No.  Not at all. Money gone.
We called the bank to point out there was money missing. They told us, that I had withdrawn it. I had gone all the way to Texas, gone into the branch with my driving license and credit card and cleared out all the money.
Mark and I went into Chase bank here in LA to prove who we were - me breathlessly clutching a Panda Express receipt for sweet and sour chicken balls.
Then I saw the withdrawal slip for the money taken.
Not only did the thief not bother copying my signature, it didn't even look like my name.  In fact, if you had a pet mouse and you dipped its feet in black paint and let it run across a piece of paper...you get the idea.

But the woman (if it was even a woman) supposedly had my driving license and credit card. Yes, but the driving license given was a completely different driving license number from mine and more importantly, a completely different  number from the number Chase have on file as mine.

In short, a person went into a bank of Chase bank in Texas with my bank account number, said they were me, doodled (badly) on a slip of paper, handed over the wrong proof of ID  and the teller cleared out the bank account without a blink of an eye.
The irony being if I went into my own branch - where they know me-  and asked them to give me more than $500 at a time, they'd react like a I wanted a kidney.

(If you're reading this and your name is Lynn Ferguson and you have an account with Chase bank, it's completely understandable to crapping it right now)

So, back to June 2012. the bank 'helped' us change all our bank accounts to different numbers and gave us back our money (which we, pretty much instantly, moved somewhere else for safe keeping).
Though the staff in our branch were embarrassed about how appallingly easy it had been for a complete stranger to clear out our bank account, they did their best not to show it. They told us that "Chase take their security very seriously"
Chase would look into what happened. there'd be an investigation. It wouldn't happen again.
Problem over right? Wrong.

New bank account number. Less than a year later. Repeated $250 charges at Macy's in Texas, (running theme here, right?) supposedly made by me whilst I was using the very same card to buy cupcakes for a school picnic here in LA.

Again WE are have to inform the bank. Chase hadn't noticed. but they do take their security very seriously.

Though they did notice when my husband used his card to buy a a new water heater from Home Depot and denied the payment. That's right, because on Chase banking system, the purchasing of a water heater, in a home improvement store less than 5 miles from your home, is A LOT more suspicious than having a sudden unexpected $750 shopping spree in Macy's in a completely different state, whilst simultaneously grocery shopping in LA.
Chase apologize. They assure me, they take their security very seriously.

So if all this happened then, why am I angry now? Surely, I moved banks or something? I must have done. I mean what idiot would still have an account with a bank after that. Hands up. Yes. That would be me.

So, two weeks ago I get a letter from Chase bank. It tells me they have been informed by the FBI that my bank account details AND my social security number have been discovered as part of a fraud ring that they've just busted. Chase have been advised by the FBI to inform me. And Chase take security....you gottit.
Chase tell me that - despite the fact that it's nothing to do with them and completely and utterly not through any failing on their part, they are willing to put extra security measures in place.
"Extra security measures? Oh why thank you. Surely you put them in place after the Texan cleared out all the cash?..oh you didn't?"

I don't know whether to be flattered or astounded. I've been in the country less than 5 years, have had a social security number less than that and yet here I am, getting a message from the FBI that it's already compromised.
Look at me, Mrs Popular.

But it's nothing to do with Chase apparently. Nothing to do with them that the fraudsters have my social number and my Chase bank account details - but  not any other bank. Chase tell me how bank fraud happens all over the world and just because these criminals obtained all my Chase bank details - TWICE - how can it possible possibly be anything to do with them. They take security so incredibly seriously.

Now I have dealt with quite a few of their staff in customer services and actually they seem like pretty sweet people,  just trying to get on with their day, solve a few problems,  make a living and avoid taking on too big a quota of assholes.
I've also talked a very nice lady from their executive office who looked into the complaint and guess what she discovered?....that's right. Chase. Security. Very seriously.

Except. They don't. Because saying something over and over again doesn't make it true.
(Or else my name would be Mrs Lenny Kravitz  and Wolf Blitzer would really be a wolf.)

The fact is that Chase are so busy posturing about their supposed security, they have no room for accountability at all. When you make yourself blind to the fact that you might have faults, then you never have to look and see.

