It happens every year around the holidays. I reminiscence about spectacular shopping trips, epic purchases, and gift-giving wishes come true. All of these things happened on my dime, but they weren’t my doing. About two years ago at Christmas, my identity was stolen and I’m still pissed.
I didn’t learn about it until, apropos enough, the morning of Christmas Eve, when I got a call from Best Buy about a credit card authorization. I had received two such calls about three weeks before but I ignored them thinking they were sales calls. This call was different, however, more insistent, and when I returned the call that morning I was told someone had opened a credit line in my name. Christmas Eve 2014 had more to give though, and by day’s end I had two more calls and three letters in the mail—all alerting me to suspected fraudulent activity.
I’ve come home to my house having been broken into, and there’s a weird, unsettling feeling that is similar to nothing else except having your identity stolen. You feel personally violated seeing your belongings touched and tossed around. And realizing that someone not just used your personal bank account but actually stole your identity feels similarly icky. The only semi-consolidation I found was in the fact that I was targeted by a conniving, street-smart, probably tech-genius, wiz of a criminal, who was able to hack into some system to steal my account data, knowing that I had a perfect credit profile. As the weeks went by, however, I was convinced it was more like Beavis and Butthead had accidentally stumbled upon my Social Security number and photo ID.
At least that’s what I began to imagine as the calls came in during the break between Christmas and New Year’s Eve. I realized that this person—or persons—began their spree around Thanksgiving, and by Christmas when I found out about it, they were already enjoying whatever they purchased. And that’s the rub, because what they purchased was crap.
In short, someone got hold of my name, address, phone number, Social Security number, and driver’s license number. What they did was used that info to create a fake checking account, and use my perfect credit score to open unlimited credit lines at stores like Kohl’s, Sears, and other places that didn’t immediately catch on to the fraud.
All in all, I discovered more than $40,000 in fraudulent credit charges or attempted charges. Many places realized something was fishy, but a lot did not.
But through all of it I could never figure out what ticked me off more—the fact, that some steely-eyed thief profiled me, and then used their above-average intelligence to steal my identity, or that they were smart enough to pull off such a feat, then wasted that opportunity on crappy tchotchkes, tasteless clothing, and showy car accessories. This person or persons took the time to find out the routing number of their local bank in Stockton, a city to which I’ve never been, create a fake driver’s license with my info and their picture (which, ew, creepy), and then attempted to open credit at more than 40 different stores.
I mean, if I was going to become me, with no husband to worry about, and no children hanging on my coattails, I’d flit off to Thailand, or take an African safari. Instead, my identity thief wrote bad checks at the Dollar Tree, opened and maxed out credit lines at Fingerhut and Schwan’s, and got expensive rims put on their 1997 piece of crap sedan.
What the heck kind of criminal is that? I thought you were intelligent, daring, a risk taker! C’mon evil me, why couldn’t you have given me a story in which I could’ve at least lived vicariously? Like, why couldn’t you have taken the time to sip coffee in a Paris café? Stop in Switzerland on your way to Macedonia, after a short stop in Greece? I might’ve rooted for you for a while as I contemplated where I might have appeared next: Would the alternate Shelly Cone have made an appearance in Morocco, purchasing an expensive weekend in a lavish room with a spectacular view? Would she have tipped down her oversized sunglasses winked and given the desk clerk a flatteringly large tip for making sure her room was stocked with extra fine whiskey? Or would she have simply given her family an extra special Christmas by taking them to some overpriced amusement park and upgrading to the
VIP experience?
Why did you have to waste my identity on frozen seafood, cubic zirconium, lame kitchen cookware, and clothing lines by actresses holding on to their 16th minute of fame?
If I was brave/stupid/smart/evil enough to steal an identity with stellar credit ratings, I think I’d go grand. I’d buy an exotic pet and hire a shirtless, bun-bedecked hottie to take care of it. I’d get a massage every day. I’d have a chef deliver my meals and a trainer set me up on a fitness plan—that is until the credit ran out. Which it would.
And it did. I couldn’t keep up with fighting off the number of bad checks at Walmart and AutoZone, or the canceled deliveries of frozen stuffed chicken breasts, and eventually I had to put a permanent freeze on my credit with the three major bureaus. After about a year, the thieves were unable to obtain credit in my name. Though even now, I get the occasional letter notifying me that someone attempted to get credit.
So now during this season of thankfulness and giving, I get rejoice that I’ve finally cleared the situation, lament that the thieves turned out to be so lame, and appreciate that I don’t need credit to enjoy buying and doing the things I want to at this time of the year.
Send Editor Shelly Cone letters about what you are thankful for this season at scone@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Nov 24 – Dec 1, 2016.
