This Saturday, I finally got around to making the trek up to Wisconsin to my old bank so I could finish up the paperwork regarding my check forgery issue. Up until now, I haven’t really needed to switch to a Chicago-based bank, but I guess it’s time to cut the cord. In any case, the process went smoothly, and I was once again able to laugh with my bankers as we talked about how completely stupid a certain public storage company was to alter my check, steal $405 out of my account, and then try to blame it on the bank teller.
Since I was in the neighborhood, I decided to swing by my parents’ house to have lunch with them. I haven’t seen them in a while, and apparently they’re in the process of re-working their wills, so it’s in my best interest to stay top-of-mind. Not that I have anything to worry about, mind you. My mother won’t come right out and say it, but she’s given me plenty of clues throughout the years to let me know that I was the only child they actually planned for. But you can never be too careful about these kinds of things, so I stopped by for egg salad sandwiches and Doritos.
I told my parents all about my job, and how I still love it, and how I just got my insurance payment for my robbery, and how I should be getting reimbursed for the check forgery deal soon. And then I mentioned to my mother that with this black cloud I’ve been under lately, I have this nagging fear that I’m going to come out one morning to find my car stolen. We kind of laughed, but not really.
I hugged my dad goodbye as he drove off to meet some friends, and then my mom and I cracked open a bottle of wine, because really, what else goes with egg salad and Doritos at 11:30am? About two minutes later, I heard a timid knock at the back door. I opened it up and it was my dad who said, “Jen, I just backed into your car, and smashed the front end up real good.”
“Ha ha. Good one. I’ll admit, though – you’re getting better at not smirking.”
Because that’s the kind of thing my dad says to me almost every time I go over to their house. We play these kinds of games. It’s what we do. But the boy really saw a wolf this time.
“No, I’m serious. I smashed your car.”
I looked out the garage door and saw that my little Honda Civic looked a little skinnier than normal. And that’s because the passenger side was smashed in about 6 inches. My dad’s Jetta, on the other hand, looked as fat as always. Just had a little green paint on the bumper.
“Oh crap. You’re not kidding.”
One giant crowbar and some elbow grease later, my dad was able to pry my front quarter panel out enough so that my tire could actually turn. Fortunately I don’t have many passengers, though, since the passenger door only opens about 5 inches.
So now I’ll just wait to hear from my mom’s insurance company so I can get my car fixed. And while I’m not really one to believe in insurance fraud, I need a little pick-me-up, so I’m totally telling the insurance company that I originally had purple flames detailed on the car.
“No, no. I realize that you can’t see them on either side of the car. But I’m telling you, he hit the car so hard that they flew off of both sides. Seriously. Who would lie about something like purple flames on a Honda Civic? So yes, I’ll need those painted back on.”
“Yes. And for some reason, all my chrome spinning hub caps? They fell off, too.”
“I don’t know, I think they flew into the woods. Anyway, I’ll need some of those.”
“Mmm hmm. Yes. Right. And I told you that the horn isn’t working either, right?”
“Yeah. It used to play, Tequila.”
“Good. Thanks so much!”
And best of all, as I just told my brother yesterday when he emailed me to razz me about my car: unconditional love + guilt = permanent favorite child status. Now who’s inheriting the house, sucka?!
Universe wants to hand me some lemons? Just made me some purple flame lemonade, baby!

11 Comments; | Filed under: General

Dear Universe –
Hi there! How the heck are you? I know it’s been a really long time since I last wrote you – I couldn’t find your email address for the longest time, but then I was digging through my archives and stumbled across it. Anyway – hope things are going well with you.
Things have been a little crazy with me lately, but I guess you already knew that, right? Ha! Yeah, you sure are keeping me on my toes. And usually, I’m totally cool with that. I know I’m a really lucky person in general, so I always look at the little curve balls you throw me as gentle reminders to not become complacent.
But I guess I really wish that if you had a problem with me, you would’ve just picked up the phone and called me. Really, Uni – you and I go way back, and I thought we kind of understood each other when it came to these sorts of things. The robbery? Helped me become more aware of my surroundings. Losing half my hardrive at work? Practice makes perfect. The forged check? I had a really great experience with my bank’s customer service department. But this Saturday? I kind of feel like that one was just you being a little vindictive. I just don’t see how that was really necessary. I thought you liked to play your games in sets of three, but now this is four. So did the hard drive not count? Or am I now on Round Two?
I don’t want you to think that I’m an ingrate, because I’m really not, but when I complain to myself about having writer’s block, that’s really just a way for me to get more focused on my writing. It’s not a celestial request for material, honestly. Look, I’m not trying to point any fingers. I just want to make sure you and I are on the same page. I get the message – you think I need more interesting things to write about. Point taken.
But seriously, I have a lot of topics to work with right now. Heck, I’ve still got at least two more stories from my New York trip alone. And last week I started drafting a special Easter entry – really, things are going pretty well in the blog department.
Anyway – I just wanted to clear that up. I’d really rather handle this like adults, and get away from all this passive aggressive crap you’ve been throwing my way lately. It’s just never been your style. You have my cell number – give me a call this week and let’s talk.
Regards,
Jenny

