Me and my bad-a** parking sticker

So today was orientation for my new job.....ya know, I was gonna write this really long and amusing post about some other stuff too, but I got up at 5 AM today and I am no longer a fully functioning individual. So I'm gonna get straight to the point instead.

At the end of the day, I was realllllly excited about driving off the hospital campus, because today I received A) my parking sticker and B) my employee ID badge. And guess what. Employees. Park. Free. (Insert excessive celebratory dance here. Hey. It's the small things, am I right??) So when you drive off the main campus, the attendant looks for the little sticker on your windshield and then pushes the button that raises the long arm so you can drive through, releasing you into the world. That was SO gonna be me today. Except.

Except I decided to drive off the hospital campus going the BACK way instead. And apparently, the rules are a little different going the back way. I drove confidently to the gate and patiently waited while other people forked over their precious dollars to pay for parking. When it was my turn, I cruised triumphantly forward, anticipating the victorious raise of that long bar, just waiting for that delicious moment to happen. Look at me and my bad-a** parking sticker. And I waited........and waited. And nothing happened. Suddenly I heard shouting. I dumbly looked toward the attendant on my left, who was trying to get my attention. I unrolled my window and heard her say..."You HAVE. To SWIPE. Your BADGE." I rather intelligently responded with "Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh....where?" She points to a place somewhere behind me. Oh. For the love of crap. And of course, of COURSE, there is now a line of cars behind me, waiting for the dumb new girl to get out of the way. So I threw my car into park, slunk out of my seat, and shuffled the walk of shame to that space somewhere behind me where indeed, I was required to swipe my badge in order for that long bar to release me into the world.

In my case, that bar should have stayed down, down, down. I was clearly in no way ready to be released.

I made my own "You know you're...." list.

My carefully comprised first volume of "You know you're a nursing student when..." is finally available for the low, low price of...well...nothing. *cough* I do accept monetary donations, however. Sooooooooooooo. Without further ado, here it is.

1) Instead of typing the word "with", you look for the "c" with the little line over it.
2) In spin class, the guy on the bike next to you who doesn't have a water bottle becomes "at Risk for Deficient Fluid Volume". This happens everywhere.
3) Conversations about bodily functions/fluids with your nursing school friends are not only accepted, but expected; and followed-up by additional clarifying questions.
4) Your nursing school friends are more like family. You cry with them, you laugh with them, you agonize about the side effects of diuretics, ACE Inhibitors and Anticholinergics with them.
5) You've taken a multiple-choice test with 4 correct responses and have chosen the MOST correct response. 
6) You think of your previous stellar GPA with a hysterical little giggle, mentally lower your standards, and get excited when you score above the 75% needed to pass. 
7) The clinical uniform you were once really excited about wearing one day...becomes your most dreaded nightmare of polyester-starched, itchy-sweaty awfulness that is stripped off your body the nano-second you step inside your front door after clinical.
8) You're in the school cafeteria and ask someone politely to move their bag so you can roll your wheelie-backpack between 2 tables, and a young whippersnapper says to you "Wouldn't it be easier to PICK UP your backpack?" And you sweetly retort "How about YOU come and PICK UP 50 pounds of nursing school textbooks?" He says nothing.
9) If you could somehow manipulate the lab equipment to begin an IV infusion of coffee, you would TOTALLY do it.
10) Your vocabulary expands momentously to words you never thought to hear in conversation, but now roll off your tongue like you were born to say "I'm feeling tachycardic and diaphoretic about this exam!"

The Incident Involving the Dead Chicken

My sister sent me a really yummy-looking recipe that called for a whole chicken to be rubbed all over with spices and stuffed with a quartered lemon. Here it is: http://www.thelittlekitchen.net/2011/02/03/whole-chicken-in-a-slow-cooker/ (See? I can be a helpful blogger!)

Since I am ALL ABOUT easy recipes, I decided to make it. However, after this morning's ensuing fiasco, I have comprised a list of reasons that left me with this conclusion: I wouldn't survive half a New York minute on a farm. "Aw, Kris, I thought you were a tough girl." I AM TOUGH. AS PUDDING. Now, the chicken in this recipe was, like, a WHOLE chicken. The kind with a bag of quivering giblets in it. And the neck stuffed inside of the chicken's body, looking like some kind of awkward, inside-out....phallic...body part. For the record, chickens that are dead and have no feathers...are kind of freaky looking. They're all pale and headless with their awkward little wings. So yeah. Here's why I'm probably never going to be able to make this again, even though it was, like, the best meal I've made in a really long time. (As in, the last week.)

