kdiddy.org

I wouldn’t even go so far as to say that I have any kind of shell. I have a crust at best and you can easily crack it like so much creme brulee.

Completely separate from my impersonation of a bank this morning, I continue to have issues with my thought-to-be-former bank. Issues that want to cost me hundreds of dollars. It seems that when I closed my account, PNC re-opened it a day or two later so that they could continue their really fun game of overdraft fees. It’s some provisional thing so that if a merchant has already somehow made an agreement with PNC to get money, they can still receive it.

And, you know…I get all of this stuff. I really do. I still think banks are shady, but I know that they have to protect their interests and blah blah blah.

But I can’t just keep handing over money every two weeks. And the reality of just how much I can not do that was really weighing on me, especially after I wrote out my bills the other night. Prices for basic utilities keep going up, food is astronomical, we all know about gas. The only thing that doesn’t seem to be going up is people’s salaries. Things could get ugly everywhere very, very soon.

But I walked to the bank, furious. I resolved that I was going to be strong, aggressive, that I wasn’t going to take any bull. I had the power of Suze Orman in me.

My mom came along since her name is on the account (we opened it when I started undergrad). She ran into a friend of hers there. A rather kooky older woman who came here from Saudi Arabia some years ago, writes poetry about Barack Obama, has a PhD in French Literature, and quivers with the early stages of Parkinson’s. Her outfit consisted of splashes of denim and floral and scarves. Her glasses were huge and were unlike anything I had seen before in all of my optometry travels. They were gold…and red…and blue…and green. They were “Karma Chameleon” manifested.

My mother’s friend told us that we should speak to her friend that she works with at the bank. She silently crossed the room and sauntered into a woman’s cubicle. The woman was surprised by grinned at her eccentric client. We were introduced and I began to wonder if I shouldn’t just take my mom’s friend with me everywhere.

I sat down ready to pound my fist on the cheap veneer desk and bellow out my rights as a consumer, to toss around insults like “fraudulent” and “disgusting capitalist pigs.”

But instead I cried.

I’m a worker and a writer and a student. I am not a rich person. I’m a mom and the breadwinner for my family. My brain and I don’t always get along. I know that I screw up all the time, but couldn’t we please fix this? Please.

The rep was taken aback. She offered me tissues. She looked at me and said, “We will fix this.” I glanced around her desk and saw a picture of her and her daughter. I think maybe she got me.

We went through the charges and determined what was what. On top of everything, there was what appeared to be a fraudulent charge to some vague internet company. But the rep did everything right. She reversed what fees she could and froze the account so that nothing else could come out of it. There’s some paperwork on its way to me but this whole ordeal might actually end…and I might actually come out of it okay.

My mom wanted to stop at Starbucks on the way back and the staff had posted today’s horoscopes by the bar. Mine, of course, warned of financial difficulties. I’ve been feeling like the universe has just been tossing me around, but maybe that was some kind of sign. The universe is having its way with me these days, but perhaps soon it will be open to snuggling and spooning.

If you wish to deposit a check, that will take 5 – 10 business days.

If you wish to stop a check, that will take 5 – 10 business days.

If you wish to dispute a charge, that will take 5 – 10 business days.

If you wish to pay your bills online, that will take 5 – 10 business days.

If WE wish to jack money out of your account, we can do that instantly, 24/7. It’s just our policy, ma’am.

I think I want to dress up as my blog for Halloween. I could coif my hair, do my makeup, carry around a cup of coffee and some yellow roses and then just rig up some paper behind me that I’ll paint brown plaid.

It could work, no?

I don’t know how I would explain that to people, though.

“What are you supposed to be?”

“My blog.”

“Hold still, I’m going to punch you in the face.”

As messed up as it is, vacation really stresses me out. Well, actually being on vacation is fine, but immediately before and after vacation is a really sucky time for me, I’ve found. Next week, we’re going on vacation with my dad. (One of the messed up “advantages” of a divorce is the multiple attempts at normal family activities.)

So, right now I’m dealing with both post and pre-vacation stress.

I worry about getting stuff done around my house and the various projects I had planned for this summer that I’m probably not going to get to. I worry about how I’m eating and the admittedly unhealthy goals I set for my 30th birthday. I REALLY worry about work and making sure I take care of everything there before taking off. And I’m just generally annoyed at the drama surrounding the vacation with my dad, which has opened up a ridiculous amount of issues with my family…over nothing, really.

It all makes me not want to go anywhere ever, which is messed up since I’m entitled to a break now and then. And I can’t help but feel like no one in my life gets just how much I need a break from everything. I need the people who care about me to be like, “Yes, Kelly, take some time. It’s totally fine and I promise that we will not make any attempts to make you feel bad about it or even give you an inkling that we are anything less than completely enthusiastic that you are taking some time off.”

