DO NOT BANK WITH FIFTH THIRD

Okay, so that post sucked. See, I told you: trying too hard.

Today I am seething over the recent treatment by our small town bank, Fifth Third. In two days, this crack bank charged my account $700.00 in overdraft fees. While my account was overdrawn (due to an accounting mistake at home) and certainly entitled to be charged a penalty, I ask you: does $700.00 seem reasonable for a two day period?

The reasons I was charged $700.00 is because Fifth Third uses predatory practices:

1. Rather than deny my debit card purchase at the store (I had no idea I was overdrawn), the bank approved it as a “courtesy” and then charged me $33.00 in fees. This means the $1.00 bottle of water I bought for my daughters’ basketball game cost me $34.00. This happened seven times on the first day, costing me $264 in fees and still, I had no idea my account was overdrawn.

2. The next day, the bank credited my overdraft fees ($264.00) first, before anything else, causing all subsequent purchases to go into “courtesy” overdraft protection, i.e. bounce. Again, purchases were made before I knew my account was overdrawn. The order in which the bank processed my account, starting with their own fees first, cost me $330.00 in fees. Had the bank credited their own fees last, I would have only bounced once.

3. The overdraft fees did not show up online, so I was unable to determine how much money I needed to deposit in order to rectify my balance, even though business from the previous day had closed. When I went into the bank to determine exactly what was going on, I got two separate answers from customer “service” reps. The manager was unable to meet with me even though I saw him standing and chatting with another employee in his fleece coat with his coffee cup in hand. [Side note: When I finally did approach him, he said (in his outside voice, in front of other customers), “Yeah, are you here about YOUR OVERDRAFT FEES? There’s nothing I can do about YOUR OVERDRAFT FEES. YOUR OVERDRAFT FEES are out of my hands.” Then he went right back to chatting up his employee.

These fees along with the daily overdraft fees – this all happened over a weekend — totalled $687.00. Also worth knowing: I have been a customer for ten years and have excellent credit.

Okay, so what next? Aside from yelling at the manager’s supervisor until I was shaking, causing eczema to burn my face in two places, and aside from causing myself a pounding headache for two (now going on three) days, I am not done. I’ve done research and found out that Fifth Third is being sued in a class action suit for their overdraft practices. I’ve also learned that bills have been proposed in both the Senate and House that would force banks to reform these predatory practices.

I guess I’ll start with a letter to the local paper. I will tell everyone I know: DO NOT BANK WITH FIFTH THIRD. I will rant on my Facebook account. I don’t know, what else? Suggestions are welcome.

Fun Over at My House

Every time I go to Cosco, I start planning a dinner party. I hover near the cheeses and mentally compose platters. I browse the wines and pair them up. The more I see — bacon-wrapped scallops, fresh tulips, frosted bottles of vodka — the more worked-up I get. Then I make myself stand over by the cat litter and calm down. I am just here for lettuce and red peppers, I repeat – over and over – until I am ready to continue shopping, properly.

Despite Cosco fantasies, I don’t entertain much. I can’t host casual get-togethers because there’s nothing casual about my (lack of) hosting skills. My neighbor Karen can throw a party just by opening a bag of chips and calling a few friends. Her parties are relaxed and enjoyable, consistently.

I, on the other hand, would need to search cookbooks on the best mole sauce, make six trips to Target for fake Fiestaware and get Christmas lights out of the attic to thread through trees. You can imagine my expectations after all of that. My guests had better bring it.

Last summer I tried to host a Memorial Day cook-out for two families who didn’t know each other. I wanted to make it simple. Simple seemed like the right note for a backyard cook-out. I got to work.

I mixed up margaritas from scratch, juicing limes until my finger were raw. I found a summery marinade that needed two types of mustard, and $16 worth of fresh herbs. I downloaded playlists, put tea lights in jelly jars, and wore this gauzy new shirt that I thought said “bohemian” (though my husband claimed it said “maternity”).

When the doorbell rang, I lit all the candles, cued up the Latin music and practically screeched “You ready?!” in the faces of my guests.

You can guess what happened. People were polite, but the chemistry was off. Everyone downed the margaritas in the first 15 minutes, and then sat there looking at each other. My husband kept switching the Latin music to James Taylor. The men decided to eat their dinner in front of the hockey game on TV, and the $16 marinade dripped through the grill, causing the chicken to burst into expensive flames.

Determined to not give up, I dug out out a sticky, half-drunk bottle of Mrs. T’s margarita mix from the back of my fridge. I changed James Taylor to disco and started running through my mental checklist of “fun” topics like American Idol (which no one watched) and first date stories (no takers). Spotting a guest yawn, I cranked up Donna Summer and launched into a reactment of my dance rountine to “Hot Stuff” from my days in the marching band. My guests left early.

