Not like, I couldn't bring myself to open a bank account with both our names on it, but I actually was not able to do it. Due to banking regulations. Or some crap.
I opened the account online, at a bank where we've had a history of joint accounts. Where we have a joint account. One that's been open for well over a decade. At a bank where we borrowed a large sum of money recently when the decision was made to Keep the House. A large sum of money to be used toward the Upkeep of the House. A large sum of money tied to both of our names, birthdates, and social security numbers.
But I couldn't open a $500 savings account in both our names.
I thought it was because I couldn't figure out how to do it online. I'm sort of a techtard when it comes to that sort of stuff. I thought it was because I was missing something. So I called the 888 number.
Remember when things were sold on television and you had to dial 1-800-USA-1000? I wonder what happened to that number. Or what sort of clearinghouse operation that was. To direct you to the right department for the Franklin Mint plate you wanted or the Ginzu knife warehouse.
The banklady at the other end of the 888 line told me that if I wanted Dave on my account, I would have to bring him and his ID to a bank branch with me. I couldn't just add him onto the account, regardless of our banking history.
Is that, like, a thing badguys do? Steal your identity and put you on savings accounts with them?
Or maybe couples who aren't getting along?
Put their partner on a savings account and let them think that everything is fine until you totally wipe them out and run off to Florida or something?
What his physical presence and a state- or federal- issued form of identification is going to do to stop me from moving to Florida when we accumulate enough dollars to viably support me I have no idea.
Not that I plan to move to Florida.
I'm just saying.
I could talk about this sort of crap all day.
I have issues with authority.
I recognize these issues.
That's a step in the right direction.
A friend of mine asked me yesterday if someone was planning to throw me a baby shower.
If they are, I'm not planning on going. I HATE baby showers. And bridal showers. HATE. It takes an awful lot to get me to go to one, even if I dearly love the person being showered. I certainly don't want to be obligated to go to one.
So, I said no. I don't really need anything anyway. I feel like baby showers are just a place to get a whole bunch of crap that you'll never use. Namely: the cheapest baby clothes and chemical sundries your friends and family can find in the clearance racks. And two: places to put your baby. Baby containment units.
She laughed and said that she was talking to a friend of hers, a friend who specializes in early infancy and other important stuff, and her friend was all fired up about how if she could do one thing in her life, she would stop the women in this country from jamming their babies in plastic buckets.
Of course most women don't jam their babies in plastic buckets. Most.
Literally speaking, of course.
But have you ever been in a baby section of your local department store? It's aisles and aisles of plastic buckets in which to store your children.
I have plenty of plastic buckets for my baby already. Places to put him when I need him to not be on me nor on the floor.
Except the bucket that goes in the car. I still need to pick that one up. My $1000 weekend rendered me carseatless last week. Maybe this will be the one.
A different friend and I were talking years ago about the things that our parents and families did to our babies that make us cringe. Her mom wrapped her baby in a whole bunch of blankets, laid him in a laundry basket, and wedged him on the backseat floor of the car because the carseat was difficult to work. Of course it happened several times before she found out.
We had our first B Movie show last night. It was a lot of fun to do, and my poster is outside of the theater. That picture I don't love? Practically (if not actually) lifesize. But it's fun to have it there.
The coffee pot that I'm holding in that picture was my grandparents. It still works. It's a drip-a-lator. At least that's what my grandpa called it.
The burglars didn't take that from me. There are a lot of things that mean something to me that they didn't take. It's just hard to get past the "every piece of jewelry that I own" thing.
I sat in on a trauma training earlier this week. It was good, but I was hoping I'd learn something new. It was pretty much just a recap of the billion hours I put in last year to get that certification. Luckily it was sort of shallow, because a lot of people there were hearing this stuff for the first time and it's sort of hard to hear. For the first time or the hundred and first time.
It really hits home for a lot of us, and it's not often that we go to trainings that do that. More likely, we go to trainings that we can use for our clients.
You know, them.
The trainer went over the ACE Study, which is a great place for us people to poke around in. You know, us people. Middle class white folk. Because it's a public health study done on middle class white folk. That's pretty different than a lot of stuff out there.
Since it began, it has been replicated with other populations, and it seems a good measure of things.
Things that there are lots of people working hard every day to make better.