Polo!

Hey there. Yep, I’m still alive.... although you’re totally forgiven if you thought otherwise due to my sudden callous abandonment of Blogaritaville. I suck. Clearly.

And I’m also in Seattle.

I’m staying at my mom’s house for the holidays. I’ve been here for five lonnnnnngggggggggg days without Scope (who had to stay in Chicago a wee bit longer due to work) and without my daughter (who had to go stay with her dad for Christmas until the 26th).

*sniffle*

But things are looking up. Scope is aboard a plane right this very second, zooming his way across the sky towards me. He’s over South Dakota right about now. I know because I’m stalking him tracking his flight. See?….


That’s my hubba hubba hubby’s plane. Pretty snazzy, huh? I know! His plane will be landing in about two hours and I’ll be picking him up in the airport.

Squeeeeeeeeeeee!!

Oh—and it just so happens to be Scope’s birthday today too.... so, of course, I’ll be wearing this at the airport….


God, it’s FUN being married to a gloriously geeky, tastily techy, mega-marvelous man!!!!

:-)

I have many stories to tell you, Blogaritaville, but I’m not sure how much blogging time I will have over the next week or so. So, just in case I don’t make it back here in a timely manner, MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

© Coracabana

Oh Baby!

So, we spent Thanksgiving weekend at Scope’s parents’ house where there’s this—this—hey, wait a minute…. Have I ever bothered to describe Scope’s parents’ house to you before? Hmm?….

No?

Oh. Huh. Well, lemme try to paint a mental picture of it for you: it’s simultaneously an antique hunter’s heaven, a garage sale guru’s jungle gym, an eBay excavator’s bouncy house, and a thrift store surfer’s wicked wild wave. How’s that for summing it up? ;-)

The house is bursting full (FULL) of old collections. We’re talking dolls, buttons, skeleton keys, pins, photographs, figurines, books, plates, linens, artwork, and all kinds of other antique-ish goodies and treasures. You could spend a week exploring in there and still not see it all, I swear! It’s really quite something.

The doll collection sits posed around a chair on the recreation room floor near the couch where my daughter sleeps when we are staying there. Gwen has outgrown dolls, of course, but she doesn’t mind sharing the room with them.

Except for this one:


I’m told his name is “Little Brother.” He looks perfectly innocent and harmless, right? Absolutely. Yet for some truly mysterious, inexplicable reason he frightens the living heck out of Gwen. She actually has panic attacks when she sees him. And there’s no use throwing a blanket over him or turning his back to the room or anything like that, no, no, no, because just knowing he is there is enough to freak Gwen out.

We’re talking about a 14 year old girl here. A 14 year old girl whose room at home is full of skeleton figurines and black bats hanging from the damn ceiling! So, I’m having a little trouble seeing what is so terrifying about a baby doll.

Aren’t you?

I mean…. it’s not like he watches you, unblinking, in the shadows with a sinister stare….


It’s not like his depraved eyes follow you across the room as he plots his evil plans….


It’s not like he lingers closer…. and closer, licking his vile lips while you change your clothes….


It’s not like he has a terrifying temper and an axe to grind….


It’s not like he climbs soundlessly into your bed and leans over you, maliciously smirking while you sleep and startles you awake when you feel his foul breath on your face….


It’s not like his unholy hand lunges out and grabs you as you scream and struggle to get away….


It’s not like he has a perverse taste for human flesh and the last thing you’ll ever see is Satan reflected in his eyes….


Nope. Nothing like that. He’s just a baby doll. Sweet dreams, Blogaritaville.

:-P

© Coracabana

Why I Miss Animaniacs (Exhibit 1)

Ummm…. how the heck did the censors miss THIS????….



Nice one!

*snicker*

© Coracabana

Darling, You’ve Got To Let Me Know, Should I Stay Or Should I Go?

Soo, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (part 1) is FINALLY out in theaters today!