1) After nearly forgetting how many days the chicken was thawing in the fridge, I decided at 8 AM this morning that I absolutely MUST make this chicken today. And I only have 7 minutes to do the prep work. Lucky for me, hubs was willing to accommodate and assist my whirlwind preparations. MY HERO! (He insisted I put the hero part in the story. And it's true.)

2) As hubby rolls up his sleeves and plops the chicken in the sink to rinse it and pull out the *gag* giblets, and *double gag* cut off the *shudder* chicken's neck, I realize we are wearing twin faces of revulsion.

3) Hubs plops the rinsed corpse onto a plate so I can pat it dry with some paper towels. As I move my hands toward the pale carcass, an alarm in my head starts clanging. DO NOT <clang> TOUCH <clang> THIS <clang clang clang> NASTY SLIMY THING. My hands immediately retract. I try to go for it again. My hands again retract. Hubby laughs. I concentrate harder. CLANG CLANG CLANG.

4) After I somehow managed to survive the horror of patting the chicken dry, I then had to rub garlic and spices all over it. Essentially, giving the chicken an all-over body scrub-slash-massage. I got through this part with just a  few dry-heaves and with shrieking kept to a quiet minimum.

5) After I used barbecue tongs to jam the quartered lemon pieces inside the dead beast, (I refused to put my hand inside that thing) I needed to transfer the chicken to the crockpot. There's no easy way to complete this task except by just picking it up and putting it in the crockpot. Simple, right?

6) I grabbed the chicken, holding it at arms-length, hauled it up, gag-screamed, and practically threw it into the crockpot. The memory of the bones mushing all around under my hands haunts me hours later.

Ironically, I can have the most horribly gross conversation while eating a meal and not be even slightly fazed. However, somehow, the thought of a naked, floppy, goose-bumpy chicken was enough to make me act like a total side show. Well, at least hubby was amused. I'll close this little story with a heart-wrenching clipperoo of our g-chat conversation later in the day:

 Chris:  dinner will be yum yum.  :-)

 me:  I hope.

 Chris:  That was fun making it this morning. You are hilarious

 me:  It was a disaster

 Chris: it was insanely fun. you were so utterly appalled by handling the chicken, and you were like whirlwind x10

 me:  hahaha

 Chris:  your life brings endless joy to my life

 me:  did you tell your coworkers?

 Chris:  nah. Your aversion to touching a chicken is my little secret

The Whirlwind

Sometimes while I am doing stuff around the house, I'll hear hubby suddenly start laughing to himself. "What are you laughing at?!" I respond, resenting the whine I hear in my voice, already knowing exactly WHAT he is laughing at. It's me, of course. You see, dear reader, I have a problem. And admitting the problem is the first step to....oh, heck. Screw it. I refuse to change! REFUSE! I am a REBEL! A wild and free warrior princess who rules her castle with an iron fist! (Oh my gosh, hubby married a nut-job. Too bad for him he didn't figure it out until after he said "I do". HA! And now he's stuck!) Well, at least my cooking's pretty good. Minus the recent incident whereby a cup of brewed coffee grounds ended up in a recipe that called for brewed coffee. Not coffee GROUNDS. What. In the heck. Was I thinking. It actually wasn't that bad, if I ignored the little grainy bits that kept getting stuck in my teeth. Yum! Coffee ground sludge. Hey, it builds character. (Isn't that what moms are supposed to say after something highly unpleasant happens to their kid? "MOM, Johnny gave me a wedgie in the bathroom at recess, and then he did a flushie on me." What's a flushie, you ask? It's where some big bully with armpit stains and dried boogers on his collar turns you upside-down over the toilet and dunks your head in the water and then flushes, laughing gleefully like an evil troll, and then drops you and steals your lunch money. Oh, honey, it's all right...it builds character. I'll tell you where you can take your character. My soaking-wet toilet-water head non-lunch money wedgied self does NOT induce CHARACTER-building!)

