I’m still in shock that Mary Phelps at Vancity froze my bank account, preventing me from withdrawing money or paying bills — without speaking to me, at Christmas and right before going on holidays until January. I have lots of money and have done nothing to deserve this poor, poor treatment.
This morning (Sunday), I wrote to my bank manager to ask why and to complain — not about the frozen account, but about the lack of communication or explanation.
When I was looking after Rita the Office of the Public Trustee contacted me and said there had been a complaint about my (exemplary) management of Rita’s accounts. I was a true executor of her accounts; I had Rita’s daughter make all the decisions. I just carried them out.
After nine months of living with a legal cloud over my head, I finally contacted a lawyer to be proactive and to clear my name.
I won’t bore you with the details that are depressing and shocking, but in the end a clerk in the Public Trustee office just decided on her own that I was after Rita’s money because I was not a relative.
I loved Rita when I cared for her. And I was extremely proud of the care I provided. I have a rose from her service right here beside me as I write. To be doubted by a stranger with incredible power is awful. That clerk made my life miserable for nine months and I kept wondering, “Why me?” Why did she decide I was “evil” all on her own and make a decision that so adversely affected my wellbing?
I felt betrayed and it’s an awful feeling and that is how I feel about Mary Phelps.
The weirdo who tricked me into helping him and then pulled a knife on me and demanded money, forcing me to drive to a hidden place was charged with kidnapping. That’s what the courts deal with. I dealt with this crippling sense of betrayal.
Same thing for a long time with the Tyrells: Betrayal. It’s the worst thing in the world to experience.
Okay, okay, yes: This blog is a therapeutic tool… On to problem #2.
I spend a lot of time at my desk and this morning I kept smelling poo — my current least favourite thing. I washed my desk legs and my footstool and the floor. I washed the sides and bottom of my bookcase and chair legs and still I could smell it.
Then it hit me: It was Her Highness herself. So I gave her a bath.
It was her second with me and for once, Miss Thing awed me. She was as cooperative as I could possibly want so I gave her lots of treats.
I still smell it. Is it her breath? Is there poo in my nose?
On a more positive note, I’m happy with the way the fence is emerging. (Photo: Previous post.) I want mossy green rocks at the base but I’m not sure if and where I can obtain them legally/ethically. If I can buy Salal or some other indigenous plant, I’d be happy to do that. I want the wood to emerge from something, maybe even dried roots.
It’s Sunday and it’s raining and I have three children to deal with today. They make me hate rain. What’s that noise? I have to find things to do that don’t absorb me so much that I don’t hear Her Highness’ “I need to go outside” whimpers. NO! NO! GET OFF THAT!
I used to enjoy playing with the cats but now Sheba ruins it by wanting to play too. She crushes the feline competition. It was fine when she couldn’t jump up on the furniture, but now she can. I mean, why shouldn’t the furniture get poo on it too? Wanna come to my place?
Did I make a mistake getting her? The cats are really only a problem when I want to do anything other than sit and type.
No I didn’t. I don’t care what it takes in the way of adaptation; I’m up for it. These marvelous living, accepting, amusing, affectionate beings are worth the effort. They are the primary personalities of my life and we have such a wonderful playground to share.
The rainy days are hard but we always find a way.