Given that I have made copies of the check in question seven times — front and back, just as you requested — and faxed those copies to you on seven occasions, I believe something is amiss on your end.

        I hate to be a pain. But could you please stop calling me at dinner time? I'm sure it's not your fault. I know you're just doing your job, a great deal of which is to harass customers right in the middle of the meatloaf. And yes, absolutely, I'd love to speak to your supervisor. Whoever he/she/it is.

        Until then, could you call at another time, such as when I'm not home?

        I made the last three payments on one check, a total of $700.44. I did this because you called every month, after each of the 45 previous payments, wondering where the payment was. You called more than my mother. After awhile, I thought you were my mother.

        That's a lot of meatloaf spoiled.

        I've made so many copies, I'm on the board at Xerox. For what it's cost me to fax you the copies, I could have bought a fax machine. I could have bought Hewlett-Packard.

        I mailed the last three payments at once, hoping our relationship would come to an end. It didn't.

        “You'll have to make copies of the check, front and back, and fax it to me,” Linda is saying.

        “I already did that. Six times.”

        “Well, you know, honey, I get hundreds of faxes a day,” Linda says. “If you don't call me right before you send it, I'll never get it.”

        Honey?

        “The thing is, this is not my fault. This is your mess,” I say to Linda. “Why do I have to clean up your mess?”

        “Because if you don't, we'll make your credit rating dive like shares of eToys. You'll be your own Third World nation. You won't be able to afford a pack of gum. You'll never charge in this town again,” Linda says.

        “But if you send the fax today, I'll waive the late fee.”

        Maybe, Sir or Madam, you could understand my disappointment with your bank. Then again, maybe not.

        But I am wondering: How do you get through a single day?

        Do you mark your shoes “Front” and “Back”?

        Does your front door say “front door” on it somewhere, so you don't walk off the back deck and become permanently lost?

        Because, really, after four years, I'm starting to lose my patience. I'm starting to think of Hannibal Lecter-like solutions to the problem. Does the phrase “exotic acts of toe-curling torture” mean anything to you?

        If you can't do your job properly, hand the crayons to someone else.

        Until then, the fax is in the mail. Please forward it to someone who can read it to you.

        Contact Paul Daugherty at (513) 768-8454; fax: 768-8330.

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