Alright, I’m whining. I know this. I think I need more fiber, which explains this:

The stuff that looks like hamster food is Nature’s Path Smart Bran, featuring 13g of fiber per serving, and the container underneath has a few dollops of Stonyfield Farm Lowfat Vanilla yogurt. Alternative names for this meal are “Hippie Hippie Hippie Patchouli,” “Move, I Have to Poop,” or “I’m 90 God Damn Years Old.”

We’re still all messed up, sleep-wise, from vacation. So you can imagine how shocked I was to glance at the clock last night in the midst of helping the sister-in-law work on her resume and cover letters and see that it was nearly 1:30 a.m. I did a few more things on my laptop…very pressing issues like playing Word Twist, etc., but I was heading for bed.

You know how there are certain business locations that just always fail no matter what kind of business goes into it? There was a Seinfeld episode about this phenomenon and I’m fairly certain that every neighborhood has at least one of these locations.

Of course, in my neighborhood, the only locations that are immune to this phenomenon are those that house the CVS, the Sunoco, and the CoGo’s.

Anyway, there’s an apartment on my street that is always, always rented by the biggest turds on the planet. Every year, new tenants move in, and every year, everything’s fine for a week or two and then the noise starts. There are arguments, fights, parties, crying babies, whatever.

The current tenants aren’t too bad in that respect, but the one dude who lives there is a jerk. He creeps me out. He lurks on the street, stares at people, yells at the husband to turn down music when it’s still early in the day. But after last night, I completely detest him.

He sat in his parked (gigantic, ugly, $500-to-fill-up-the-gas-tank) SUV and blasted…sigh…I have a hard time even forming the word…Creed.

CREED!

God-awful, melodramatic, no-shirt-wearing, “CAN YOU TAKE ME HIGHER?” CREED. At 1:30 a.m. On a fucking weeknight.

I seethed at the husband that if the dude was going to have such horrible taste in music, he could at least suck at a reasonable volume.

The husband cocked his head at me, puzzled, and asked, “Are you sure it’s not Nickelback?”

“What difference does it make?!?!?”

“Well, how do you know it’s Creed?”

“I watch too much MTV.”

“This is like a nightmare.”

“I KNOW!”

After 15 more minutes the husband finally said, “Fuck this, I’m calling the police.”

“Be sure to tell them that he’s listening to Creed. Maybe they’ll get here faster.”

Of course, at that point, the dude turned the music off and, I don’t know, wept over his I <3 Scott Stapp armband tattoo, but I still had a hard time getting to sleep.

So, I went to Conneaut last week…

There were bugs, including this beetle and a flying ant that I inadvertently ate while celebrating my cousin’s birthday. Said ant landed on my chocolate ice cream which I inserted into my gaping maw. I felt a little pinch, which I guess was the ant’s way of saying, “WTF ARE YOU DOING?” I spit him out, but it was too late. He was dead. I mourned him by eating more chocolate ice cream.

There were also bug parts, like this wing that landed on my towel and captivated me so.

You recognize my kid, of course, but the short, drunk-looking guy in the foreground is my baby cousin. He is very cute and likes to cuddle, but he drools a lot. He is the youngest of seven (SEVEN) boys.

I’m kind of over babies at this point in my life, which isn’t to say that I don’t like them, but before I had one I would always go apeshit over them and want to hold them and change them and blah blah blah. Then I had a baby and let me tell you, the novelty of all of that wears off somewhere around 3 a.m. the first night. Now I hold a baby for about 30 seconds and I’m like, “Yeah, I’m good. Here, take this. Is there more beer?”

But this little guy had me quite captivated. It might have something to do with the huge (moist) hug that he gave me. My heart might have melted a little.

Ring Pops for lunch…because we were on vacation and I just couldn’t care.

I scored 100% on “My Name Is Jonas” on the medium level of Guitar Hero III. This may not be an astonishing accomplishment, but the husband and I have been trying to best each other at this song for awhile. I took a picture because he was not around when it happened and I knew he wouldn’t believe me. We have a healthy relationship.

My kid and another of the seven brothers (who will need seven brides at some point, I guess). They look all sweet and precious here, but they were actually in the middle of an epic whinefest that included the longest recitation of, “STOP IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT” ever.

Ain’t it quaint?

I don’t know this guy, but he sat on this bench for the longest time, just quietly taking everything in. I like to think that he stared at those clouds and watched the kids play and reflected deeply on his life.

Or maybe he was just taking note of how hot the lifeguard was.

On our last night we went to dinner at the Stable Pit and Pub, which is this Western-themed restaurant and bar smack dab in the middle of Pennsylvania. It’s very corny and I love it. They have one cottage that they rent out and you can get a romantic getaway package that features champagne service, a Jacuzzi and a mirrored ceiling. I reminded the husband that we never went on a honeymoon, so maybe he’ll surprise me for my birthday. Because what better way is there to turn 30 than in the countryside of Pennsyltucky with cowboy paraphernalia a few feet away? Fingers crossed!

Anyway, they arrange their creamers in this little flower formation and I just thought that was the cutest thing ever.