Well, now that I've gotten THAT out of my system, back to the problem at hand. That is, the side of my personality that we shall forevermore refer to as, simply, The Whirlwind. The object of hubby's laughter. I may have mentioned it in a previous post, but when I start doing something, like cleaning up around the house, suddenly it becomes extremely important to start a chain of events that absolutely MUST be completed RIGHT THEN AND THERE. I can't just put away a pair of shoes and then sit back down and relax. Oh no. That would make too much sense. I put away the pair of shoes, and then reorganize the shoe rack, spot a leaf on the floor in the living room, sweep the living room, then since the broom is out, sweep the kitchen. Notice a cup on the counter, put it in the dishwasher, run the dishwasher, the sink looks dirty, OH MY GOSH I HAVE TO CLEAN THE SINK RIGHT NOW, WHERE IS THE BLEACH? IT'S IN THE LAUNDRY CLOSET. Go to laundry closet, get the bleach out; crap, there's a load of laundry that needs to get done, start the washing machine. Walk away from the washing machine, spot dust on the dining room table, wipe it off. Wait, why I am I holding a bottle of bleach? OH. YES. The kitchen sink. (I promise, I am not this insane when I am not The Whirlwind.)

Today, I made the irrational mistake of wandering into The Pit, a.k.a. hubby's office a.k.a. the spare bedroom. Sometimes I pretend in my head that hubby is like Pig-Pen from Peanuts, a cloud of dust and disaster following wherever he goes. In case he's reading this, JUST KIDDING!! And if he isn't reading this, I'M TOTALLY SERIOUS. Haha, just kidding. Or not. Anywho, I was walking into The Pit to tell him about something, and immediately my eagle-eyes noticed several things at once that needed to be straightened up. And The Whirlwind sprung (sprang?) forth, and it was an unfortunate sight, for since I noticed all these tasks to be completed simultaneously, the little neurons in my brain freaked out and could not decide what needed to happen first. So this is what happened instead. I staggered awkwardly toward a large empty cardboard box that was on the bed, tripped, knocked something else onto the ground and then stubbed my toe on it, somehow managed to shove the cardboard box off the bed as I fell on top of the bed in agony about my toe, clutched my toe and gasped "I'm okay I'm okay I'm okay" as my face jammed onto the bed, my upper lip mashed up toward my nose and cat hair filling my mouth. 

Well, I'm off for the night. I need to go fold the clean laundry. And start a new load. And there are jackets on the armchair that need to be hung in the closet. And....oh my gosh. I am so annoying. Someone PLEASE give me a flushie and steal my lunch money. It builds character.

The Curious Incident Involving the Dremel

A funny thing happened the other day. It involves a Dremel, Austrian pastries, and an early Christmas. I promise, this all ties together quite well in the end.

Sunday, my stepmom & sis came over for our annual Austrian-pastry-frying session. It's a several-hour process and we've got our roles figured out to a tee. (Side note: I've never understood the "tee" in this expression. Is it like a golf tee? A tee shirt? Or what? It doesn't make sense. And I said it anyway. I'M JUST ONE OF THE WORKER BEES, I SERVE THE QUEEN!!!) So while me and the ladies are frying stuff, hubs generously offered to complete a project that I have been wanting done in the house for a couple of months. It was really important that this was done by SUNDAY. Crucial, even. After all, where's a girl to hang her scarves when she runs out of space? Only on an awesome, $5 wall-rack made of curtain rods; the idea of which was obtained (obviously) from Pinterest! I had purchased the supplies and was ready to hang scarves, I just needed to wait until the rods were installed, and Sunday was The Day. I was elbows deep in powdered sugar, enjoying girl talk, when hubs came into the kitchen and was all like "Hey honey....where did you put the Dremel?" Now, I didn't used to know what a Dremel was. Actually, I mostly still don't know what a Dremel is. I just know it's a crucial tool needed to complete my crucially important project, and now...it's missing. Crapola. And I probably moved it and forgot where I put it. Why, you ask? Clutter makes me more insane than I usually am (and for some reason this silly Dremel is ubiquitous in my household). Some other unsuspecting item will be sitting around, not doing anything useful, and then I have a minor spaz-attack and decide that the offending item must be stashed out of sight. Immediately. That's usually how I start cleaning the house. Hiding all the clutter like some kind of wild animal stashing its fresh, steaming, and very dead prey, to be consumed at a later date. Except, UNlike a wild animal, I can never remember where anything is hidden. Fortunately, my hidden items do not consist of rotting animal flesh. 

