By Francesca
A new year can be about reinventing yourself. This year, many women decided to become a whole new person:
Me.
I was the victim of “high-level identity theft.”
It began when I came home from the holidays to find twelve new credit cards opened in my name, none by me. Somebody had gotten my social security number, birth date, and address.
I freaked. I called my mom, and she freaked. Then I calmed down and looked online. I learned I could resolve the fraud in, oh, about one hundred easy steps.
The first was to file a police report. Simply being inside the police precinct made me feel guilty. I felt guilty for being a boring case. I felt guilty for making paperwork. I felt guilty that I had no leads.
If I’d waited any longer, I’d have made a false confession.
I was told to go see the detective on the second floor. Outside of his office was a wall of WANTED posters with illustrations and surveillance shots for criminals of every sort, all in my neighborhood. It was like an inspiration board for nightmares.
Or Police Pinterest.
I gulped and went inside.
The detective didn’t share my shock about identity theft. He waved a hand, and said, “They’ve got such sophisticated methods now, everyone’s social has been compromised. It’s just bad luck that your number came up.”
Go figure. I finally have the right numbers, and somebody else gets rich.
Next, I set about calling the credit bureaus and customer-service lines for all the fraudulent accounts. It took six hours, but I got a better understanding of what happened.
Sometime mid-December, multiple women in several states used my identity to do a little holiday shopping—or a lot—nearly $10,000. They’d open a credit card at a retail store and max it out the same day. On a few occasions, the imposters were denied. Some of the mistakes that foiled these criminal masterminds were: misspelling my name, getting my gender wrong, or listing “Serritella” as my first name and “Francesca” as my last.
Confusing ethnic name for the win!
A fraud representative informed me that one thief, after being initially denied, had called the customer-service line to try to “verify” her identity.
I mean, my identity.
“That one had some cojones,” the representative said.
For some reason it really bothers me that it was women who impersonated me. It’s sexist, but when I think of a criminal, I envision a man, or if I do think of a female criminal, I imagine a woman destroying a man’s property, justifiably so—Carrie Underwood and her Louisville-Slugger-type stuff. Identity theft must be a major violation of the Girl Code.
Hook up with my ex-boyfriend, but leave my credit score alone.
And yet, woman-on-woman crime is so predictable. It triggers the catty, mean-girl thoughts I otherwise keep suppressed. Like when I imagine some chick sticking her picture on a phony ID with my pristine credit info to buy her stupid girl-stuff from Old Navy, Home Goods, Victoria’s Secret, Nordstrom …
She’s probably not even cute!
Last year, my credit-card information was stolen and used at a grocery store. That inspired sympathy in me. It was like Jean Valjean ripped off my credit card to buy a loaf of bread.
These latest thefts are nonessential. I mean, Home Goods?
I’m so glad my identity was stolen so that you could buy a decorative pillow.
Karma says, if you commit fraud to buy a scented candle, you’ll burn your house down with it.
Recently, the detective emailed me a surveillance photo of one of the women using my identity. I didn’t recognize her. I felt bad I couldn’t help the investigation, but I’m relieved that I don’t have con-women for friends.
The woman was very voluptuous. With the camera angle, I was nearly looking down her shirt. Believe me, no one could mistake her for me.
I wish.
No wonder she spent over a grand at Victoria’s Secret.
Even in the grainy photo, I could tell that she was wearing false lashes. I didn’t like that. In my opinion, false lashes are trying too hard. They never look real.
Not that this would concern an identity thief.
But please, if you’re going to impersonate me, try to look your best.
Or mine.