8 Comments; | Filed under: General

Whenever I visit New York City, one of my favorite activities is trying to pick up on all the latest fashion trends. It seems as though almost everyone in the city has a sense of style, and is not afraid to express it. But never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that I might actually be the one to start a fashion trend. It appears that there is a first time for everything.
Vivian and I were on our way to see what would be one of the most amazing art exhibits ever at the Whitney (Tim Hawkinson), when I noticed something sticking out of a garbage can. It was an old wooden walking cane that had been carelessly tossed away. The stain was all chipped and rubbed off from years of use. Of course, I was instantly intrigued.
“Viv! Check out that cane in the trash. I need that!”
“What? Okay, you’re joking, right? You are not going to dig a nasty old used cane out of the trash and start walking around Manhattan with it.”
“Why not? It’s totally cool! Look – you know there are people who are paid to scout out new street fashion – I could start the next trend. Versace will be making pimp canes next fall, I guarantee it.”
I was convinced that this cane could become my signature. No longer would I have to be just that curly-haired girl. Now it could be:
“Which one is Jenny?”
“You know – she’s that girl who walks with a bad-ass cane like Dolemite.”
“Oh yeah! She’s so cool. I wish I could be her friend.”
That could be me.
Vivian got a stern look on her face and said, “Seriously, Jenny. I don’t know how they do things in Chicago, but here in New York, normal, sane people do not fish germ-infested broken down canes out of the trash and pretend that they are high fashion.”
As I was preparing my rebuttal, which started out with a commentary on how Vivian did know how they do things in Chicago since she grew up here, out of the corner of my eye I saw two Latina teenagers walk up near us and start talking. The one with the blonde and red highlights spied my cane in the garbage can, snatched it out, and started doing the exact same pimp walk that I planned on doing once I had Purell-ed the handle of the cane.
“Yo – check out my pimp cane!”
“That’s cool. Take it!”
“No shit.”
Vivian was still rambling on about what is and is not appropriate New York behavior as it relates to trash cans, when I bugged my eyes out at her and nodded in the direction of the hipster youths.
“So… tell me again how people do things in New York?”
“Okay, well… Jenny. Those were kids. You need to hold yourself to a little higher standard.”
“You just don’t get it, do you? Of course they’re kids, because kids always start the cutting edge fashion trends. They have a sixth sense for this kind of thing. It’s just like Tyra Banks always says – if you want to make it in the fashion business, you need to be fierce! That cane was fierce, Viv. I could’ve been fierce, for once in my life. Fee-erce!”
For the rest of my trip, everywhere we went we saw people carrying hip canes. I would make a point to call Vivian’s attention to them wherever we were.
“Cane, ten o’clock.”
“Man with dog-head cane coming out of Starbucks.”
“Eight women with canes, Viv. Eight – count ‘em.”
“Jenny – that’s a nursing home.”
“Still, you see my point.”
“Fine! I promise I will NEVER stop you from dumpster diving in New York City again. Are you happy?”
“That’s all I wanted.”
So on my next trip to New York, I’ll be ready for the trend scouts. I’ll be scouring all the trash bins and alleyways for the next hot fashion trend. Maybe you’ll see me pushing a broken walker, perhaps sporting a stained neck-brace, or even dangling a used inhaler around my neck.
But as god is my witness, I will never, ever miss my chance to be fierce again.

