Move your money

Move your money. Go on. Give it a try.

I moved my money from Citibank to the much smaller, much more personal, TD Bank. I'm done with "too big to fail" banks that fall apart and need to be bailed out. I'm tired of the annual fee that they suddenly started on my credit card. I'm appalled that they gave me the option of "going paperless", and then continue to send marketing spam in the mail every week anyway. And if I get one more of their spam emails about balance transfers again, I might just pull all my hair out.

So in the interests of preventing my premature balding, I decided to switch banks. TD bank isn't quite the tiny credit union I would have aspired to in the ideal world. But it has absolutely everything I want. It's committed to being carbon neutral. It donates significant amounts of money annually to charity. And of course, it hands out those free pens all over the city.

For several months now, I have secretly coveted a TD Bank pen. I'm not quite sure why - surely, it's just a pen - but it has suddenly become so ubiquitous in the city, it seems like everywhere I turn, there's someone with a TD Bank pen. And then suddenly I had to have one too. Probably the same sound reasoning behind why I had to open a facebook account. No need to snicker, I never claimed my aspirations were lofty ones.

So finally, I'd had enough and I moved my money. To a bank that's environmentally conscious. That's socially active. To a bank that, much to my excitement, has given me my coveted pen.

All growns up

This weekend, Delta and I head to Miami (I mean, if the NYC snowstorm gawds allow flights to take off) for Milo's wedding.

This is the same Milo that once said to Doobie, "on a scale of one to ten, I rate your ass a six and mine at least an eight."

Yes, apparently even scoundrels like that can sometimes find someone in life who's willing to take them in. And now here he is, all growns up and ready to say "I do".

The dress code is "formal", which of course has me in a tizzy as anything does which requires me to change out of my customary jeans and sneakers. And maybe it's Milo's wedding and all, but of course, this is all about me.

I was mentioning all of this to Metro the other day, and he filled me in that this weekend is one of the biggest gay party weekends in the country, and it's taking place in Miami.
"You're going to see a lot of goodlooking men" he sagely advised.
Hardly anything to complain about, infact quite the contrary. Besides, this time I'm wholly prepared, after my weekend at the biker conention in Provincetown.

Yet another snowstorm

Last weekend, my Cos from Chicago was going to come visit with her two little nubbins. I cannot even begin to tell you enough how cute her daughters are. She also has a little son whom I haven't met yet, but judging by the other two, I'm reasonably sure he's perfection as well.

If all kids were like hers, I think I might just want kids of our own. But I know the sad truth. Any spawn of mine would be quite the obstreperous terror, and if there's anything I've learnt from life, it's that I'm not going to put myself in the position of having to deal with the consequences of my own genetic inaptitudes.

So back to my point. My Cos was due to visit us last weekend, her little cherubs in tow. Unfortunately however, as has been typical of this winter past, snowstorms descended upon us like hell hath no fury (or, well, at least as bad as the previous snowstorms anyway), and all flights into the city were cancelled.

Typical. Just typical. We had a whole plan around painting pottery and trying sushi and having brunch, and -

Now this. Nothingness instead. I was crushed.

Delta and I were both feeling rather bereft by this untoward turn of events, and decided to seek consolation in the Park.

Of course, nothing will make up for not being able to spend time with my Cos and her fam.

But there is something rather fantastical about Central Park in the snow. Something that, to put it colourfully, rather just blows the mind. Something that makes you pause, just when you're overwrought with winter anguish, and rejoice, for just a moment, in the beauty of it all.

Note to the Invisible Office Cleaner

Dear sir,

Every evening, when everyone has long gone home, you come by and tidy the hurricane we have left in our wake.

When you come by to clean the office, you sometimes can't help yourself, and just have to eat some of the fruit I keep on my desk.

Perhaps you've wondered whether I notice. Perhaps you've wondered whether it's wrong. Perhaps, sometimes, you feel guilty for pilfering a bit of fruit.