I've gotten off track again. Anyway, so by then my mind was completely CONSUMED with finding this cursed Dremel. Hubs had dissected half the house and the shed looking for it, and even gone up into the attic and into the *shudder* basement, which I fondly refer to as the "serial killer cellar". Because if one was a serial killer, this is the cellar in which bodies would be stashed, guaranteed. I tore apart the closets, looked under the beds, and searched all the places that you would never stash a Dremel, unless you are me. No luck. No dice, baby. Then it got to the point where I was really super annoyed that we have no clue where this thing is, and it was all I could think about. And then I got annoyed at myself for obsessing about a stupid tool. HEY UNIVERSE, I'M TRYING TO HAVE GIRL TALK HERE...THOUGHTS OF MANLY TOOLS BANISHED! Not working. I kept finding myself wandering off every few minutes after sudden epiphanies were born. Oh my God, the Dremel is in the cabinet with the crackers, awkward ceramic plate and the art supplies! (Sadly, we do have a cabinet with all of these things contained within. Except for, rather unfortunately, THE DREMEL.)

We never did find the Dremel that day. Or the next day. Today, though, the puzzle pieces finally fell into place. Tonight was our night to open Christmas presents. Hubs and I usually have to try and trick each other when giving gifts, because we spend an inordinately long period of time each year shaking, handling, and guessing what treasures could be hiding within the mysterious wrapping. We resort to wrapping a tiny gift in a huge box, or weighing down a light gift with something heavier (WHAT?? SOCKS? I THOUGHT THIS WAS THE LIMITED EDITION, COMPLETE DVD COLLECTION OF MY LITTLE PONY! THIS IS THE WORSE CHRISTMAS EVER!) That said, there was a really big box for me under the tree, and OH BOY was it heavy. I eagerly tore into it, peered inside...and saw the Dremel, safely nestled in its oh-so-familiar blue carrying case. WHAT. The HECK. 

"Uh......the Dremel?" I said, stupidly, not comprehending. I pulled it out of the box and it dangled from my hand like the smug little tool that it is. Chris about fell off the couch laughing. Oh yes. Of COURSE he used it to weigh down my gift. And then proceeded to completely forget. Ironically, I never even touched the box to try and guess what was inside. 

I was so relieved that my crucial project could be resumed that I totally forgot to be mad about being falsely accused of losing the darn Dremel. Well played, husband. WELL PLAYED. What's that, you say? You can't find the other half of your leftover steak? Well gosh, I don't know. Only wild animals can remember where stuff like that is stashed.

Things I Think About During Spin Class

So I go to spinning class 3 days a week. It's great. SO GREAT. I JUST LOVE IT. <cough> ....sometimes you have to put things in capital letters in order to convince yourself that something is true. Okay, so maybe I don't LOVE spinning, yet, but I do mostly like it. The way I mostly like driving, until some idiot ruins my universe by cutting me off when I have right-of-way, and then flipping me the double bird as though he hadn't already won the driver of the year award by nearly killing both of us. And then taking both hands. Off. The. Wheel. THE NERVE.

Anyway, sometimes during spin class, my instructor isn't yelling at us enough, so my mind starts to wander. Side note: I love being yelled at during spin class. There's nothing less challenging than the chipper, sculpted instructor whose breathing is completely normal as he calmly speaks into the microphone to "take that hill up just a notch, folks". During spin, I think that everything the instructor says slash yells should be punctuated with a minimum of three exclamation points. For example:

"Make THAT HILL STEEEEEP!!!"

"Make that hill STEEPER!!!"

"COME AWWWWWN!!! MAKE THAT HILL AS STEEP AS YOU CAN!!!!"

Oh yes! Yes I WILL make that hill into mush! Come on, suckas. You can cut me off and flip me the bird  but MY HILL IS STEEPER THAN YOUR HILL!!!