7 Comments; | Filed under: Postcards from New York

I can’t really explain why I was surprised to hear that my flight to New York had been delayed an hour, even though the weather in Chicago was perfect, and according to the Weather Channel, it was equally perfect in New York. I’m actually not sure that I’ve ever been on a flight that has left on time. I should just learn to accept that the scheduled departure time is much like a scheduled doctor’s appointment – that’s the earliest you’re ever going to leave, but you should expect to sit around reading magazines for at least an hour.
As soon as I heard the delay announcement, I realized that this left me an extra hour to be alone with my thoughts. Shortly after that, I recognized that my thoughts and I should not be in the same room together for any period of time, particularly since I was flying to New York for the weekend to escape them.
I decided that the best thing to do would be to document what was going on inside my head during those few hours before I landed in New York. Perhaps the act of writing down the thoughts might allow me to put them to rest. At least that was the theory.
6:04pm – I decide that I might find handlebar mustaches attractive on the right person.
6:06pm – I question whether “handlebar” is the correct term. I mean the kind of mustaches that curve down toward the chin, and would almost become a goatee if the two ends connected. Not the kind that twirl up on the ends, a là Rollie Fingers.
6:14pm – There’s a woman in front of me who is elegantly dressed and impeccably groomed – could be a Kennedy, or at least a Shriver – and she’s eating a Quarter Pounder with cheese. I like her a lot.
6:15pm – I’ve never had a Quarter Pounder with cheese. I wonder if they’re good, but do they have too much sauce on them? Probably.
6:16pm – The plane starts to board. I feel happy inside.
6:24pm – I take my seat and note gleefully that no one is sitting in the two seats next to me. But I don’t buckle my seatbelt yet because I don’t want to jinx myself.
6:25pm – Pilot tells us that we’re delayed even further due to air traffic control issues at LaGuardia. Come on, New York! Pull it together!
6:48pm – After having eaten half of my tropical trail mix, I determine that coconut, raisins, pineapple, and papaya are distinguishable only by their texture.
6:50pm – Wish I had more banana chips.
7:03pm – Do I need to pee? No. No, I don’t think I need to pee right now. Should I try to go just in case?
7:10pm – Although I am inclined to despise American Airlines for this delay, even though it’s LaGuardia’s fault, I am pleasantly surprised to discover new adjustable headrests that curl up around your head to prevent embarrassing head bob.
7:13pm – Does it bother me that this headrest cradled countless other heads, many of which were probably greasy and unkempt?
7:14pm – Not really.
7:17pm – Taking off! Fastest lift-off ever! I love this pilot!
7:18pm – Is that burning I smell? Is something burning? Something is definitely burning. What’s burning?
7:19pm – Okay, it seems to have dissipated. Maybe nothing is burning.
7:22pm – If I had a laptop like that guy, I wouldn’t be working on Excel spreadsheets, that’s for sure. I’d be playing The Sims. By the time I got to New York, I would have become a doctor, gained 11 friends, married, and accidentally killed my wife (she would drown because I forgot to build a ladder in the pool – she swam herself to death, poor thing).
7:33pm – Okay. Attractive prematurely grey-haired man across the aisle from me has finally dozed off. I can now stop reading The Economist and go back to my People – Oscars Edition.
7:38pm – For the second time in eight minutes, I accidentally touch the overhead light bulb while trying to adjust the vent. Note to self: hot water burn baby!
7:48pm – Holy crap! The pilot sounds exactly like my landlord! I wonder if he’s moonlighting. That would explain why it takes him eight weeks to respond to any of my maintenance issues.
7:55pm – These pants really ride up when I’m sitting down. Bad choice of plane attire.
7:57pm – Are these pants highwaters? Oh my god – I’m totally wearing floods! Remember to buy long pants while in New York.
8:15pm – My eyes. Heavy. Burning. Neck is so loose… wonder when we’ll…
9:43pm – My landlord announces that we’re making our descent into New York City. And tells me that he’ll fix my clogged drain next week. Wait – which part of that was a dream?
Yay! I’m now in New York City, where there’s far too much going on for me to ever have to be alone with my thoughts again! Except, of course, at night, when I’ll be confined to my solitary guest room. Not even the sirens and car horns can drown out the night thoughts. Oh, the night thoughts. They’re the worst. Hold me?

12 Comments; | Filed under: Postcards from New York

Hi, it’s me. I’m at the airport. Our flight is going to leave in about 45 minutes.
Yes.
Yes. Did you take your medication?
Your medication. Did you take it?
Yes. Did you take it? The medication. Medication!
Hello?
Hello.
Hello!?
Hello.
Hello?
Hello?
Can you call me back? I can’t hear you.
Okay, that’s better. Yes. The medication.

