kdiddy.org

mamasaidno tagged me for a meme a few days ago and (in my head) I said, “Oh, sure, I’ll totally do that.” The only problem was that the meme required me to list six quirks of mine and I couldn’t think of a single one, which is bullshit, because I am nothing if not quirky.

So, quirk #1: I forget all of my quirks.

But I was fooling around on Twitter last night and noticed that my number of followers had changed. So I opened up my Twitter Excel spreadsheet and…

Wait, did I just say “Twitter Excel spreadsheet?” Yes. Yes, I did.

Quirk #2:

I keep an Excel spreadsheet of my Twitter followers and followees.

Since then, I’ve been trying to think of other quirks and consider “picking my lips” as quirk #3, but couldn’t decide if that was a quirk or just a really bad habit. It’s mostly an unconscious act, which suggests habit, but the degree of comfort and weird satisfaction that I derive from it suggests quirk. Then again, it’s physically damaging, if only on a minor scale, but, like, at the more extreme end of that scale is something like, say, self-mutilation. And holy shit maybe I should see someone about this.

See what I did there?

Quirk #3:

I argue semantics with myself.

But I have a good fourth one.

Quirk #4:

I suck (SUCK) at math. As in, I had to take College Algebra for Jocks, English Majors, and Other Assorted Dumbasses THREE TIMES. I’m not even shitting you. But I love numbers and the patterns that they create. The Fibonacci Sequence? Yes, please! And sometimes, I’ll pick a string of numbers, say 7285020 and will add up the various digits until I get to a single number.

Quirk #5

I quote movies constantly. This might be annoying, but people always seem entertained when I bust out with shit like, “You ARE the brute squad.”

Quirk #6

I don’t drive. And I’m turning 30 in October. I don’t know if the husband or my other assorted chauffeurs family members would call this a quirk or “a fucking pain in my ass,” but I’m going to go with quirk. I can drive. Like, I know how to do it, but I don’t have my license. I’ve taken the test a number of times but failed each time after my nerves got the better of me and I swore at the DMV guy. (Quirk #7 tests of any kind give me panic attacks.) However, the husband pointed out that I will probably have to figure out a way to pass the test since he’ll be working next year and someone will need to pick up our kid from school. Bah.

So, there’s 6…well, 7 quirks and probably more information than you needed. The other part of this meme is to tag 6 suckers to do the same. Argh, I hate this part, but I will tag Amber, Tracey, Jive Turkey, Black Hockey Jesus, Angela, and The Gay Housewife. Do it. Or not.

I really can’t complain about much of anything at the moment, but I would like my body to get its act together.

Ever-Growing List of Physical Maladies:

1) snarky menses
2) missed a step on the walkway and landed very roughly on a straight leg, which over-hyperextended my knee and jammed my hip. I thought for sure I broke my thigh.
3) sunburn
4) 5 or 6 GIGANTIC mosquito bites. In fact, I don’t think “bites” is the right word. “Mosquito tumors” is probably more apt.

But, I mean, seriously…

And just because:

Dead jellyfish on a plate. Breakfast?

Sunburn achieved. I rule.

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.

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.”

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.

Here’s a photo in search of a caption…

I don’t think it’s normal to open up the website of your ex-bank and feel more than a twinge of sadness and regret and “What could we have done differently?” But that, my friends, is a glimpse into my psyche that speaks volumes.

For instance, do you know how long I had an AOL account? Five years. 1998 to 2003. Do you know when I stopped using it? 2002. I realized that AOL was a complete fucking joke some time around…early 1999 (I’m slow). But I kept it because I felt bad. This also explains why I keep every stub from my movie tickets and why it upset me to kick the soccer ball during gym.

I have all of these FEELINGS, which is fine, but they don’t make a lick of sense.

Like why did I get all excited when I was going through stuff at my mom’s house the other day and found my stub from seeing Clueless in the theater in 1995?

Oh, but I also found a bunch of notes from my friends that I kept that I need to scan or transcribe because they are awesome. (***Note to young’uns: “notes” are a primitive form of adolescent communication that pre-date the widespread use of email, IM, and text messages. These notes were written in ink or pencil on looseleaf paper, intricately folded, and then hand-delivered. See also: the effing Pony Express.)

Anyway. I did end up closing my account at the bank yesterday. It wasn’t very dramatic. They did not want to refund all of the overdraft fees because the whole thing resulted from my error, which was not getting the husband’s endorsement on the check which was made out to both of us. And, you know, fair enough. I do not subscribe to the “customer is always right” school of thought because…well, it’s bullshit. And I acknowledged my oversight and explained that I understood the bank’s position, but previous experience (like, when I deposited all of the checks from our wedding without incident) led me to believe that there wouldn’t be a problem and as a loyal customer I wanted us to kiss and make up.

They said no. I said that I wanted to close my account immediately. I am not a millionaire or a large corporation. But I’ve had that account since I was 19 years old. And the fact that they didn’t even blink an eye about losing me as a customer sealed the deal.

Then today, the dude that I dealt with called and pleasantly let me know that I owe the bank $65 before they can consider us split.

This is seriously the most bullshit break up I’ve ever gone through. I should’ve gotten a pre-nup.

So, tomorrow, I’m going to go down there with $65 and I’m going to feel like Paul McCartney doing it, too. “Here, Heather…I mean PNC. Here’s your $65 THAT YOU SO TOTALLY NEED I’M SO SURE HAVE FUN WITH YOUR EPONYMOUS BALL PARK OH SHIT I MISSED MY BUS!”

The husband and I were cooking up horrible things to do to the cash before handing it over, like rubbing it with various bodily fluids. I don’t think I’ll allow that to actually happen, though.

But I do want to do SOMETHING to express my dissatisfaction and, well, how hurt (but totally not surprised) I am that they don’t even care to see me go. Perhaps I will press my butt cheeks against the glass.

Or maybe I’ll just write them a letter. THAT’LL SHOW ‘EM.

We stopped at the Record Exchange on the way home and I bought used DVDs of Top Gun and Wall Street.

What is most disturbing about these purchases, you ask? Well, that would be the fact that I’ve never seen either of these movies. I also never saw Die Hard until late last year.

I’m really not sure what I was doing in the 80s, especially since I was indeed a TV watcher and we had HBO. And I didn’t drink or do drugs until the mid 90s, so I don’t have that as an excuse.

Hmm. The mysteries of life. At least now I can properly reminisce about when Tom Cruise was hotter and less…hyena-ish.

TAKE MY BREATH
AWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY.

OH BY THE WAY, SUCKERS. I got tickets to see Louis C.K. on November 8th. It’s how I’m helping to stimulate the economy. By the way, The Economy, are you stimulated yet? Huh? You like that? Right there? WHO’S YOUR DADDY, THE ECONOMY?

I don’t know why this post is so disgusting and shouty. YES THEY DESERVED TO DIE. AND I HOPE THEY BURN IN HELL.