I don’t write this to be mean. You don’t read this. Still, it’s a letter to you, and a little to me, because it gets it out in the open. My dad drowned his troubles; my mom bottles them up; I tie them to the seeds of giant dandelions in northern Californian forests and watch them float away. Give them up.

Or at least I try. Sometimes it’s difficult to break the habits of your parents.

I am happy. I am occassionally shocked at this, because, to be quite honest, I do not think I ever understood happiness. Maybe it was the climate, maybe the religion, or maybe the drunken stupor, but I always thought life was misery interspersed with bright moments. Like a storm with spotlights of sun. The illuminated areas appear so bright and perfect. I know better now.

And for this reason it’s hard to be angry at you or anyone for very long. (I’ll admit there’ll be some grudges that’ll be hard to get past at my wedding, but those are deep-down scars that take more than one lifetime to heal.) So, no. There’s no *ahem* “hatchet” (a little snideness here, but, c’mon, shouldn’t such overly dramatic language be reserved for blogs—guilty—and poorly written screenplays?).

Still, there’s this desire to contact you and yell at you that we don’t need your wishes for future happiness. We’re happy now. It’s funny. It’s a part of me that must be patted on the head and explained that it doesn’t matter. One little person in all the world making a back-handed wish does not change anything at all. I am blessed.

Thank you, for your kind note to Tom. I am glad you didn’t write to me. I know myself well enough to know that your name in my inbox would have stirred a flash of red and perhaps a regretted push of the “send” button. Irish blood flames quickly.

But none of your words were ever that deep, and you’re forgiven. My pride’s a lot less brittle. I guess, like muscle memory, there are still some immediate reactions to specific things—like going home turns you back to a child, an old ache turns you back to defensive positions—but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t go away.

And, no, I don’t wish that we were friends. But sometimes I wish that we could still talk. Provided that you were grown, that you weren’t still who you once were, in the way I’m not who I was. But maybe if you were, just a little bit, the person I considered family. It’s hard to let that go.

Hear Del^TM talk in her own voice! Amazing!!! Such phrases as:

• Indeed.
• If Koala’s weren’t always high on eucalyptus leaves, they’d rule the world.
• Crap in a hat!
• Boston is so much better than D.C.
• San Francisco is so much nicer than D.C.
• Snow? But the weatherman PROMised!
• I want an iPod
• I want a treadmill
• I want a cookie
• I want …stuff!!!
• Fucking stupid Republicans
• No really, that’s what they told me. I swear…
• Okay, well, maybe it wasn’t word for word.
• Well, yeah, it may not have been what they said at all, but it’s still TRUE.
• Supa!

I’ve been loathe to discuss this here, because (1) it makes me look incredibly childish and stupid and (2) I really like the bank I’m discussing and do not really want to spread bad things about them…even if they are true. If the situation isn’t fixed in the time I’ve recently been told it will be fixed, I will most likely be starting a boycott and warning others against joining, as at that point it really will be this bank’s fault, and no other. Now I’m sharing because I’ve just had enough and need to vent, also I feel that my story may warn others about the dangers of not keeping paperwork.

We’re going to call the bank I like, MB, which stands for My Bank. It is a large bank. I mean, mega-large. You’ve heard of this bank. We’ll give the other banks different names as I see fit. I’ll keep my own name. The part of Tom will be played by Bill the SugarGlider.

When I left home at 18 to go to college I opened a bank account with the Boston Branch of Acceptable Bank. AccB was the bank my Dad used, or one of them. They had ATMs at my school, which made my mom feel safer. They had a good college student plan, which included an overdraft protection account. I’d never had to live off my own back account, having only savings accounts with SmallTown Bank up to this point, so overdraft was a great thing.

Over the years AccB was eaten up by Fabulous Bank, which, after I’d been with them for two years developed the World’s Greatest ATMs for two months, upon which it was eaten by People’s Insanely Stupid Savings. PISS was the crappiest bank ever. Nearly everyone who has had this bank has left. (Except my dad, who had two accounts with them when he died. I contend that he didn’t feel like dealing with something as ephemeral as a bank account, but the truth was he was incredibly stubborn and I doubt he would have given up on a bank just because it charged him for online banking and continuously messed up on a number of things.) I immediately closed my PISS account and moved to Citizen’s, which had been US Trust, the greatest bank in the entire world. I never had a US Trust account, but if you talk with people who had you hear the longing for a similar bank in their voice. They talk about it like someone who’s died, like a brother. I feel for the people who had a US Trust account, they will never be satisfied with another bank again. (Of course, this could just be the people I know, I’m sure every bank has it’s downside.)

This is where the lesson comes in. I never kept the paperwork for closing my PISS account. I’m sure I kept it for a little while, but I got rid of nearly all of my paperwork when I moved from Boston to San Francisco. Never do this.