I am aware of the importance of just being together, I get it, but don’t we all have specific areas in which we can’t let it go? I, for one, can confidently wander around town without showering and wearing crooked glasses — but I can’t host a dinner party without ironing napkins and choosing thematic music. I can accept I will always have flabby arms, but I refuse to accept that I’m not fun. I’m fun. You should see my Hot Stuff dance.

I’m in recovery now. For my last dinner gathering, I forced myself to order pizza and use paper napkins, but I did put on some 80’s music and this new pink shirt from Old Navy that had New York City emblazoned across the front in sparkly letters. I thought it said “fun,” (my husband claimed it said “desperate”). Still, progress is progress.

The Napping Defense

Often I find I am brimming with new ideas of things I want to do, but before I start any of them I think, first I’ll take a nap. Seriously, I have this idea of a book I want to start writing (after I take a nap) and there’s the exercising I’m going to start (apres nap). I need to clean my bathrooms (nap), write thank you notes (nap), shop for healthy food (nap).

Sometimes even just making a To Do list, I think, warrants a quickie. Making the bed, straightening the sheets gets me all lusty and tempted. Inhaling my pillow makes my toes curl. There are days my husband will come home from work and ask what I did today, and I’ll find myself pretending I didn’t hear the question while quickly checking my cheek for drool. It’s a bad habit, this napping.

Really, what is my problem? Am I that tired by my own procrastination? Daunted by possibilities? Lazy because I can be? When do I stop napping and start doing? Is the nap – or the sheer idea of a nap – the only thing that stands between me and living a fuller life?

Last night I was reading Nora Ephron’s essay “Considering the Alternative” (I Feel Bad About my Neck). In it she writes this: “When you cross into your sixties, your odds of dying – or merely getting horribly sick on your way to dying – spike.” I would have bawled my eyes out were I not soaking in a hot, bubble bath, which makes everything feel better.

But still, I’ll be in my sixties in 15 years. Fifteen years. Just what am I waiting for? This book I want to write. This body I want to have. This relationship with my kids, reconciliation with my dad, place I want to see, thing I want to learn…is that what’s standing in the way of my getting started? The Nap?

Still, napping – cold sheets, the whirl of a fan, eyes closed, body sinking – everything seems totally doable, easy even, once you’re finished. And truly, fifteen years is a lot of time. Time for at least one or two more.

Writing Class – Week 3

It’s the third week of my writing class. I’m learning a lot, and my writing has never been worse. I can’t even write a post as the minute I start typing I start reading what’s missing and how painfully hard I am trying.

I’ve been blowing off my writing assignments, too. I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do (to myself) if I can’t catch up. Maybe, I’ll ask myself for an extension. I just have to catch myself in the right mood.

On the other hand, I have been keeping up on my reading assignments, which are to read as many personal essays as possible. I have a stack of books next to my bed and the library keeps calling to let me know the books I special-ordered are in.

I’ve decided Nora Ehpron is my new BFF: so lovely, funny, and insightful. But David Sedaris…I mean, are there even words? I’ve read him before, but reading him again, years later, I am indebted.

Among so many others, I love this sentence from “This Old House” (When You are Engulfed in Flames): “Like anyone nostalgic for a time he didn’t live through, I chose to weed out the little incoveniences: polio, say, or the thought of eating stewed squirrel.”

Seriously, how does he do that? Duuuuuude.

I have to stop posting now. Even though it’s sunny, it’s like -10 degrees outside and my throat hurts. The kids (who don’t have school today) are in the basement making up a fashion show, using the dirty futon as their runway. I’m grabbing another cup of throat-soothing coffee, and sneaking back to bed with David.

P.S. Ugh — this post, see what I mean? I can’t write a thing. I curse you, writing class!

Writing Class

I decided to take a writing class. An official one, by this woman who has published her personal essays in Newsweek and Oprah, among others. I love her essays, and the price seemed reasonable compared to other online classes I’ve considered. It’s a six week course. The “basic level” cost is $125. The “premium level” cost is $250 and includes “full email support.”

I signed up for the basic level thinking I’d still be turning in assignments and getting group feedback, I just wouldn’t get the “full email support” from the instructor. Apparently, not. I don’t turn in assignments. I’m supposed to just do them on my own, and give feedback to myself.

So I just figured out as I write this post that I’m paying (okay, on a credit card) $125 for her lessons, i.e. “thoughts”, which honestly, I could buy a whole a stack of writing books for $125 — or check them out from the library and spend the $125 on black riding boots, which I’ve decided I have to have – even though this means a possible consideration of skinny jeans (dear Lord). So these lessons had better be good. When I’m done, I’ll review here. That’s right, Teacher, I’m giving you “full blog support” – for free.