4 Comments; | Filed under: General

Whew! Thank god it’s Friday, that’s all I have to say. What a week! I cannot wait until this day is over and my weekend begins.
But wait a minute, Jenny! It’s not Friday – it’s only Thursday! Why are you all discombobulated? You never post on Thursdays – what’s going on?
Whoa! I can’t slip anything past you, now can I? All right, you are correct, sir. It is Thursday.
So why am I mixing things up and posting on a Thursday, other than my desire to combat predictability? Well, mes amis, this evening I’m jetting off to New York City for a well-earned extended weekend. After almost six months on the new job, I’ve finally earned a couple vacation days, and I have no intention of hoarding them until December like most of my colleagues seemed to do this past December.
My dad always said to me, “Jenny, if you’ve got money, spend it. If you don’t, get some.” I feel the same way about vacation, and I intend to spend every minute of it living the good life and hobnobbing with celebrities in New York. By the good life, I mean pizza and beer in the East Village. And by celebrities, I mean the girl who played Blossom’s best friend on the short-lived yet critically acclaimed tv series. I think she manages a coffee shop in SoHo now.
But like most trips to New York, I suspect I will need a vacation from this vacation. There are just too many things to do, places to eat, museums to visit. Because apparently we don’t have any of those things here in Chicago…
Now, how will I accomplish all this in just three short days?

• Buy 1 to 2 pairs of funky new shoes

• Sing 1 to 2 karaoke songs at a NYC bar
• See 1 to 2 movies that have not yet been released in Chicago
• Encounter 1 to 2 famous people in the street
• Try 1 to 2 different kinds of scotch in the smoke-free NYC bars
• Fall in love with 1 to 2 strangers
• Call Amy Sedaris 1 to 2 times and hang up
• Eat 1 to 2 marshmallow Peeps on the plane
• Write 1 to 2 blog entries, possibly about marshmallow Peeps

Wow. Seeing that all in writing is a bit intimidating, but I think I’m up to the challenge. Fortunately, I bought a pair of comfortable hipster shoes last weekend so that I could wander the streets of New York searching for comfortable hipster shoes. Don’t try to follow that logic. There is none.
So I hope you don’t find me rude to have invited you to my new home and then left my own party so abruptly. But I promise I shall return on Tuesday, hopefully bursting at the seams with new adventures to share. Until then, stay sweet ‘n cool 4ever! Seniors Rule!

11 Comments; | Filed under: General

As the years click by, even if I don’t psychologically feel older, my body takes great pleasure in reminding me of my age every now and then. Take last week, for example. Natasha had dubbed 2005 the year of “less talk, more action,” so in keeping with that mantra, she finally started the bowling league she’s been talking about for the past year and a half. She said we all need to get more involved in team sports this year.

I’ve got to admit – I never really considered bowling to be much of a physical sport. Any sport where you can wear jeans and someone else’s shoes, chain smoke, and drink pitchers of beer just never seemed like what I might call strenuous exercise.

But let me quote my body on that subject: “HA!”

After only two games of bowling, I woke up unable to clench my fist, walking with a severe limp, and nearly crippled by lower back pain. Now, a week later, I still find it painful to type these words. It’s quite possible I’ve done permanent nerve damage, and I didn’t even break 100. The problem, however, is that now that we’re in a league, I can’t quit and let my teammates down. We just placed our orders for shirts with our names embroidered on them. Team Cobra Kai needs me!

I’m not exactly sure why we decided on that name, but it might be because I kept yelling “Sweep the leg, Johnny!” whenever the people next to us would get up to bowl. I like my bowling like I like my table tennis: full contact. Some would say that’s unsportsmanlike, but I say, if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. You know, because it’s hot in a kitchen. So if you’re sensitive to heat, you’d probably be more comfortable in the living room, or maybe in the den. Would you like me to get you some iced tea?

Anyway.

Some co-workers of mine asked me if I wanted to join them in the “Hustle up the Hancock” event this past Saturday. For the non-Chicagoans, that’s a charity event where you actually pay money to walk up ninety-four flights of stairs to the top of the Hancock Building, but you get free breakfast and a t-shirt if you finish.

I told them that I would love to, had I not already planned on my own charitable event for Saturday – “Hustle up the L stop” – where I walk up one flight of stairs, get on a train, and go to Belmont Avenue to have breakfast and buy t-shirts with Natasha.