Because now, 4 years from leaving Boston, and, to my recollection, 5 years from closing my PISS account, PISS has come back from the dead to screw me over.

My credit report has taken a dive. Not for any of my doing, but because when PISS was sucked up by MB they decided that that overdraft account was overdrawn. I’ve seen no information stating that it was, only heard from MB that they took money from the overdraft account to pay for an overdraft from the PISS checking account. This is information I got in November, when I asked for all of the information to be sent to me. I was told it would be, only the people who told me this never informed the people who would be sending me the information. This is an oversight I can forgive, or at the very least overlook. I mean, it could just be the single person.

Y’know the bits in TV shows (I’m thinking particularly of a Dharma and Greg episode I watched while sick where Dharma tries to fight city hall on some bill) where a character is sent up and down from one floor to the other until finally she is sent back to the original person, creating an effective loop preventing any information from being shared? This is what happened. And when you see the loop form, or rather hear it on the phone, there is no hotter fury that can burn in your heart. My Bank set this loop and then sat back as I ran through it over and over again in November, and again in January, when I spoke with them at the beginning of the month. They claim that no one knows what they’re doing because PISS was such a poor bank. And I can accept that. I’ve had other problems with MB that were solved quickly, that took no effort on my part at all. Customer service, until now, really did seem to serve the customer. PISS, well, maybe it infected MB.

Only that week in January, I was told I would receive a call back, and this one woman was so rude to me she made me cry, and they didn’t seem to understand that all I wanted was proof that I owed this money. I wanted to see the bank statements that never found me, though I’m sure I gave them my new address when I moved (remember kids, Save Those Documents). I never received the call. Each time I’ve been told someone would contact me, or that they’d have an answer if I’d call back in a week, aside from one key individual whom I will worship as a saint for days, I’ve never heard back or I was unable to contact the person who said they’d have an answer. This seems odd to me.

And, y’know, I paid the contested amount when I first heard of it. Because I was afraid this would happen, and I need to apply for a school loan every three months. If this dragged on and I hadn’t paid, that would be longer for my credit report to be awful (I’m currently contesting the credit rating without MB’s help), and for me to be denied loans. I’m wondering if my not paying, however, would have put the impetus on them to show proof. Maybe then they would care at least a little. It’s just, it wasn’t a huge amount, and I worried that MB would eat me up, just like it ate PISS and PISS ate FB and FB ate AccB. That’s what seems to happen with banks. They eat you.

And these are the dreams I’ve been having, running around naked (because of course I just gave a presentation in school), with only my paint supplies to defend me, trying to ward off this huge conglomeration that’s grinning, “But Del, we’re your BANK, we support you. We make your money do things.” It’s pointy teeth drip change and the sweat of the working man. The fork in its hand is made of gold. Sometimes I trip and it eats me and I’m left talking with my telephone about why I need to dial a new number. Other times I get my money and shove it under my bed and yell at it “There’s your interest! Make money off of me now!”

I’m at a loss for what to do, aside from being extra careful that I keep all correspondence regarding changing addresses and closing accounts, and calling as often as I can to get this information. Originally I’d been told that once I had the information I’d be able to go into any MB branch and get the my money back (another funny thing is that I was told if I went to an old PISS branch they’d be able to pull up my statements, though the customer service computers aren’t hooked up to these files the old PISS branches are — this is funny because PISS was only in MA, and I’m in DC and no matter how often I say this — to the same person — no one seems to understand I’m not going to drive to MA for PISS) and at that point they’d recind the bad point on my credit rating report.

And I need that money. I’m broke. (Hi, have we met? I’m a college student, living with my grad-student fiance.) But more than that I need to not have points on this stupid little paper (I guess, now, it’s more of a bunch of computer bits).

And how can I prove I don’t owe this money? In 2002 I was afraid that someone had gotten ahold of important identity information. I got my credit report and stopped credit card companies from allowing me to get credit cards without specific proof. I kept that paper, and it shows that I owed no money to either the PISS checking or PISS overdraft accounts. Not knowing that the account was still opened I never touched it. Erego: I don’t owe them money. But, as we all know, this isn’t proof. You can’t prove that you DIDN’T do something. Only that you did.

Tomorrow I’ll be calling them back for another round of Pop Goes the Weasel. The Weasel represents my Brain. The Mulberry Bush is my belief in MB. “Fun” really means to the immense pain of its customers and it’s own enjoyment at their suffering. And of course, the Monkey is My Bank. My own fucking Bank. These days really make me feel valued as a customer.

