This week has been a mixed bag.
In between the strange (almost losing an eye to Queen Elizabeth's Bensonhurst clone), horrifying (waking up to find a $0 checking account balance on Wednesday), and just plain hilarious (I might have to start stuffing my bras) - I'm not sure if I'm going to be happier to see a week end than this one.
To start: I am genuinely cursed and I'm not 100% sure my Ex hasn't sent very, very bad mojo ahead due to our impending, FINALLY final divorce proceedings. Because I still don't think he realizes that making travel plans to meet another woman in Vegas the week of our first wedding anniversary and my birthday was a bad thing. I'm not entirely sure how the word 'friends' could roll off the tongue - any tongue - in that situation. Thankfully, Cake moved that way much smoother than I ever could and I just took it as the four letter fuck off it was meant to be.
Secondly --> So I woke up Wednesday in the flower of health. I spent a wonderful day in the city on Tuesday with the Banana Convention and most especially Monte, a really good friend of mine from way back. We ate in Chinatown in a place where roasted whole chickens hung in the window - $40 for 8 people and it was delicious - and it was really, really good to be around people with my sense of humor and knew what Vernors was.
And at the show that night - which they rocked of course, they were the best performers there - caught the refrains of a band whose opening salvo went, I wish I had a penis so I could jack off and write your name in jizz on the wall. Edward Norton. That was only the beginning of absolute crazy - culminating in the worst band performance I have ever heard in my life: featuring a writhing middle-aged woman in gingham shorts and red go-go boots toting chahkras and entirely too much commentary on her songwriting abilities. It was like a nightmare featuring a third-hand Wilson Phillips (remember the really bad period in the 90s??) married to the only band I have hated from the first note: Collective Soul. Yeah. Since there were only two people standing up at that point, I took pity on them and went up with Monte to flesh out the crowd. I don't think I'll ever truly recover from that trauma.
I actually felt bad for her backing band - they actually seemed to be a nice group of guys. So I won't mention the band's name.
Anyway - at 1pm on Wednesday, I realized that TD Bank had arbitrarily decided that I had the grand total of -$7.00 in my checking account. Yes, that's a minus. This was news to me as I was quite sure there were lots of zeroes missing. As it turned out, someone decided to help themselves to my funds, using an address not affiliated with my account and TD let it through. Wednesday was full of lots of helpful news, such as: We can't do anything about this until the 13th and it will take up to 60 days to refund the funds. And the stellar performance by the bank employee who offered this jewel, You don't have to close your savings account (I actually did, since they were going to charge me an overdrawn fee for something I didn't spend in the first place and I had a rent check floating through the fiduciary system), you can just take a $4 fee everyday you have less than the minimum balance.
I can only say my years of training at the library desk stopped me from saying, "Lady - you are looking at my account info as we speak. Do you see an extra $4 every day in my -$7.00 account balance?"
Huzzah! So... despite having planned a trip out West since the winter for late August, that is officially off the table now. I am really pissed about missing Ra Ra Riot more than anything. In fact, if I ever find out who decided to spend my money, I have special gigham shorted tortures planned for them.
And running to TD Bank four times on Wednesday afternoon - I was almost blinded by a Queen Elizabeth II clone in Bensonhurst. She decided to wave to her adoring fans (i.e. the turn lane traffic) and tested the nailproof precision of my glasses. And, in true Brooklyn fashion, was angry at me.
Sustaining me through all of this madness have been Frank, the Allman Brothers and my wonderful Mam-O-Gram. Love them all. And dreams of moving to the desert --> like Nevada or Utah, where I can forsake humanity and become a gold prospector. I wanted to be a Dental Floss Tycoon - but the U of Montana dashed that with a nice letter last month.