January 22
Heh. Babies are all about Dana...(note: despite how this looks, we were actually having a pretty good time. I'll post more pics at the end of the entry, rather than getting them all out of the way in the beginning. This way, if you're the kind of person who falls all over him/herself with baby love, you'll have to at least pretend to read what I've written to see the rest of the photos.)
I have become an adult. I think it happened when I signed my life away for the truck loan. Suddenly, companies are coming from everywhere, offering me credit cards! second mortgages! debt consolidation! It is safe to say that I am unsafe with a credit card. Not entirely true: I have a much used debit card, tied in to our checking account. It is my savior, my best friend and my deepest enemy* ("What the fuck? Why do we only have 12 cents??"). I also have a real credit card, jointly, with Nick. It was my first "real" card since the Great Citibank Visa Spending Spree of 1991. I use(d, as we have sadly hit the card's limit) that card mostly for vacation-related purposes. Mostly Nicole related vacation purposes. About 6 months after I got added to that account, I thought that I'd try and get another card, just to see if I could, because look, 6 months, big fancy credit card, no fuck up, I'm not a credit risk! Amazon sent a card offer my way. I was turned down in less than 45 seconds. In less time than it took me to fill out their form, they'd gotten hold of my entire sordid credit history (the red flag of DEFAULTED STUDENT LOAN didn't help, probably) and denied me 12.0% annual interest love.
(*A gross exaggeration, I love and hate plenty of people more than my debit card. It can be proven by the fact that I've broken two of them already, just by carrying them around in my back pocket, and the third one is getting a definite crease. I rarely, if ever, carry my friends or enemies in my back pocket, and only sometimes sit on them)
I would fill out & send back credit card applications for shits and grins at the rate of about one a month. Every time, the same thing. Turned down, sketchy credit history. I knew that with perseverance, I'd get there eventually, I'd be NCR. So, when we sat before the car dealer, all full of piss and vinegar, I was defiant about my errant past. "You know, it took me more than 7 years to pay off the balance on a 300 dollar credit card. I entirely forgot about it. There's also the defaulted student loan." He looked back at us, all the while punching numbers into the computer. "I know..." I was all trying to be cool but trying to look at his monitor. "What? What?? WHAT?? What does it say??" He typed in a few more words and leaned back: "Okay, first of all, your credit is not that bad, so I should definitely be able to put your name first on the loan. Secondly, I don't worry about people defaulting on car payments, because well...then we take it.."
I try, and believe me when I say this is true, I try desperately to get the car payment in on time. I leave myself notes. (see below) I write the check ahead of time. I do all of this stuff that would indicate to you, the normal, non scofflaw that it is a bill, and it is ready to be paid. Pah.
In any case, there have been no hulking freaks around, ready to club me over the head to get at my truck. I mean, come on, it has a kill switch that the most astute and practiced of valets can't get around, how would a truck repo-ing henchman goon figure it out?
There was a point to my little story. Shut up, there was. About two months ago, give or take (uhhh...a month) I sauntered into a store. The name is unimportant. I chose a shirt or two from said store, and shuffled off to pay. The woman put forth the offer: "If you open a charge card, you'll get twenty five percent off!" Twenty five percent off? Twenty five percent on two shirts already on sale? Wow. But then I remember: PCR. As I wait for her to process my application, the angry, Christmas shopping lines are starting to fidget. Four torturous minutes later, I feel the evil eye I am getting begin to melt the back of my skull and brain matter leaking out. All this for two 20 dollar shirts? I begin reasoning with myself. "But! If I'm approved! I'll get a 25 percent discount! That's a lot!" Another two minutes. Women are swearing at me in slavic languages. They enunciate hard, I feel their breath and spit and ill wishes on my neck, as though it is my fault and that for this hold up of 6 minutes, the clothes they have chosen, the very clothes they clutch in their angry, sweaty palms might be grabbed up by some howling fabric debbil never to be seen again. They'd yell "But...that was the last one in my size, shiksa" and turn to one another "The nerve on that one, did you see. Me, just standing here waiting my turn. Oy gevalt. And what's with this fatty up here, you think she's the only one in the world needing help? I'm shvitsn in here.."
10 full minutes later, lines doubling back half way through the store, the saleswoman turns to me, ecstatic. "You are APPROVED, girlfriend! I tole you!!"
After shoving brain back in, I walked around the mall all stunned and confused. Me? A credit card? Yes, yes a shitty store credit card, but me? For me? With my name on it? And the purchasing power to buy skirts with dangling things hanging off the hem, whenever the whim descends. A few weeks later, I got another offer in the mail. This one from a respectable bank, with cards depicting New York! In cool colors! Three out of 5 of Brooklyn! I chose the neon Brooklyn Bridge, and sent off my application.
Three days ago, I got my card in the mail. Oh yeah. Credit card people want me and my good name.
And So On:
Today was shitty. I'll talk about it tomorrow. Or maybe I won't. Maybe by tomorrow, it'll have worked itself out. Or not. Maybe by tomorrow, I will have quit. Or not. Bah.
Here you go, baby lovers, Schuyler's making a guest appearance:
People let me man handle their babies because they know I will not allow them to fall to the ground or stick my thumb in their soft spot. It's when they get older, I become a menace. "Oh, man. Im sorry I hit you in the eye with that bottle opener. Please don't tell them it was me.."
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Every kiss, every hug
Seems to act just like a drug
You're getting to be a habit with me
Let me stay in your arms
I'm addicted to your charms
You're getting to be a habit with me