Just like I was so busy being outraged by Chase, that I started demonstrating on Twitter how it's possible to be passive aggressive in 140 characters - a quality I enjoy as much as ...well as my kids enjoy fresh green vegetables.

You know, it's been a tricky week all round. My 10 year old had to 'fess up that he'd 'omitted' to do a school project that should have been done and he was now in trouble with his teacher.
I told him I was disappointed. that I trusted him and he'd let me down, but I appreciated that he'd 'fessed up.

"I've been an idiot" he says.
"Me too" say I.

And as he sits at one side of the desk doing his school report, I sit at the other changing banks.

First blog of the season.

Felt like Autumn when I got up this morning and I felt guilty.
Because, despite claiming I'd be writing weekly or even regularly, I haven't written a blog all Summer.
In my defense, it has been quite a Summer.

Firstly I got ridiculously sick with sinusitis and the drugs they gave me to combat it, not only didn't cure my sinusitis,  but also gave me tendonitis and gum abscesses to boot.
All that wheeziness and shuffling made it impossible to write a blog. OK, so it didn't affect my hands but...
"Dear blog, I feel crap. That is all"
No, you are welcome. For the sake of everybody, I shut up.

Anyway, it has given me new respect for people suffering long term illnesses. Not just the illness itself, not just the relentlessness of it all, but for not being able to tell people EXACTLY how you really feel, whenever they ask. (because it's generally not 'fine').

I don't mean to be a conventional health batterer, but what six weeks of fearsome antibiotics couldn't cure,  was suddenly and most spectacularly cleared up by just two sessions of acupuncture. I've taken this as a sign that, in future,  maybe I'll head in an alternative direction first and the conventional second. And if neither of those work, I'm going to tell people how I really feel whenever they ask , and pretty soon one of them will be forced to put me out of my misery.

On the up side, because I was too sick to fly we went on family vacations where we could drive. Big Bear - adorable. (Lady Gaga has a house there, which makes me believe she's not really crazy after all)
Las Vegas - where my 10 year old, immediately alarmed, said we had to escape from, because "everyone around us was secretly really unhappy." and to Utah - a place both boys loved, though my youngest informed me was "full of Normans"

There were times of incredible ups, for example I became  involved with the Moth  - delectable people who tell stories. I saw my friend Kemp's first play being performed.  I loved it because it's a great piece, about an amazing moment in history, and because it was brilliant to watch a stage full of real-life black actors doing real, proper acting without any of them having to say  "Massa." We are, all of us, infinitely more interesting than our skin says we are.

I went to New York and had a home-cooked meal with my Auntie Susan and Uncle James, and it made me remember how much I miss my Mum and Dad and how grateful I am for what they left behind.

I watched my friends Colette and Diane deal with the loss of a, much loved, husband and son respectively with agonizing practicality and dignity.
And how friends Cherie and Todd proved, that for a baby to become part of a family, it really doesn't matter who gives birth.

This was the year too, when my eldest started 5th grade - the year before middle school - and my youngest Kindergarten. Watching them both go off to school on that first morning,  I had to remind myself that 'the end of Summer' was not a metaphor,

My youngest loves homework - it's early days obviously, but he relishes it, saying, "I have a lot to learn Mom. I know a lot already, but I have a lot to go." (sadly one of the things he'll learn, no doubt, is that nobody really loves homework)
My fifth grader has a ton of reports to do this year, one of which is to write four things that happen to him each month and how he felt. It made me think of the Summer when I was 10 and how, weirdly, that doesn't seem so long ago.

We discovered as a family, that: pancakes on a Sunday morning, work. Nobody likes getting up for school. Flies in America are a lot more persistent than those in the UK.  Grilled cheese is the same as 'toast and cheese' but 'toast and cheese' sounds better,  and the best way to have dinner is Chinese take out in the living room, whilst Doctor Who is on tv.

The Summer is over, but the sun's still high in the sky.

Raccoon Tennis

It rained in LA today. Just for a minute or two but it rained nevertheless and the feeling was brilliant.Don't get me wrong, I am Scottish and fully in the camp that when it rains all the time it's a nightmare. Even now, the smell of wet dog takes me right back to Cumbernauld in the 70s and the long walk to Muirfield primary school, wearing a dufflecoat.
But a little bit of rain is fantastically refreshing.

