The Great Direct Marketing Mentor Shortage
I am fragile. In the early a.m. hours of a Sunday morning in August, my house in Philly was broken into. Peggy was out of town and I was alone, asleep in the bedroom on the third floor.
The perp tried to jimmy a front window with a crowbar. He then gave up and wrecked the mail slot in the middle of the front door, reached through it and let himself in.
The alarm system was not activated.
The guy prowled around, got my wallet and ancient cellphone. I guess he came up to the third floor, saw me asleep and got the hell out.
He could have smothered me with a pillow or beaten me to death with his crowbar.
I was damned lucky.
In my wallet was all the usual stuff—credit cards, driver's license (a.k.a. photo I.D.), insurance cards and a spare key to the house.
For the record, the alarm system is now working fine. The lock has been changed and I put in a second dead bolt lock high up on the front door.
One missing item was my Medicare Card with my Social Security number. My brother-in-law, John, lost his Social Security card. Six months later somebody tried to take out a mortgage in his name.
John suggested I call Experian and report the possibility of fraud. I emailed Experian and received an acknowledgment by mail. Obviously written by lawyers, it was gibberish. I did see they were notifying TransUnion and Equifax. But I could not figure out how long the alert would last and how much money they wanted to extend it for a year or more.
Why do big companies think they are saving money by not using professional copywriters?
In short, the Experian experience was discomfiting.