If we had money and time I’d run out to see them. But now it just seems so decadent. Still, it makes me sad that I haven’t seen a single best picture nominee. I feel left out. So I’m going to have an Lucinda party on Oscar night. I will boycott the Oscars on the belief that movies cost too much in human hours and money (no, I don’t really stand by this belief, it’s just popular at the moment, so I’ll go along with myself). I’ll read books, or maybe I won’t, maybe I’ll boycott all forms of modern day amusement, and instead sit and watch the paint dry.

Because, like all of my relationships, it seems. Oscar and I’ve grown apart, and I’m too ashamed to come crawling back. Or perhaps I’m too proud. Maybe someday I’ll miss him so much that I’ll stop my Lucinda Party. I’ll google his name to see if he’s changed his email address. “Oscar,” I’ll write, “I’m sorry I left you. I’ve thought of you often. I wish we could just be friends again, like we once were. You could make your Billy Crystal jokes, and I’d make for you some popcorn. And we’d just sit together and enjoy the movies. Just like we once did.”

Only it would sit in my email drafts folder for a week. I wouldn’t send it. I’d be afraid he’d laugh, or wouldn’t write. It wouldn’t really be so bad, if only he’d write. It’s the silence that’s sad. If I did send it, apologizing for how I yelled at him when, during my heartache, he still awarded the wrong people, and he didn’t write, for years I’d wait for his letter. Every day I’d think he might come back into my life, no matter how hopeless it seems.

Maybe I’ll be lucky. Maybe Oscar is reading this as I write. Maybe he’ll write to me in a comment. “Del,” he’ll write. “I know you were a moron, but it seems you’ve changed. Maybe we can just be friends. Maybe, if you promise not to yell and throw things at me this year, we really can just sit, and enjoy the movies.”

That would be the best day of my life. ‘Cause, seriously, I miss the old days.

In other news I’m learning that I’m the reason the Democrats will not ever take power again. At the museum we had a number of people from the numberous parties of last night, all these people with W buttons and little kids with buttons the size of their little fists depicting Bush’s head. I spent the entire day dealing with rude visitors, which isn’t anything new.

But, you know when the Yankees beat your team (or when the Red Sox beat Yankees if you’re a Yankees fan…though you tend to not care that much, cause, quite frankly, you’re a Yankees fan and you know it’s just a fluke), and the next day it seems like all these people being mean to you are wearing Yankees (or Sox) hats? It felt like that, only worse, because I’ve had too many (Republican) people in this area tell me that they don’t like me because I like girls, like, like girls, and too many (Republican) people tell me that because I believe it’s my right to choose to have a baby or not to have a baby I’m going to hell (even if I don’t believe in hell). And quite frankly, to me, that’s a lot worse than telling me that my baseball team sucks.

And the whole day, with people yelling, “I can’t hear a word your saying,” instead of saying, “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you,” or, “Could you please repeat that,” and people seeming to be even more stupid than normal (yes, I do admit that it really only SEEMED that way), it occurred to me that one of these huge-cross-wearing, Bush supporters could come in and say, “Y’know, that Hero sure was a great movie.” And I’d come up with a reason why they couldn’t POSsibly know what they’re talking about.

Because these things they are so against, they’re ME. These are things that I’ve done. Not things that I believe are important, but things that define who I am. And they are saying that I am wrong. That I am evil, that I should not be allowed. Yeah, now I’m appearing normal, but what the hell does that mean, that on the outside, because I’m getting married and acting all breeder-y, that suddenly I’m not who I’ve always been underneath?

And it is (truly) hard to remember that it isn’t all of them. It’s hard to remember that some people voted for Bush for other reasons, that some people believe that this thing in Iraq is being run properly, and not that God is going to watch over the country if he’s president.

But this thing, this belief that who I am is a bad person (and yes, y’know, it’s not just me, there are others who have a much bigger beef with all this, but as this is MY website, set up to let ME talk about myself — go Narcisist Jo — I’m telling you about why I personally had a problem) is making me mad. And it’s making me feel guilty. And it’s making me very intollerant of these people.

And so, I think I need to do something about it. But I’m at a loss. The only true conservative I can stand at all makes me want to hit him whenever he talks about these issues. But how do I convince myself that people who believe these things are not evil, and don’t think I’m evil? I mean, they’ve never even met me, or my gay friends.

Anyway, I feel like I don’t respect the portion of the country that voted Republican in this last election (because if you don’t accept me, well, you’re STUPID, I’m freaking AWESOME, also they don’t respect me and my decisions). And I feel as if I’m not the only one who doesn’t respect them, though this may only be because of the TV I watch and the friends I have. If you don’t respect the people you want to believe in you, you won’t have much luck.

That’s my little (or rather long) rant on today at work. I’m still hoping that at some point there will be a man (woman, ever? please?) that I actually want to have as my president, instead of just having someone I want to win, because I think the other man shouldn’t. That’s all.