And when I'm not being yelled at in spin class, my brain decides to check out of the whole process and goes through these elaborate, imaginative (read: insane) scenarios. Here are some of my favorites so far:

1) I am racing the guy who sits in front of me in class. I decide that his left knee is popping out a little bit as he pedals, and that has some kind of injury that is slowly but surely taking him out of the race. Suddenly, we're on a real road on real bikes and I am FLYING PAST THIS GUY!! I think about stopping to help him, but decide that I would rather be a winner than a sucker. MY HILL IS STEEEEEEP!

2) The girl in front of me has a lot of creases on the back of her shirt. I wonder how many there are. I wonder how long it would take me to count them all. I don't want to count them. Can't. Stop. Myself.      ..........................................................27.

3) It would be so much fun to make a music video with some of my friends from nursing school. We could parody LMFAO's song "I'm Sexy and I Know It" while wearing our SUPER AWESOME snow-white polyester uniforms and rescuing the androgynous, blue-eyelashed simulation mannequin from a dangerous postpartum hemorrhage. Then we would dance down the hallway at school and spin our stethoscopes above our heads in the air like Terrible Towels, only NOT, because this family is NOT a Steelers family. We're not that much of a football family. We just don't do the Steelers. However, Pittsburgh is a lovely city. I wonder if Dennis Woo would film our music video? If I have to rap, I'll get booed off Youtube. If I have to dance my white girl moves, I'll get booed off planet Earth. Kristin Metzger, you ARE the weakest link.....goodbye. <shove> <long scream fading into nothing> Maybe this video idea isn't such a great plan after all.

4) That guy is bobbing up and down a lot. He looks like his nickname is Geronimo. I wonder if he's gonna fall off his bike? If he does, and it's a heart attack, do I have aspirin in the car? Maybe I'll just stay and make sure the area is clear for the ambulance, and just start CPR right away. He DOES look about a hundred and five years old. But he's probably in better shape than me. NO. Not possible.  But what if he is? <pedals faster> Hey, my water bottle is vibrating and the water in it is all bubbly like champagne. DRUNK SPINNING?! YES! I am TOTALLY copyrighting that idea. On second thought...there aren't enough ambulances in the state to rescue 30 drunken spinners who've fallen off their bikes and are awkwardly still attached to their pedals, swimming in a sea of vomit. "My hill is steeper than...<heave> your.....<heave>...hill....<SPLOOSH>

.....................

......Yeah. I have more. Lots more. But I'll wrap it up there before the guys in white coats show up. Ohhhhkayyyy....WHO called 'em??? WAS IT YOU, GERONIMO??  You best make that hill steep, old man. I'm a-comin'.

Daughter of Smoke and....whaaa?

So, whenever I ask my sis for a book recommendation, and she provides one, I can pretty much guarantee that I will BECOME that book until it's done. Which, if you're slightly insane like me, takes about 20 minutes, because unlike most NORMAL people who read a chapter here, a chapter there, I will sit down and read a book from COVER to COVER in one sitting, forgoing appetite and urge to poo, ignoring deadlines and school papers, and push the Zombie Apocalypse (somehow) to the back of my mind. All so that I can be slightly obsessed with a story for a little while. It's pretty freaking great.

My latest obsession is the new book series by Laini Taylor - starting with Daughter of Smoke and Bone. Oh. MY. Gosh. I totally want to be Karou (main character hot kick-ass heroine chick with BLUE HAIR - duh!!) I had a phase growing up where I insisted (just to myself, really, and all my friends. And my family. And my stuffed animals) that I was Kira from The Dark Crystal. This is my girl, Kira, a.k.a. ME:

How could any girl child NOT want to be the savior of her race of Gelflings, especially when she comes fully equipped with some awesome ethereal wings that she whips out at the brink of death and totally BLOWS. THE. MIND of the male character?? Yeah, I was definitely in that phase of thinking I was really Kira until I was like, 31. Which is right now. UNTIL. Karou!!! Oh, Karou....well, let me just make a long story short. In the book, there is a war raging between the angels (seraphim) and the devils (chimaera). There are also these really bad-ass chimaera called revenants that can totally wipe out the seraphim race. Karou, the blue-haired chimaera, falls in love with a seraphim named Akiva, and OH BOY is that romance requited! This is unfortunate, because, naturally, neither race is very happy about this little love affair. On the other hand, Akiva IS pretty hot, with his smoldering wings, sculpted abs and fiery eyes...sigh....*snaps back to reality* ANYWAY. As I was saying. When I get into this "become obsessed with a book" thing, sometimes I sort of...incorporate...the lingo and vocabulary of the story into real life. Wait, you mean they're not the same thing? ....I am so crushed right now. Seriously. Crushed. 

