Last month, some melonfarming Cornhusker tried to pull a fast one, using a number that properly belonged in my wallet. The bank caught it quickly enough, and killed off the compromised card, though I didn’t find it out until the weekend. (What can I say? My work schedule for the last several years has been fundamentally incompatible with bankers’ hours.) At the time, I noted that I had an automatic payment due that weekend, which would fail. A call to the merchant the following Monday took care of that.
In fact, so far everyone has handled this with dispatch, except for T-Mobile, which had just gotten paid the preceding Thursday. The next week, I signed into their Web site and made the appropriate changes, which were acknowledged by a text message.
This month’s bill is due Monday the 10th. Yesterday, which was the 5th, the Big T derped out four texts, including two within a span of 45 seconds, complaining that they could not get their money, dammit. (Normally they collect on the 8th.) I was sufficiently miffed to waltz my way into an actual T-Mobile store and cancel the autopay forthwith. (“Fifthwith, even,” as Snagglepuss might say.) I noted with grim satisfaction that their air conditioning had failed: evidently the impending arrival of the Death Star has taken its toll on the physical plant.
There are three annual payments to deal with. One of them is bound to fail: SiteMeter, because it always does. Fortunately, David’s used to my whining by now. The surfer dudes who host this Web site haven’t tried to collect any money from me of late last month, my balance was a startling $0.01 but I’m not worried about them. That leaves one more, and one more potential story. We shall see. Exit, stage left.