And Little Miss Never-Asked-to-Dance, a.k.a. Yours Truly, was the first one picked to be stomping on toes. :)

My sweetlings, I’ve been quiet. And last night I saw Ani. And Ani always makes me feel like I’m always quiet, that I don’t speak up enough, that the things I’ve to say are important. And… well, my goodness. Dan Bern opened.

Dan Bern, who is phenomenal. Dan Bern, who makes me want to jump and laugh and listen to this song (go. now. listen to this song) over and over and over again, and who makes me want to call up Milo Milo and apologize for being selfish (Chris, I’m sorry), and oh, well, my goodness.

And the crowd made me remember who I used to be, and how unsure of who I am now, and how much I’ve changed. How I’m trying to fit back into someone’s idea of me, and I don’t really know who’s it is, but I’m not sure that it isn’t mine. When did I stop writing? This week I’ve made people laugh with sarcasm, and I’d forgotten how to use it. It’s like getting back onto a bicycle and sometimes I mess up and people look at me like I’m crazy, but you know, it’s fun. I’m sick of being this blob, this generic person existing in the world, but I don’t remember how to jump back into my body.

Does anyone else ever feel this way? Like you’ve lost the keys to yourself and know that you left your mouth running and the lights on, but the lock pick won’t be back for an hour. You stare into your eyes and watch as your autopilot just makes a mess of new situations. No? Okay. That’s fine.

The guilt’s washing away slowly. Everytime I do something wrong, against the rules, or generally not nice (like yelling at the guy in Michael’s today because he told me I don’t speak loud enough) it comes back to me that the only moment in my life that really mattered (so far), when I was on the phone with my mom and she was telling me to wait until morning to take the train, I thought “well, good, I can get some sleep.” And I could have spoken to my dad if I’d just gone on instinct. No. It’s still there. But a little more goes away every so often.

I miss him. I still think I’ll be able to talk to him when I call home. My mom’s just going through his bureau to donate his old clothes. I had a dream weeks ago where I finally admitted he was dead. I don’t know why that matters.

But I haven’t been speaking of it. Through being busy, or thinking that no one would get it, or thinking that people would just turn around to say that, Yes, I’m right, I am selfish, it’s kept me silent.
Maybe I really need to start getting to more concerts.

P.S. Don’t forget to vote. If you don’t vote you can’t complain to me about the state of things. And I don’t care if you write someone in or vote for Nadar (as long as you realize it won’t HELP get Bush out of office).

The thing I think is wierd, and that I really don’t like, is that my horror-daymares run in rather graphic movies.

I don’t trust other people. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before. You can run your mouth as much as you like as to the reasons why, I’m well aware of them, but it won’t change the fact that I don’t trust other people. I don’t believe that others really have the capacity for sane judgement. This lends itself to really really crazy moments in my head’s movie reel.

For example: We drive on the highway and there is a woman putting lipstick on while going faster than us. Then, while in front of us (after passing on the right), she slows down, for no aparent reason. And for the entire time all I can do is see over and over again, in slow and fast motion, her slamming on the brakes for no reason, and us going through the windshield.

I see myself tumbling down the escalators at the metro because someone has gotten pissed at me/is not paying attention to their bag/get’s their shoelace caught in the bottom and everyone on it goes tumbling forward. (Thank my mom for this one, when she visited she wouldn’t shut up about it.)

Terrorists may scare most people when they fly, me, I’m afraid that the airline pilot just doesn’t really feel like giving it his all tonight. So what, he says, if I read this magazine instead of fly the plane, I’ve phoned it in before…

I fear that the deli man didn’t wash his hands, that noone really smelled the milk before putting it in my coffee, that the guy who changed our windshield used the crappy glue which will make it come flying off.

And each scenario is accompanied by three or four little vingettes of HORROR. Many end with little shards of glass flying into my eyes.

The problem is, every time I begin to feel a little better someone does something stupid. I won’t go into the personal things that happen to those I love which make me want to spit down people’s throats… but other examples: The day we moved we found the car with a smashed windshield. There were footsteps on the hood. Someone had stood on the car and smashed in the windshield. And not just our car, but every fifth car for the entire street. Like, how do you believe that everyone isn’t just out to get you.

Pronunciation: &-’tur-ist

Function: transitive verb

Etymology: 20-something Delilah mix of accost from the Middle French accoster, ultimately from Latin ad- + costa Rib, side and tourist

:to cause (one would hope) unintentioned lateness or other minor (and occasional major) problems due to the boobery generally associated with being on vacation.

Example usage: I was atouristed by a group from the midwest on the escalator and watched my train pull out three seconds before I reached the door.

–more at boob