Anyway, Tuesday afternoon, I stepped up my usual jeans-and-a-t-shirt ensemble with a black cardigan, a lavender scarf and a smear of lipstick. It was the first day of my online class and I wanted to look good.

I headed to the Barnes and Noble cafe and treated myself to an order of the Cheesy Enchilada soup (two words: horrific, delicious). Gnawing on my plastic spoon, I opened my laptop and got busy with the first assignment: Write a profile of yourself as a writer, 750 – 1000 words. Three hours, two venti’s and one crooked spine later, I stopped at 685 words and thought – okie dokie, that was fun.

The next morning I took my coffee at home, in my jammies. I sat down at my desk and opened up my assignment to admire it again, maybe give it a few tweaks. I read it once. Wait – did I? I read it again. It sucked. I mean, sucked –suuuuucked. What the heck did I write? Of course, I never thought I wouldn’t need to edit (my own assignment that only I read), but this thing was a mess. As of Sunday, I have yet to delete it and start over (hmm, will I get in trouble for turning this in late to myself? – Not sure yet).

But it’s something. I like having homework that’s my own. I like having something to do besides check my blog stats*. I like putting on lipstick and feeling career-ish (oh, so sorry I can’t go to the PTA meeting, I have work to do for my ahem, Writing Class). And the there’s the Cheesy Enchilada soup. But I am still thinking about those riding boots…

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* By the by, I noticed all the middle-aged folks (men) in the B&N cafe who are hunched over their laptops, looking important, are checking Facebook. Seriously, Facebook. They are not doing work, editing novels or completing their assignments for a Writing Class. They are checking Facebook. And I know this because I peek at their laptop screens whenever I walk by. I spy. Aren’t they pathetic?

Paperwhite Therapy

It’s early January and my paperwhites have just opened. My friend Beth said that I should plant them to bloom after the holidays. I say, she nailed it.

Once the tree is down and the twinkle lights are unplugged, winter becomes a daunting test of emotional fitness. But now I have these cheery, little blooms brightening the corners of my rooms. Sure, they might smell a little funky, but so does brie cheese, and who would pass on a warm wedge of that?

Paperwhites are essential for weathering long winters — as are flannel sheets, pot roasts and votives on the fireplace mantle. Beth gave me some in a white pot with white stones. They looked so artful and clean. I felt like I’d just received a pot of fresh perspective.

Another good reason to wait until after the holidays is the bulbs go on sale. Yesterday I saw some selling for 80 cents a bulb. Eighty cents.

That is some seriously cheap therapy. With ten bucks, I might actually make it through January.

Small Town Roman Holiday

My friend Annie emailed me the other day to tell me she had some good family gossip from the holidays. Annie knows I love family theater and that I’m a tad obsessed with her sister-in-law, Amanda.

Amanda is a published food writer and New York fashionista who manically art directs every minute of a family event, which makes for gorgeous meals, fantastic photos and painstaking drama. Any time there’s a family get-together, Annie calls me later and I get a good dose of schadenfreude.

Apparently this holiday was a doozy, chock full of lots of jaw-dropping details. Annie wanted to arrange a time and place to discuss, and I immediately vetoed coffee in favor of a real drink. I wanted to savor every unsavory detail in a cozy restaurant with candlelight and good wine.

We met at a cute place that’s in the center of Jcrewville. I don’t know if it was the thrill of being out on a Wednesday night or the extra boost from having a surprisingly good hair day (according to Annie), but I was feeling brightly festive so when we bellied up, I ordered a vodka martini.

As an aside, can I just say, I love the martini. There’s something about the medicinal brightness of icy vodka and the reward of a salty olive. Plus, the glass – I mean, come on…right?

So once all settled in with my gigantic martini (Annie ordered a shiraz), I sat back and waited while Annie unpacked the family baggage starting with Christmas Eve morning. I interrupted her only to ask insightful questions like, “what was Amanda wearing?” But as more and more information came out (a long cardigan, skinny jeans, riding boots), I started to feel ashamed about reveling so much in Amanda’s narcissistic shenanigans.

As cold guilt sept in, I warmed myself with more vodka. I saw unflattering glimpses of myself in Amanda: the manic need to make everything look perfect, the ache for continous positive feedback – only she seemed to be making it happen. Maybe this was the basis of my obsession. Maybe this was why I ordered another martini.

When Annie’s recount reached 3pm on Christmas day, I knocked over a glass and spilled water all over the bar. I stood up to fix things and got tangled up in my bar stool. Annie’s eyebrows shot up. I somehow pulled my bar stool back underneath me and started to tell Annie that maybe Amanda might not be so bad. Maybe she’s a bit depressed. But I was talking really loud, shouting in fact. I think I even spit a bit.

