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[Is it Monday yet?]
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I've been so indescribably depressed this weekend. Returning to work is just what I need.
Another fake check surfaced and was drawn on my closed account. So, of course, Saturday was spent at the bank and on the phone dealing with the issue. The bank is going to investigate the check and refund the money and the overdraft fee. Supposedly, any check or debit associated with a closed account will still "clear" if it is made thirty days within the closing date. What a load of shit.
The fact that my name, address, and (old) banking info is being circulated in the ghetto makes me very uncomfortable. I'm going to need to move soon. Who knows what might happen to me or my property if some fucker decides to break into my apartment because my money is no longer accessible.
The landlord finally put locks on the mailboxes; postal workers, once more, have resumed delivering to my building; I no longer have to go to the post office to get my mail, as in the days of yore and yesteryear . . .
My next three-pack of birth control never arrived. I was supposed to start today. Without the artificial hormones, my mind is a mess. I have to force myself to eat as I have no appetite, which, partially, is due to my paranoia over this whole identity theft bullshit.
Thank God, my social security number was not on my checks.
Just when my credit is starting to improve.
If another bad check clears, I'm yanking my bank account and stashing my funds in a locked box under the bed. Yes. |
[Adventures in Carry-Out]
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Apparently, Domino's pizza in Corryville hates me.
A few months ago, Sean and I waited over two hours for an order, only to receive it cold and incomplete and delivered by a young man, who not only was the only delivery person working -- on a Friday night -- but also was just employed by Domino's and was on his very first shift.
So, of course, Sean and I were not happy folks. I called once while waiting for the food. And Sean called afterward and asked to speak with a manager. The female who received the call said there was no manager on duty and that there would be one in the following day. As per usual, we didn't follow up the complaint. We either forgot, or didn't care.
Anyway, last night, I call Domino's for the first time since the incident. And, after forgetting to disable the "private" status of my number, was reminded by the robotic man-voice that I needed to do the star-eight-two thing. So I do the star-eight-two thing and all. I disable the privacy status, allowing my identity to be seen clearly via caller-id, and what message do I get? The cheesy female-voiced "Hi, this number does not work" message following a cheesy chime and followed by a number code of some sort. Let's see: I just called, got a message reminding me that (513) 751-6262 does not receive calls marked "private" and when my number was caller-id friendly when I called again, all of a sudden, the (513) 751-6262 did not work!!!!????. . . well, holy fuck! The asshole!
Yes, boys and girls, I had been call-blocked. My number, as it was received on the caller id, was fucking blocked!
The nerve!
So, with BW3 gone, Domino's axed from my list of edible crap food, where the fuck am I going to get chicken wings? The agony! |
[I seriously didn't think this would get printed:]
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Greg Hand is out of his mind. As a former Adjunct Instructor at the University of Cincinnati [keyword: "former"], I am appalled at Hand's audacity to claim an adjunct's workload and involvement with the University is nowhere near the caliber of that of Full-Time Faculty.
Last Fall quarter, while teaching four English courses at Raymond Walters College, I endured 50-60 hour work weeks, preparing assignments, reading and critiquing essays, and holding classes and office hours. Little rewards were found through unsupportive department heads, outdated computers in a crammed communal office, lousy student attitudes, and a monthly check of $1060 – before taxes.
With the University's retention rate in the gutter, perhaps UC should pay more attention to helping teachers teach, not research. Research is valuable, yes, and should be rewarded, but shouldn’t those who teach be – at least – respected with fair wages, benefits, and peace of mind knowing that attending graduate school wasn't a fruitless fluke and that working another job flipping burgers or serving lattes isn't necessary to scrape by monthly?
See the edited version here: http://www.enquirer.com/editions/2004/07/06/editorial_edlet.html
I really wanted the world to know that Gred Hand is out of his mind. I guess that statement was a bit too much for the Enquirer. |
[Amanda's Closet: Emptied, a bit.]
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Sean and I shopped today, at the mall of all places, and purchased a few items. I needed pants for work; Sean wanted a new pair of Levi's and some t-shirts.
Though my closet is starting to look as if it were ganked directly from J. Crew U., I'm not ashamed. My leopard print / see-through-mesh days are pretty much over. I've thrown various dresses, pants, skirts, tops -- most with Trip or Lip Service tags -- in a clothes hamper and I will, some time this week, take photos and post them either on ebay or on my website, in hopes that I can make a buck or two. I still have a few token "odd" items, those which can (of course) be worn with a standard black skirt or slacks, for a random night out to whatever club that I feel deserves my presence. There are few left here in the Queen City. But, when it comes down to it, a plain black T and a skirt is really all I need. I've never been one to "dress to impress" or spend an evening primping only to hear bad goth music or to fit into some particular overrated scene.
I generally only purchase and don any "freaky" attire for specific events or holidays, and these things, yes, only get worn once -- sad indeed and, most likely, a waste of cash.
Oh dear, how plain I have become.
As I was tossing clothes into the basket, Sean remarked about a green sundress that no longer fits me. I agreed with him that, yes, it was cute, but ensured that it no longer was "appropriate" and put it on to prove that I was a bit too much ass-n-hips for size 1/2. Besides, if it did fit, I wouldn't wear it. Here in Cincinnati, the weather is never sun-dress-compliant for me, as the warmth is always accompanied by lung-choking humidity -- and who wants to dress like a tart for that? Not me. I prefer to roast indoors in a wifebeater and undies.
Sean's reply: Great, I'm stuck in this city and will never see you in a sundress.
I must admit, my femininity has been MIA for quite some time. I'm not quite sure where it's hiding or who should be contacted to investigate its whereabouts. I'm slowly but surely becoming an asexual drone in my xs black GAP t-shirts and size 4 Express "Editor" pants. No room for leopard print and vinyl here!
I need to go to sleep. Enough with my ramblings. |
[http://www.enquirer.com/editions/2004/07/02/loc_clubclau02.html]
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So, like, Cincinnati is so kewl because this is, like, Nick Lachey's hometown! Like so kewl. Like, if you were at Club Clau last night, you are so, o my god!
9:28 p.m.: A woman stops by to observe the proceedings and says, "How disappointing." Maribeth Suprock, a 29-year-old law school graduate, says she grew up in Cincinnati and recently moved back here from New York City. She proclaims the scene "a little bit of a wannabe situation."
YA THINK???
Sorry, but this entire city and -EVERY SCENE IN IT- is "a little bit of a wannabe situation." A word of advice to Maribeth Suprock, MOVE BACK TO NEW YORK! SAVE YOURSELF! |
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