As soon as we got home from Conneaut, the husband and I headed to Alto Lounge to hear our friend Tony play records. He was headed back to the Navy on Sunday and it was his birthday, so it was all kinds of bittersweet.

Yeah.

This French guy was there and told everyone that he had traveled to Pittsburgh, “in ze canoe,” and demonstrated his rowing technique through some interpretive dance. The sister-in-law found his antics hilarious, but then realized that she probably sounded exactly like that dude during her time in Argentina. “Me llamo Bolt. Yo me gusto Pittsburgh. N’at.”

After we left the club, we saw the French dude approaching random people sitting on their porches. The husband, who had heard all about ze canoe at length, hissed at us to cross the street. Luckily, Shadyside has plenty of alleys that one can sneak through when escaping odd French men. And I think Pittsburgh needs to promote that aspect of our fair city much more.

Hi! I am back from a week in the country with the extended family. The above picture does not really do justice to just how freckled I am, but let me just say that I’m pretty sure that I might actually achieve a tan should I get 500,000 more of these goofy little spots.

I’m also really pimply. I don’t know what that’s about, but I would be really happy if it ended soon.

Anyway, this entry is taking me forever to write because I’ve been away from the internet for a week and it’s like being plopped in the middle of some sensory overload machine while on amphetamines. My current attention span is about…wait, what?…seconds long.

All of which is to say that I don’t think it’s a very good idea to attempt any kind of substantial post because it will undoubtedly turn into rambling about nonsense…as opposed to my usual content which is all linear and topical and shit.

God, I’m hungry.

Edited to add: I watched Wall Street! It was good! Just like greed!

Oh hai, innernets. My grand plans for today included getting up early(ish), making English muffins, writing some stuff for MamaPop, doing all of the laundry, showering, and packing.

So far I have accomplished the following: sleeping until 11:30, drinking a lot of coffee, sneezing, getting a headache, and going to the bathroom.

I guess allergies are to blame, but I feel not unlike crap today. It was also a pretty rough week and I’m rather drained. We’re supposed to head up to the lake after the husband is done with work this evening, but if I can’t get in gear it might have to wait until tomorrow. Maybe we can go see The Dark Knight tonight. I really can’t wait to go apeshit over that movie.

So, during my aforementioned trip to the bathroom, I noted that the reading material that we provide for those persons whose stay in our lavatory is, um, extended is pretty excellent. Check it:

We have four issues of Martha Stewart Living, which I subscribe to but don’t really read because it gives me anxiety; waxpoetics, a very dense music magazine that makes me realize that I know relatively nothing about music; The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Music Composition, which the husband checks out from time to time; that orange magazine is Straight No Chaser, another music magazine; mental_floss, which I love and need to subscribe to; The Boondocks (love!); Cliches, which is a reference book of cliches (who knew?) and was one of the first presents the husband gave to me and I realize that this is kind of odd; 1000 Songs to Change Your Life.

At Casa de kdiddy, you will emerge from our bathroom armed with knowledge that you didn’t know you needed. We do what we can.

Entirely unrelated, but I’m happy to report that my kid has been spending many of his days out and about, swimming, biking, etc. I’m also happy to report that his complexion isn’t as crap as mine, and he manages to tan a bit, or at least not burst into flames like his mom. He does get a smattering of freckles though, which are beyond adorable. It looks like someone grabbed a pinch of summer and dashed it onto his face.

I’m going to go gnaw on his cheeks.

Our buddy Jwan was over last night and the husband mentioned that until the other night, I had never seen Top Gun. Jwan was flabbergasted. When the husband told him that I haven’t seen Wall Street either, Jwan gave me a rather disgusted look. The two of them started going down a mental list of classic 80s and 90s movies and soon everyone in the room was questioning just what the hell I was doing during my formative years.

“Well, I was really busy with ballet and stuff. Plus, my mom would get sporadically restrictive about what I watched. Like Madonna’s Blonde Ambition tour? I taped that and then for some reason after a few weeks my mom decided it was vulgar and made me tape over it.”

And this is weird, because my parents weren’t overly concerned with vulgarity or about me watching movies that were beyond my MPAA-rating zone. But I really would like to know what happened and why I haven’t seen all of Heathers or Platoon and why I haven’t seen An Officer and a Gentleman or Heat or Risky Business.

Jwan volunteered to see to it that I round out my cinematic arsenal, then we got back to talking about Top Gun. I did really like it in all of its cheesy 80s glory. Then Jwan said, “Plus, it’s like the most homoerotic thing ever.”

“Dude, seriously!” I said. “That volleyball scene? My god! I loved that about it. So cheeky!”

“I really don’t see the homoeroticism,” said the husband.

Jwan and I both shrieked at the husband and then I closed the case.

“Dude, Jwan and I are definitely not the only ones who think this. Let me show what comes up FIRST when you search for Top Gun on YouTube.”

Anyway, I will be chilling with the fam upstate over the next few days so this space will be lonely since internet access is sparse (eep!). Don’t have too much fun without me.

Here’s a photo in search of a caption…