I finished both books in the series, sadly, in 2 days. During finals week. I am sooooo so so so smart. And imagine hubs' surprise when he receives the following text message from me: 

Moral of the story is: Dye hair blue. Become a tattooed weapon of mass destruction. Make out with an angel. Yesssssssssss.

The Epic Wisdom Tooth Removal

All right, you asked for it, and you got it. Hubs video-taped my reaction to the anesthesia after wisdom tooth removal. Link below. Enjoy!

The Evidence

Fraudulent Citizen

Wow, 7 whole months without a single blog post! Wonder what could cause me to be re-inspired to post after such a significant hiatus? My wedding? My birthday the day after my wedding? My awesome honeymoon? Nope! This post is lovingly attributed to the person whom I lovingly refer to as "Fraudulent Citizen". Below is a fun account of my adventures in Fraudland!

It all began on a rather normal Friday morning in the Metzger household. The birds chirped, the Metzgers showered, ate and burped, all was well. Until.

7/24/09, 7 AM: Checked email while eating breakfast. Noticed there were several emails fom Paypal thanking me for my purchase of $1,549.99 and congratulations on winning your eBay item, a shiny brand-new Macbook Pro!! Wait...what? Did I buy this online while sleepwalking? Did I unknowingly make the switch from PC to Mac while I slumbered? DARN those commercials and their subliminal advertising techniques. DARN them to HECK!

7/24/09, 7:02 AM: Called Paypal. Asked WTF is going on. Did not say "WTF" except for in my head. Was advised that they were already aware of the fraudulent purchase, which raised red flags left and right all over. Fraudulent Citizen wanted their lovely new Macbook delivered to a remote Wyoming location, of which I captured on google street view. See? Fraudulent Citizen's Shipping Address - What appears to be a home, a warehouse, or an empty field. Yippee. Who could this sneaky Citizen be? Meanwhile, back at Paypal...Sorry, Mrs. Metzger, we couldn't stop the purchase from going through to your bank account. (The bank account that has a zero balance. The bank account that was only open until I was able to switch my company's payroll direct deposit to my new bank. Zoiks!) Maybe, Mrs. Metzger, you could call your bank to explain about the fraudulent purchase, and they can stop it from posting to your account!

7/24/09, 7:10 AM: Called PNC Bank to let them know what was going on. Yippee, looks like the fraudulent purchase was stopped in its tracks! Rep advised that it looks like Paypal was able to stop the transaction. Sigh of relief. Thought to myself: crisis averted! Fraudulent Citizen thwarted! Justice served! Boo-ya! (Yeah...I said it. Boo-ya. Read it and weep, o ye children of the late 90s).

7/24/09, 7:30 AM: On an afterthought, emailed the eBay seller to let them know what was up. Received a thank-you response. At least the Fraudulent Citizen wouldn't get that sweet laptop.

Fast forward to Monday, 7/27/09, 6:10 PM: Received mail sent via USPS, from PNC, addressed to me. Ripped open. "Hello, your account is overdrafted by $1549.99. Please bring your account up to to zero balance and pay us our $31 NSF fee."

7/27/09, 6:20 PM: Called PNC to ask WTF is going on. Remembered to ask more nicely than "WTF". Remembered that my paycheck was going to be deposited into this account in a couple of days. That would suck! Paycheck wouldn't even cover the negative amount in the bank account... leaving me without the $$ until Paypal reversed the transaction. Yay for paying my last 2 weeks of hard-earned money to a fraud-committing citizen who never received the sweet laptop. Spoke to a rep @ PNC who refused to discuss my own account with me because I couldn't remember the exact dollar amount of my last deposit, even though I gave her my SSN, address, date of birth and how much I weighed upon exiting my mother's vagina on June 21st, 1981. Had to hang up after getting nowhere. Felt somehow simultaneously indignant, unclean, nearly in tears, with a rising-up of perverse hilarity.

