Gobble, Gobble

So, Thanksgiving is here.

I just woke up at 4 in the morning with a screaming sore throat, a stuffy head, and a fever that's trying really hard to come to fruition.

I'm also a bit of a hypochondriac, so that last part might just be a bit hyperbolic.

When the sun comes up, I am going to pack my bags and head home (after a stop at the doctor to get some just- in- case- my- throat- explodes medicine). I'm going to go back to my hometown and spend several days with my family.

I have never been one of those people who is so close to their familty that they sit in each other's laps, tell each other everything about their love lives, and share views on imporant issues (i.e. politics, lifestyle choices, and what to eat for dinner). My family isn't "close". We don't really do birthday gifts, we've never been to Disney World, and my mom and dad, although still married, do not sleep in the same bed. But, my parents love me to death. My mother is effusive with her love, but my father is reserved in his affections. With my dad, you just kind of have to know that he loves you. And, I do.

To the point: My family doesn't really know me. They might think that they do, but they don't. For example: they think that my affinity for tacky clothing is a direct result of my fashion cluelessness, when in fact, I just don't care what other people think of my couture. They think that my desire to help people is a direct result of my naivete, my "liberal" views, and, as my brother so aggressively puts it, my "damned hippie"-ness. The reason why I like to help people is rooted in the fact that I know that this world is kind of a fucked up place to live in sometimes. So, why bother exacerbating the fucked up part when maybe there's a chance that I can do some good? (Also, helping people makes me feel damned good, so there is a certain amount of selfishness behind the seeming altruism of my behavior).

My brother (half brother; 14 years older than me; on his second marriage) thinks that I'm crazy for not being married by now. He tells me that I "had a choice" and that I chose to turn it down. And, that's only because he met one of my ex-boyfriends and really liked him. Things didn't work out between the two of us, and my brother thinks that its due to my lack of sexiness, charisma, and fashion sense. But, really, he is one to talk. That's another story!

I told my mom that I want to go back to school for social work, and the next day she started sending me job postings via e-mail and encouraging me to apply to them. She must have spread the word, too, because a few days after revealing my plan, I got a call from my aunt demanding my resume. So, without putting up a fight, I sent it to her, to be agreeable. She promptly called me back to tell me that it "sucked" and that I needed to work on it. I did this, again, without putting up a fight, and I sent it to her. What's the point in fighting back against a family member when the person on the other side thinks they are absolutely correct? Even when it comes to matters of other peoples' lives! Rather than fighting back, I will just send everyone a copy of my acceptance letter to graduate school via e-mail (if it comes). It'll take them all by surprise. It will be priceless.

They want me to be successful, but some of them want me to meet their definition of the word. I say, "what about happiness? Can we measure success by the amount of happiness we experience?". They might say that happiness is measured by what lines your pockets or by your success with relationships. That's fine for some people, but not for me.

They don't know me very well. They don't know that when I construct a makeshift centerpiece for the Thanksgiving dinner table out of construction paper, crayon, puff paint, and felt, that it'll be to serve the kid inside of me who still likes to play and who thinks that there's a certain element of charm in poorly made arts and crafts. They will all think that, once again, taste has failed me and that I'm destined to be a biddy for the rest of my life. The people who are close to me, my best friends, would know for sure that my intentions aren't to woo people with my craftiness, but rather to have some fun with myself.

But, nonetheless, I love 'em, and I'm just gonna keep my mouth shut while I'm home.

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody. (And by "everybody," I mean you, the one reader that I have. Much love.) Remember to be thankful for all the things in life that make you happy. And be thankful for being.

Eat it, Wachovia

Here's my Wachovia Customer Review

I have been a Wachovia customer since I was, like, sixteen years old. I have been with that bank for nearly a decade. And they still manage to piss me off.

So, a while back, I decided to open a savings account in addition to my checking account. I did this at Wachovia because I thought, "well, gee, if I ever need to transfer money from one account to another, it will be a sinch." And, indeed, it is. My paycheck is deposited to my checking account, I sign into my account online, and three clicks later, I have transferred money from checking to savings. Just. Like. That.

NOW,

Another "perk" of having the savings with Wachovia, is that, just in case you accidentally spend a little more than you have in your checking, they will just take it right from the savings, no sweat, and you are covered. After all, Wachovia knows that I've got money, and if I can transfer money from one account to another in two seconds flat, I'm sure that they've got some kind of automated something or other that can do it in place of having a human do it when I, oops, do spend a little more than I've got in the checking. All fine and good, except that

Wachovia charges you money to use your OWN money.

Case example: The other night, I went to dinner with a friend I hadn't seen in a while and offered to pay for dinner afterward. When the bill came, I knew that I didn't have the exact amount in my checking account, but I had more than enough in my savings. And since my savings is with Wachovia and since I have "overdraft protection," I thought, "No sweat, I'll just replace the savings that I have to use tonight with next month's paycheck."

Then, a few days later, I saw that that a mysterious "Miscellaneous Fee" had shown up on my online statement. I later got a letter in the mail saying that Wachovia had charged me this fee because I had used more money than was in my checking, even though I had plenty in my savings. Bottom line is that they charged me $10 to use my own money.

OK, so, when I go online and use the "do it yourself" transfer, it takes, like, six seconds. BUT, when a Wachovia personnel member has to move my money around, they charge me ten fucking dollars. How much is that per hour? If six seconds of work = $10, then I'm paying Wachovia $100 a minute to move my money around.

I may not be rich. But, I have been a customer with them for a decade. Not to mention that, given my age and education, there is a possibility that I WILL be rich one day. Or, for all they know, I might marry up and get super-rich through marriage. Not that any of these things are likely to happen, but Ha, Ha. The joke is on them.

I'm taking my business elsewhere.

Eat it, Wachovia.

Please don't give the Bounty Hunter any more goddamned press

Who fucking CARES that "Dog," the beefed-up, badly mulleted Bounty Hunter (for God's sake) used the N-word?!?



If a public figure or a person elected to political office went on an "N-word tirade": sure. Go ahead and plaster his/her name everywhere and blast it for being tied to racism.

Michael Richards? mmmm, borderline important (he was on Seinfeld. Come on). Imus... a little more "not okay" because, for whatever reason, people depend(ed) on this man for their news/commentary/etc.

But, PLEASE, the Fucking Bounty Hunter?

Come on, people. Can we waste our time elsewhere?