All Dressed Up and Nowhere To Go

Finally! I set my book off into cyberspace, like Moses going down the river in a basket. What happens from now is up to the universe.  My nights of twitchy eyes, fists in the air, throwing myself on the computer/sofa/bed melodramatically are over—for the moment. I'm sure I'll find something to have a two left-footed, frog in a well, song and dance about in no time.

Thank you all of you who have inundated me with kind words of support—details on the book are on the right side of this blog. Check the left side for good measure because I'm infamous for mixing up right and left.  Some call it an endearing trait, but most just shake their heads sadly at this disability.

My nutty sister, delighted at my literary impetus, announced that she received a proclamation from my parental units to order five copies of my book. However, on my account, it was registered as only one sale. Her voice kept fluttering around my ears, crashing into my subconscious like that highly dim cardinal that kept flying into the glass wall at the library in my undergraduate school. 

I was compelled to write in a complaint and I was annoyed that it was one more thing I had to worry about. Yesterday, she announced that she received one copy in the mail, and oh well, she must have not clicked five like she thought she did. Great. Now I look like a dingbat and I fear I’ve been put on an ‘Authors to Be Aware Of’ list somewhere in South Carolina or wherever the headquarters of my publishers are.

Meanwhile, I'm trying to get cracking on everything I have put on hold. In the same phone conversation, my nutty sister asked me if I received the gifts a family friend sent me for my birthday. They were delivered to me via my brother-in-law, when he came to pick up my parents two weeks ago.

As soon as he took them into his custody, my five year old, Lanes and I were whisked off to a Wiggles concert, and the gifts were left like unattended luggage under a table. Between the usual madness that goes into tending to Lanes and publishing the book, I had completely forgotten about them.

It was 11pm and my head was spinning from staring at the computer, but I rushed to check the bag out, more so tempted by the chocolates I remembered seeing inside, rather than my duty to send out the appropriate thank you card.  As I got to the living room, I noticed a random letter from the bank.

Such mail falls under the 'potential headache' category, and I wanted to save it for the morning, but my highly principled spouse, P, swooped in and gave me lecture number one hundred fifty-two about why I should go paperless with my statements.  I really thought I clicked on that option but apparently, like so many things in my life, it didn't work out for me.

I opened up the letter, all the while swearing under my breath, to find that I had incurred a $25 fee for some standard procedure. I ignored it. I don't much care for those things. Again, perhaps that's why I'm a penniless writer. 

P, highly indignant on my part, grabbed the letter from my limp clutch and said it was ridiculous.  He proceeded to give me a long winded explanation about how I should not be charged a dime considering I’ve maintained A, B and C, or something to that effect.

While he thought he was making dollars and sense, I didn't understand a word that was coming out of his mouth.  I think I have had more success understanding whale songs. He couldn’t have seemed more nonsensical to me if he started doing the Macarena and singing the Constitution backwards.

Any old how, P grabbed the phone and immediately dialed the 1-800 number for said bank. I think it was at that point, the person on the other end of the line rued the day customer service became a 24 hour job.

After much ado, and even more eye twitching for me, P got the charge removed from my account. The man we spoke to either thinks I'm a dolt, long-suffering, or a little of both.  P was rather delighted at his success. He loves being the Zorro of bank account settlements (and uncredited airline miles).

He then spent the next hour or so, calling banks and checking statements to make sure he was OK, and then he was exasperatedly delighted to find similar mistakes on his accounts.   He continued to make calls and torment various representatives at undisclosed call centers across the globe. Or North America. One never knows these days.

All I know is that I made a mental note that when I start looking for a real job next week, I’m going to avoid any form of customer service.  Meanwhile, our little Lanes is tickled pink by that “Gangam Style” song and is madly trying to figure out that dance.

She has spent most of this week planning my wedding. Apparently, P is the ‘groom’ and I have to marry him all over again.  The goal of this was two-fold.  Firstly, she feels this will remedy the big mess up we made by not inviting her to our original wedding.  Secondly, she has been longing to be a flower girl.

Lanes thinks that I’m rather incompetent because I haven’t married off any of my friends, crashed any weddings, or done any match-making to ensure that her flower girl dream comes true.  She has thus taken matters into her own hands. 

I’m sure in no time, I’ll be parading around our crazy a$$ ghetto fabulous building with clay jewelry and paper flowers with a highly flummoxed looking P, while she scatters petals on the ratty carpets that cover our hallways.

On that bright note, I guess I better go online and find a real job, before my daughter sends me on any more matrimonial related errands!  More musings from BC next week…