I tried to climb on my soapbox about depression and what it does to people, but I kept slipping off. As Annie contemplated this, I interrupted her, loudly, to say that depression is ugly and boy, did I know ugly. I was trying to make some kind of point, but unfortunately the point kept sliding out from under me, like my bar stool.

I leaned over and stage-whispered to Annie, “Um, I think I’m a little drunk.”

Annie whispered back “Yeah, you seem a little drunk.”

We gathered our things and left – but not without me stumbling after her, knocking into chairs and slurring loudly about the how much everyone needs a good pssssychiatrisssst.

The next day was a long one, and having two needy kids reminded me that martinis, while exciting, are best left to childless twenty-somethings who don’t have to explain why they need chili fries for breakfast. My head was pounding with regret. But I could learn from it, right? I made a list. To date, here is the best I can come up with:

1) If you plan on climbing onto soapboxes, keep sober because it’s slippery up there and you can easily lose your footing and your point.

2) When scrutinizing someone else’s narcissism, try to stop making it all about you.

3) Try not to judge your friends for being judgy when your own judgement is severely impaired.

4) Oh, and finally – do not yell, slur and spit when describing all the details of your own mental illness in public, unless you plan on sharing your schadenfreude with everyone.

Another Day, Another Header.

After a six week computer-imposed hiatus, it’s like I can’t even post anymore. I’m trying to think of something to write – but I got nuthin. Nuhuhuhuhuhthing.

So I’ll just keep changing my custom header. That’s something, right?

Merry Christmas

Wishing much merriment and peace to anyone who still stops by.
Cheers to you.

Getting Finnegan

I’ve never gotten the whole pet thing. I mean, yeah – I had them growing up and I was pretty into it. But now that I’m an adult, pets = pet hair everywhere + unplanned vet bills + cleaning up poop. And I was kinda optimistic that my poop-cleaning days were behind me.

Once I called my friend Beth to go for a run, and she blew me off because it was her weimaraner’s birthday and she wanted to go on a “special birthday run” with him. I hung up the phone ready to break up with her. What a freak, I thought.

My friend Susan will describe in great detail the expression on her bulldog’s face when she talks to him (which she does, on the phone, in her puppy voice). When she does this, I want to shoot myself.

This summer, however, in an effort to stave off my begging-for-a-dog family, I agreed to adopt two kittens. I actually don’t mind cats. They’re fairly self-sufficient and don’t sniff in impolite places. Plus, they can be cute. Two days later, I was in Petsmart when I spotted this kitten:

I called my husband and told him I was pulling the trigger. I had to have this kitten. The long hair poking out of his tiny ears melted me. We picked out an adorable playmate for him — a cool-looking tabby that kissed our noses. We brought them home and named them Angus (the tabby) and Finnegan (the hairy-eared darling).

Finnegan – or Finny McFinnster as we called him — made us laugh daily. He ran crooked, constantly skidding across floors. Whenever I got on my computer, he jumped up on the keyboard and start purring in my face. Then he’d settle down in front of the keyboard and suckle on my shirt sleeve. I think he was taken away from his mother too early. I think he thought I was his momma. It felt nice to have a baby in the house again.

Finny got fat and messy. His tail got big and fuzzy, like a raccoon’s. We made fun of him, calling him “The Fat Raccoon.” With his massive weight gain, I started carrying him around on my hip, like a toddler. Maybe I should get out the old Baby Bjorn, I thought.

Meanwhile, he just kept getting fatter and fatter.

Last Monday I decided he had gotten too fat and should get checked- out. He could have a thyroid problem or need to go on a special vet-formula diet. I made an appointment with the vet.

Laughing at his fatness, I put him on the vet’s table and told the vet to get a load of his girth. “I think my cat needs a personal trainer.” I laughed. The vet took one look at him and said flatly, “Your cat is ill.” Turns out his fat belly was fluid retention from an inflammed liver. Finny had a disease. He was going to die within weeks.

Two days later, we put my fat, raccoon kitty to sleep. He only had five months in our house to run crooked, skid across floors, and purr on my keyboard. Life feels fragile now. My chest is heavy. I can’t bring myself to wash the shirt I wore to his appointment. It still has his messy hair all over it.

My vet sent me a single red rose with a rainbow card that talked about meeting up with your pets in heaven. Instead of mocking it, I cried.

Today I pick up his ashes to put in my garden next spring.

So yeah, the whole pet thing? I get it now. Rainbows, kitties, puppy voices and special birthday runs — I totally get it.

RIP Finny McFinnster.