When did my body start to give out on me like this? I can’t really mark the exact point in time. I wasn’t always this way. When I was nine, I had the best arm on the softball team. At least I think that’s why they always put me out in left field. And I was on Junior Varsity basketball in middle school, too. Sure, I had to share a jersey with a girl who had scoliosis, but it was all for the greater good of the team. At least I got to wear the jersey during the first half of the game. (That might actually be funny if it weren’t true.)

So I guess somewhere between the ages of 13 and 33, I neglected my inner athlete, which led me to my current squishy state. But I’ve got to admit, getting older does have its perks. Yes, my body may be falling apart. It’s possible that the sound of my hip cracking actually made my cats jump the other night. And I may have to have an 8-lb bowling ball specially drilled out for my huge arthritic knuckles. But one of the most rewarding things about getting older is that no matter how many gutter balls I make, or how low my score may be, I now make enough money to never, ever have to share a jersey again.

6 Comments; | Filed under: On Aging

If you are reading this, it means you have successfully followed the intricate trail of clues I have left for you. You have traversed the labyrinth, stolen the golden chalice, and released the blind falcon. Or perhaps you clicked on that link back on Blogger. Either way, I say good show, old chap.
So… welcome to my new home! In keeping with this weekend’s Oscar theme, I need to rattle off a list of important people who came together to make this happen:
Where do I begin? Well, first of all, enormous thanks go to Kris Dresen for coming up with an amazing design concept, and making my dream of being a comic super hero finally come true. The girl has mad skillz, y’all, and she’s not afraid to use them, particularly when bribed with single malt scotch. And another big thanks to Haemi over at Web Divas for taking that design and giving it life. She’s like the Dr. Frankenstein of the blogosphere. It’s alive! Plus, neither rain, nor sleet, nor California mudslides could stop her from coding. Word.
Next, I’d like to thank my parents for giving birth to me, although if they had held off for a few years, I’d be younger now. But they were selfish, selfish people.
Uhh… who else? Who else? Oh – my agent for believing in me when no one else did. My trainer for helping me pack on 20 pounds of muscle for the role, which will soon turn to 30 pounds of fat. Howard Hughes, for being crazy. My friends, for letting me write down every conversation we have and change all the parts that make me look bad.
Wait! Don’t start the music yet! I’m not done!
And finally, I want to thank the folks who so kindly stop here for a visit every now and then, leave funny and interesting comments, and make this crazy blog worth blogging. Thanks for dropping by – I hope you come back soon! Artichoke dip is in the dining room!

17 Comments; | Filed under: General

The last time I went to my gynecologist, she told me that I should start getting annual mammograms in the next year or so. At first, I kind of laughed, thinking she was joking, but as she wheeled her stool back and snapped off her latex gloves, there was not even the slightest glimmer of a smile in her face.

“A mammogram? Me? Uh, I’m sorry, maybe you read my age wrong on that chart – that’s a three, not a four.”

“Early detection is the key,” she chided, as she handed me a brochure entitled, Ten Myths About Mammograms. I don’t know about you, but when I curl up in bed to read some myths, I like them to include sons falling in love with their mothers, women with snakes for hair, and people having their livers eaten out each evening by vultures. But tales of breasts being flattened in vices really just don’t spin my wheels. I don’t know, maybe it’s the whole Greek vs. Latin thing.

I guess on some level, I am relieved to know that my breast health will finally be in the hands of a professional, because up until this point, detecting breast cancer was apparently entirely my job. I always dread that question during my annual checkups:

“Now, are you doing your monthly breast exams?”

“Well, I suppose that all depends on how loosely you define the word, ‘exam.’ Maybe a pop quiz, or an open book test every now and then…”

As she sat there stone-faced, I made a mental note to deduct some points from her score due to poor stirrup-side manner. I just feel so darn guilty when she asks me that question. It’s kind of the same feeling I get when the dentist asks me if I floss. My answer is always the same: “Well, I don’t floss as much as I should… three or four times a week, maybe.”

And what I mean by that is, “I flossed three or four times a week for the two weeks prior to this appointment, and now I will drop back down to flossing only after eating corn on the cob or spinach quiche.”

[On a side note, is it just a strange coincidence that all my gynecologists avert their eyes while doing my breast exam, or is that the industry standard to make women feel more comfortable? I mean, I guess it might be a bit disconcerting if they gazed intently into my eyes during the whole procedure, unless dinner and a movie were involved, of course. But I am paying them good money to make sure I get the full works – oil change, fluid checks, fill the tires, and change the air filter – so a glance down every now and then to make sure things are where they’re supposed to be might not be a bad idea. I’m just saying.]