Similarly, I was refreshed by the BBC apology about commentator John Inverdale this week. 
Refreshed? Why? Wasn't it the same old, "We're terribly sorry blah blah blah, in no way reflects the opinions of blah blah blah". Well, yes it was. But this time the BBC was apologising for on-air comments made by an employee, rather than for him being a pedophile. 
(I've had sinusitis for ages now and I'm looking for positivity where I can find it - so I found that a refreshing change.)

Anyway, John Inverdale, who is he? He's a British sports commentator who was reporting on BBC radio, live from the Wimbledon Women's finals. 
Here's what he said before the match, about the winner, Marion Bartoli.


"You think Bartoli's dad told her when she was little '...You're never going to be a looker, you'll never be a Sharapova, so you have to be scrappy and fight'?"


Maybe John. Maybe. 
In the same way your mother may have said, 

"Try your hardest to get a job on radio son. That way nobody will see what you look like, and it'll make it that much harder when you say something completely stupid and they want to seek you out to laugh in your face."

Here's a picture of John for reference....just in case.


Look at that. What a prime example of manhood. Why Bartoli's poor, little, French heart must be all broken up inside,  thinking that even though she's won her place in history, and a pretty solid income stream, she'll never win the attentions of such a manly prize.

Anyway, the BBC apologised and now Inverdale's apologized too apparently. Seems he thinks. "She is an incredible role model for people who aren't born with all the attributes of natural athletes."

Ah John. Some sentences you might find yourself thinking, but really shouldn't say. But, thank you for making me feel so much better about myself this week. And for not being a pedophile. (Like I say, sinusitis)

Bartoli is completely over it - and why wouldn't she be? She's young, talented and gorgeous. What does she care about the comments of a frustrated (just guessing) middle-aged, man?

But people are annoyed and I get that. 

It annoys me too when someone who's employed to do one thing, seem inclined to do something else. 
Like when the guy who comes to rid you of your  "Raccoon issue" wants to assure you that your accent sounds much more Irish than Scots.
 "I know where I come from Raccoon guy. Just set the traps and shut your face."  
is what I thought, but didn't actually say - On account of I wanted him to deal with my "Raccoon issue,"  and if you've ever had raccoons setting up home under your home, you'll know why.
(and I've had sinusitis)

Inverdale was at Wimbledon to report on the sport of tennis, not to open his great big mouth and make Homer Simpson sound like a genius.
Just as Bertoli was there to play tennis and not to warm the dark and dormant, front-regions of Inverdale's pants.

The BBC received a number of complaints about Inverdale being sexist. But I'm not sure I agree. Stupid, undoubtably. Ignorant, you've got it. But sexist? Hmmn.

I jreckon his comments come from the same school of "blatant rudeness" as those that seem to crop up about Andy Murray's, supposed, "personality issues." 
(You can bet if Murray hadn't won Wimbledon, his "personality issues" would have had something to do with it.)
I can't tell you how often I find myself yelling at computer screens and radios  - "Andy Murray is not your personal friend. He's a brilliant tennis player and it seems like he might be an all round pretty good bloke. I don't know if he has an odd personality because I don't know him personally and neither do you. Can he play tennis brilliantly? Yes he can. That's all I know."

Commentating on sport  - particularly on radio - can be an art form. Conveying the excitement of a live event, without the need for visual, is a proper talent. Summing up an atmosphere with nothing more that vocal tone and words, is an amazing skill.  
And then there are other forms of commentating ....

There have been calls for Inverdale to be fired, or for his resignation, but to be honest I think he resigned himself a long time ago. 
As much as he knows about sport, Inverdale will never know what it is to be a Bertoli or a Murray. He's as separate a species as Raccoon Guy is to Raccoon.

Raccoon Guy told me he knew about accents, because he'd originally come to LA to be an actor. 
I forced my eyebrows to raise, surprised.
Then Raccoon guy told me that he'd studied accents, and,  He said, I definitely sounded much more Irish than Scottish.
And I nodded and smiled and said it was probably my sinuses.