So this morning I was all bleary-eyed because Baby got me out of bed at 12.30am, 3.20am, 4am, 5.15am and finally at 7.30am, and what really woke me up was the Visa statement stuck to the fridge which reminded me that I had to call the bank today.
While Baby was sucking on a corner of buttered toast (tastes almost like cardboard!), I rang the bank's call centre number, declined to enter my access code because the call taker always asks for it again anyway, and asked her where the hell are our replacement credit cards and why the hell have they charged us a fee for them.
I was put on hold, just as Baby proceeded to gag on the bit of toast she'd tried to swallow whole and puke up her apple 'n' cereal.
So you do want to know why we haven't got our new cards already? Wait for it...
They're late because they've run out of cardstock with the "wave" design on it, and were waiting for new ones to arrive.
I was spittin' tacks. It was almost enough to distract me from all the puke and goo on Baby's hair, on her hands, and now being rubbed firmly into her eyes.
There was no point berating the poor woman. After all she's only the customer service operator - she's just the diplomat between the rip-off bank and us. But there was no mistaking the tone in my voice when I told her what a stupid bloody excuse that was for keeping our household creditless for four whole days.
We've been promised new cards tomorrow. Of course, I had to choose a new card design - that took all of half a second. We're also being re-credited the ten bucks (leaving the much larger late fee and even more enormous interest fee still to pay).
I'd change banks, but I don't have any money anyway. Damn.