So I guess when all’s said and done, I should probably be looking forward to my first mammogram, when I can finally relinquish this burdensome responsibility to someone with some medical knowledge that didn’t come from WebMD. Well, in the meantime, I’d better start brushing up on my mythology:

Myth #1: Mammograms are painful.
Fact: Although the procedure may cause slight discomfort, it is very brief and the benefits are great!

Hoo boy, I can see this is going to be a real page-turner…

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I’m a glass half full kind of gal, I really am. Not in an insipid Pollyanna “Grey skies are gonna clear up” type way, but I just find that I enjoy life more when I’m not playing the victim.
But c’mon, people. I’ve now been unce, tice, fee times a victim. I was taking out some mad cash this weekend, planning on blowing it at the Super Duper 40-Lane Mega Bowling Alley, because as Natasha said, “Bowling is the new karaoke.” When I saw my checking balance, it seemed off, but I’ll readily admit that I’m not the best about balancing my checkbook. So I told myself to make a mental note and check it again on Monday.
So Monday rolls around and I’m out celebrating President’s Day by working, which is obviously NOT what our forefathers had intended. Clearly Abe Lincoln wanted me to be getting 50% off all previously reduced items at Nordstrom’s, but instead, I was one of the working stiffs keeping this country running on Monday. In any case, after enjoying a nice slice of cheese and mushroom pizza at the food court, I moseyed on over to the ATM to check my balance. Now this time I was certain – it was even lower than it was on Friday, so something was up.
Of course, my initial thought was: those sunamabeetch robbers stole some of my checks, and are writing bad checks all over town! So I quickly transferred all my remaining funds over to my savings account, which even at the time I knew would do me no good since I have overdraft protection. But it somehow made me feel less helpless. I probably should’ve just pulled out the maximum amount in cash just to have it on hand, but I wasn’t thinking clearly.
As soon as I got home Monday, I called my bank (and happily, they have a 24/7 customer service desk – even on silly bank holidays!) to get a list of my recent transactions. As I was running through the list, one item in particular jumped out – a $450 check to a certain storage company in Milwaukee that is housing all the stuff I couldn’t fit in my little Chicago apartment. I thought, “Hmm. That’s odd. My monthly bill is only $45. I wonder if the bank made a data entry error.”
Oh, Jenny. Sometimes your naïveté is charming. But not right now. Now it’s just plain tiresome. The customer service rep pulled up the digital check image (I heart digital imaging. So much.), and quickly realized that someone had added a zero to the end of my $45. They didn’t bother to try to change the written part, I guess because it’s a little bit harder to turn “Forty five and 00/100 ——-“ into “Four hundred fifty and 00/100——-.”
Now, I don’t have to worry about my $405 that this certain storage company, which I should mention is a Public storage company, ripped off. Because even if they won’t pay me back, my bank will, and then sue their asses to get it back. But I just had a good laugh with that bank customer service rep. We laughed and laughed as we said to each other, “Exactly how stupid are these people? This is a nationwide chain! And they took $405 more of my money than was owed them. It was deposited into their corporate account – did they think I wouldn’t figure it out? Ha ha ha ha!”
Since I like to watch a lot of crime TV, I got all Law & Order and tried to figure out all the different scenarios: was it a dirty bookkeeper? A disgruntled employee who stole $405 in petty cash and wanted to cover it up? A really, really stupid franchise owner? Will we ever know? I can’t be sure, but I am sure that I’ll get my $405 back. And I’m also certain that, if my belongings are actually still there and I haven’t been paying for an empty storage garage for the past two years, I am most certainly not keeping them there any longer than I have to.
But what I am not certain of is this: what cosmic forces did I really piss off to have warranted a robbery, permanent deletion of half of my hard drive at work (long story, but the wounds are still too fresh to discuss), and now check forgery, all in a one month span? And more importantly, do I need to sacrifice a virgin to appease them? Because I’ll start combing the local chess clubs, I swear to you. Just say the word and point me in the direction of the Kraken.
If it weren’t for the fact that these annoying events keep giving me something to write about, I might be a little more upset about them. But let me tell you, if that certain public Storage company doesn’t give me my GD $405, I’ll release a firestorm of my own. I now have several web domains at the ready, in the event that they want to do this the hard way: www.[storage company]sucks.com, www.[storage company]stolemy$405.edu, www.dontdobusinesswith[storage company].net, and of course, www.ihate[storage company].org.
Hell hath no fury like a Sicilian scammed!

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