7/27/09, 10 PM: Called PNC again, this time armed and ready with the information about my most recent deposit. Spoke to a rep at length; claimed they were unable to put a freeze on my account to reject the paycheck being direct deposited. Oh, P.S., Mrs. Metzger - You now owe us $62 in NSF fees, plus $7 a day every day the account is below zero balance. Sure, we can put in a dispute for you - we need to mail you some paperwork. No, we can't fax or email it. Oh, can you verify the amount and date of your last withdrawal from your account? We need to verify your home address and can't mail you anything until you give us that information. I know we sent you a letter telling you there is minus $1549.99 in your account, but we're not authorized to send you a letter to dispute that until you verify your last withdrawal. My last withdrawal?? Surely you jest? Why don't you ask the third-rate hacker who attempted to buy a Macbook Pro on eBay and failed, only succeeding in wasting my time, money and patience?

7/27/09, 10:15 PM: Called PayPal to ask if anything could be done. Was advised the fraud team is still resolving the fraudulent purchase and the transaction would be reversed when resolution process complete - say about 2 weeks or so. *Gulp*

7/28/09, 8 AM: Called PNC local branch office to ask if they could do anything to help. I offered to do conference call w/Paypal so they could assure PNC that all was kosher & the transaction would eventually be reversed to my bank account. Rep told me that in her 14 years of banking experience, has never known a bank account to be placed on a freeze. (!!!) Said she would look into, and call me back. She expressed her shock that Paypal even allowed the purchase to occur. I expressed my shock that PNC would allow $1500 to be removed from an account with a zero balance & NSF fees to be charged against a customer who has a perfect banking relationship with PNC. Ended the shocking call.

7/28/09, 1:30 PM: Did not hear back from PNC rep. Called again and spoke with a different rep. Was advised that even after this process was resolved, PNC probably would not reimburse me the NSF fees, now nearly $100. Why? Oh, you know - it's such a bad economy, Mrs. Metzger. They are really holding onto these fees now. Dude...a bad economy? Should have thought of that before letting the Fraudulent Citizen steal $1549.99 from an honest taxpayer. ROFL.

7/28/09, 7:38 PM: Anger balloon deflated some. Posted this blog, kicked back and smoked a stogie on my back porch while calmly sipping a single malt scotch on the rocks.

Okay, so the last part wasn't true. But if Fraudulent Citizen ever gets caught...I might just do that. Yes, I just might.



Editor's note: The author would like to make it known that Paypal, while seemingly ridiculed in this post, was actually mostly helpful. PNC, on the other hand, was mostly a pain in the rear.

1990 Poetic Attempt

I think it's really funny to read a poem that you wrote in 1990 - one that your parents had proudly saved and then mailed to you randomly some 18 years later. (Thanks, Mom, I got a kick out of this). I actually kind of remember writing this poem and remember being very pleased with myself. Of course, reading it now I can't help but chuckle at my attempt:

What Is Blue?

Blue is the sky,
blue is the waves,
blue is the color of crystal in caves.
blue is the oceans,
blue is the seas,
blue is the bluebird who sings in the trees.

Blue is the color of butterfly wings,
blue is the color of beautiful things.

Blue is a color of our Texas flag.

Blue is the color of balloons in a bundle,
blue is the color of ooze in a bottle.

Blue is a name of music, as I hear it,
the sound drifts away, in beauty.

Wow. Grammatical errors aside, did you know that the word "bundle", when you're a 9-year-old, rhymes with the word "bottle"? And that the inclusion of the Texas flag in ANY poem adds a certain je ne sais quoi? Also, I'm not sure WHAT in the world I was imagining with regard to the "ooze in a bottle". I mean, we had some pretty interesting Girl Scouts experiments but I don't recall glowing blue ooze in a bottle. Maybe its radioactivity brainwashed my childhood memories. How about the quasi-delusional idea that there is, somewhere out there, a cave filled with lovely blue crystals? I sure would love to visit such a place. Maybe next time I'm in Narnia I could check that out.