Please don't. When I buy my fruit each week, I always get a little extra, with you in mind.

It's the least I can do really, for everything you do for me.

A system is a system is a system

I was trying to clear up around the apartment the other day, and noticed some scraps of paper (old bills and the like) with odd scribbles on them.
Cryptic words like "Cupcake08" and "Breadbasket09", in Delta's distinctive scrawl. I wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

"Erm, Delta, what are these?" I asked him.
"Oh, passwords for some new internet profile thing I had to set up."
"Seriously? In today's day and age, you write your passwords on little pieces of paper? I almost threw these out!"
"You've certainly thrown out my other passwords in the past," he said with a pointed look. "But if I put them anywhere online someone can hack in and access them."

Delta is (probably rightfully so) highly suspicious of internet security. As he describes it, he's "just waiting for this internet phase to be over with."

"Ok, I get the online thing. But don't you have an organised system for storing your passwords?"
He raised his forefinger and tapped his temple, as if to indicate it was all in his mind.

Except that I've seen Delta try to login to his accounts before, and if there's one thing I'm fairly sure of, it's that his numerous and creative passwords are not retained cerebrally. I looked at the passwords.
"Cupcake? Breadbasket? Where do these come from?!"
"Oh just whatever I happen to be thinking of at the time that I have to create the password."
Now I normally let Delta mind his affairs his own way, but this time I just couldn't restrain myself, and burst out, "Why don't you actually choose a meaningful password that you'll remember?! The way you do it, you have to ask for your password to be reset each time you have to log in! Don't you have a system for this sort of stuff?!!!"

Delta looked at me solemnly. "I do have a system. I create a password. I write it on a piece of paper. You throw the paper away. I forget the password, and have to reset it next time I login. How is that not a system? It's not the best system. But it's still a system."

Touche. Sometimes, life just leaves me bereft of words.

With the elements pitted against me

Recently, in an uncharacteristic burst of self-awareness, I've become conscious of a few new features about myself that aren't necessarily, well, impressive.

1. All these years, and despite all our progression into modernity, I have no faculty for recording my own voicemail mailbox message. My voice always sounds funny and nasal and far too high-pitched to be socially acceptable. When I think back to my first mailbox message I ever recorded (when I was 18 and got my first cellphone), I had to make 26 attempts before I could settle on something even remotely palatable. Yesterday, more than ten years since my first time, it still took me 17 attempts. I think you would agree, not the kind of progress that really moves civilizations forward.

2. When someone calls at work who I don't want to talk to, all of a sudden, my bladder has to pee. I mean, so bad, I just have to end the call. I'm dead serious. It doesn't involve any conniving or other sinister motive - it's just a natural instinctive defence mechanism my obstreperous bladder has developed of its own accord. And safe to say, probably a career hazard.

3. Whenever my wallet feels fat and bursting at its seems, and I pull it out of my pocket with a swoosh! of $anticipation$, it's always full of ones. Always just ones. Today at lunch, even the guy at Subway making my sandwich gave me a rather pitying look when I pulled out my fat wallet and spilled 11 ones onto his counter.

So it is with such thoughts weighing down on my soul that I trudge wearily through life. You see how the elements are pitted against me?

The new gawd

Amazon's started a new express checkout feature called "Express Checkout Payphrase". The idea is that if you just type whatever pre-programmed phrase you've assigned your account, then you can check out super-quick. You know - without having to waste precious seconds logging in or verifying your address or credit card info. The idea is, just choose your item, type in your phrase, and poof! it appears at your home.

Anyways, so it turns out until you actually designate what phrase is yours, Amazon keeps suggesting phrases to you.

Last week when I went to the site it suggested:
"Ficali's chocolates". No joke, folks, I was downing a Reese's Piece at that very moment. How could Amazon have known?! Was it watching me?

Of course it was just a stupid coincidence. Right?

