"Say my name, say my name'

Sure, I speak Russian.

Most people who know me hear a Russian word or two on occasion. But that's all I speak - English and Russian. I'm sure you could guess in which of the two I'm completely fluent.

So when I call customer service, for just about any company that I have dealings with, I want to speak my fluent language. Instead, I end up trying to comprehend some jibber-jabber from Bholpal, which makes me completely hesitant to even call customer service in the first place.

In fact, when a problem comes up that will require a call to customer service, I first just try to ignore it. What's a couple hundred dollars next to dealing with CS? Just shrug it off and don't make eye contact with that bill lying there on the table, mocking you with such vivacity.

Except, I can't. As a penny-pinching American driving a Ford truck at $4 a gallon, I cannot simply ignore that money that I worked so tirelessly to earn.

The dread slowly creeps into my mind as I look at that credit card statement, with the obvious miscalculation that should have been caught by the company.

It's like pulling teeth. Or limbs.

So to the number on the back I go, slowing dialing 1,8,0,0, palms sweating at the thought of the inevitable argument I'm about to endure.

The first responder is a success - a woman from Georgia. There's a slight drawl in her speech, but definitely something I can understand.

It can't be that easy though, and I know it. She can't help me, so on to the next customer service department I go.

I just want to say "No! Please, don't transfer me!" But I hold my composure and stop short of sobbing before I hear the line go silent.

What comes next is a true test of whether I should own any weapons - kitchen knives included.

"With who is speaking?"

"This is Katherine Blair."

"Katereene Vlare?"

"No, Katherine Blair."

"Oh, Kaverib Plare."

"No. Kath-er-in Bla-air."

"OK, Mez Kaberin Blahar, I am showing of no problems with your account. Have a goot day."

(This is after asking her three times to repeat what she had said because she spoke too fast.)

"No, it's Katherine Blair, and there is a problem. There's a charge on my card that I didn't make and I want to know why it's there."

"OK Mez Blahar, I look into charge. One moment. Mez Blahar? I see no charge of what you say. Do you have de card?"

"Yes."

"If dee card was not taken from you, den you made purchase. Correct?"

At this point, I just want to reach through the phone and shake her until she realizes the logical deduction she obviously missed. Giving me a new last name is one thing, but such a ridiculous inquiry is beyond my capacity for self-restraint.

Would I really be calling if I had made the purchase? Really?

And the question that comes to mind is, if I'm an American dealing with American companies, why must I be transferred to some customer service agent in India to solve my problems? Shouldn't I be allowed to communicate my problems with someone that knows how to say my last name?

The only question getting answered is whether this experience will thrust me into the arms of insanity. Now, I'm 100 percent certain - I belong in the loony bin.

The worst part is that I know I look like a crazy person. I'm flailing my arms about, pointing to the woman on the line even though she's obviously not standing in front of me.

Even my dog, the nervous epileptic who refuses go to the bathroom in his own yard, is staring at me with a look that says, "Stick a fork in 'er!"

So what do I do? I resign myself to the fact that I will get no help through this conversation, and through my teeth, say thank you and punch that 'end call' button down as hard as I can.

That will show her.

I also consider viciously catapulting my cell phone, but knowing that I will immediately regret that decision, throw it into a blanket on the sofa instead.

In my rage, I don't realize how ridiculous I look while throwing my phone into something soft and cushy. The dull thud it makes on impact doesn't quite have the satisfactory ring of something smashing into a wall, but at least I don't have to buy a new phone.

So the next time I speak with someone trying to unceremoniously endow me with a new name, I'm going to take a deep breath and say something wise and insightful, right before I hang up and avoid the whole process.

In the words of one of the worldly intellectuals of our day, Ron Burgundy: "I don't speak Spanish. In English, please."

-------

Katy Blair is an Effingham native and Globe reporter. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214 or katyblair@npgco.com.