Until this morning when I logged in again and the phrase was:
"Ficali correct posture."
Dammit. How did it know I was slouching?! How could it be?!!! I sat up straight on the large exercise ball which is my office chair, suddenly fearful of how amazon had insinuated itself into my personal space.

There's only one possible explanation for this, of course. Given its proven omniscience, the only possible concluion is that Amazon, keeps watching me, all the time, everywhere. Just like gawd.

A chica weekend

I'm quite used to Delta being away, of course, but I'm not used to him being away on a weekend. So when he went off the work this weekend, I found myself somewhat at lose ends.

I turned to Queen Jaffa. "QJ, looks like it's just you and me for a girl weekend. What say, chica?!"
But QJ only gave me the evil eye, which is what she sometimes does if you talk to her but don't follow it up with immediate bribery in the form of food.

And so I knew I couldn't depend on QJ to be my source of moral support for the weekend.

Instead, I focused my energies on watching the winter olympics with disproportionate tenacity. Nothing makes me feel healthier than watching athletes push themselves to their limits on tv. Certainly not going to the gym myself - for that only reinforces my limitations. No sirree, by far the best way to feel healthy is to watch healthy people do healthy things on the telly. And when li'l Hannah Kearney once that gold, I nearly bust up crying myself.

Even QJ, whose raison d'etre is to curl up and snooze on the couch lulled by the soporific effect of her own soft snores, has been quite approving of my generally vegetative state of being.

So there you have it, my chica weekend. Cat, emotions, couch and telly. What more could you want.

The marital, parental exemption

Ever since I announced publicly on this blog that the phrase "What Up With That" is driving me loca, Milo has been texting me the exact words insistently. Yes, that's right. About every other day or so, I get a text that reads like this:
Wooooo weeeeeeee what up wit dat?! What up wit dat?!

And this from Milo, who hasn't texted me before in the entire five years we've known eachother.

That, dear people, is the risk you run for bearing your soul to the world as I have done. For opening your vulnerable moments to scrutiny. So every other day or so, I find myself angrily muttering "that Milo!" and shaking my fist at the gawds.

But how can you be really angry with fella who's just about to get married? A fella who's about to become a dad? You can't. He has earned himself a month or two of exemption, because surely, surely, just before you get bethrothed and spawn a critter, shouldn't you be exempt from any expectations of responsibility.

So for the next month or two, I will bear my cross with silent fortitude.

But seriously, Milo? A reminder every other day? What up with that?!

How can you not love Seattle?

This past week, life took me to Seattle for a spot of work. Now, I normally look upon work travel with a considerable degree of disgruntlement.

For one (and perhaps most importantly), it involves rummaging for (and shaking the dust off) my only pair of work trousers.

For another, the flight creates an environment where I am always, reliably, faced with rebuff and rejection: trying to engage my co-passengers in conversation. I'm of the philosophy that, hey, if I'm going to face six hours chained into a seat next to you, then at least I'm to turn to look at you and say hello. And I expect the same in return. Unfortunately, the rest of the world is of the philosophy that if the person next to you looks over and says hello, the best response is to look away in terror and pretend to fall asleep. Bah. Scrooges.

And then there's Queen Jaffa, who is none too happy about being left with a bowl of water and a pile of dry food for a few days. No sirree. She expects me to be there at her beck and call, and is entirely unforgiving of trite excuses like work travel.

But all the same, grumblings aside, I have to admit I love going to Seattle. How can you not love a city surrounded by snow-capped mountains wherever you look? How can you not love a city where you get to visit your Cos, her hub and their brand new little critter?

Yes, that's right. My Cos now has a son to boast along with the rest of the animal farm. The last time I saw their son, he was a tiny little baby, fresh to the world, and bawling his eyes out. This time, merely months later, he had transformed himself into a giggling cherub with dimples in his elbows and ankles. You see what I mean? How can you not love that?