*geeky, spazzy, happy dance*

And I’m SOOOOOOOOO excited about it, I hardly slept a wink last night! ‘Cuz if there’s one thing I really rock at, it’s getting ridiculously overexcited about all things Potterific!

*squeal*

(I mean, please, you’re talking to a girl who made a Voldemort piñata out of paper mache all so she could enjoy watching Voldemort getting his butt beaten.)

(Three diferent times.)

(Yep.)



Ahhhhhh, I love me some Harry Potter!!!!

*WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!*

I’ve already reread book 7 (for the fourth time) up to the point where the movie will be split, just so it’s all fresh in my head. And my Hogwarts schoolgirl costume (hubba hubba) has been unearthed and is hanging in the closet waiting to be worn.

(Yes, out in public.)

(Well, maybe.)

(If I can still squeeze myself into it.)

(Shut up.)

And Scope, Gwen and I already have our tickets to catch the movie tonight once Gwen is back from school and Scope is back from work. But, still, I’m torn…. It’s almost like there is a wee evil horcrux-making devil whispering in one ear…. while a tiny lightning bolt-scarred angel is whispering in the other….


Wee Evil Horcrux-Making Devil: “Psssst! Hey, you! Ginger!”

Me: “Whaaa—? You talkin’ to me?”

Wee Evil Horcrux-Making Devil: “Duh. D’you see Carrot Top here, honey?!”

Me: “Uhh. No. No, thank God!! Christ, that would suck big hairy hyena ba—”

Wee Evil Horcrux-Making Devil: “Shut up! I’ve got an idea. Listen up. Scope’s at work today, right?”

Me: “….Right.”

Wee Evil Horcrux-Making Devil: “And your kid is at school, right?”

Me: “….Yeah…. And?”

Wee Evil Horcrux-Making Devil: “Well, then why not sneak your Muggle self on over to the theater and catch the movie now? Huh? You could see it twice! You know you want to. Who’s here to stop you?”

Me: “But the three of us are going to see it togeth—“

Wee Evil Horcrux-Making Devil: “Pfffffft! They’ll never know! That’s the beauty of it!”

Tiny Lightning Bolt-Scarred Angel: “NO! STOP! DON’T LISTEN TO HIM!”

Me: “*gasp* Are you my Harry-Potter-shoulder-angel-voice-of-reason-conscience-thingie?!”

Tiny Lightning Bolt-Scarred Angel: “Yes, genius. Nice schoolgirl outfit. I can see right down your shir—well, never mind. Listen, ignore the Dork Lord over there, ‘kay? He’s a putz. Just walk away. Seeing the movie behind your family’s back would be awesome, yeah, but it would also be selfish and wrong. Repeat after me: It would be SELFISH and WRONG.”

Me: “It would be—wait, you can see down my what?!”

Tiny Lightning Bolt-Scarred Angel: “*whistling innocently*”

Wee Evil Horcrux-Making Devil: “C’mon, don't listen to that guy! He's trying to lead you down the path of righteousness. I'm gonna lead you down the path that ROCKS!!”

Tiny Lightning Bolt-Scarred Angel: “Oh, come off it!”

Wee Evil Horcrux-Making Devil: “YOU come off it!”

Tiny Lightning Bolt-Scarred Angel: “You!”

Wee Evil Horcrux-Making Devil: “You!”

Tiny Lightning Bolt-Scarred Angel: You!”

Wee Evil Horcrux-Making Devil: “You infinity!”

Tiny Lightning Bolt-Scarred Angel: “Grrr.”


Gah!

You see what I mean, right? These opinionated, runty, Emperor’s New Groove-plagiarizing, little dudes have been arguing in my ears for days. And I’m so confused! Should I stay? Should I go? Or should I whack ‘em both with a flyswatter? WHAT?!?!

Oy.

© Coracabana

The Joy of Six

So, six years ago today I nearly died from a massive blood clot in my spinal cord which ruptured, flooded my spine and caused all kinds of drama in my body and in the lives of the perplexed doctors in the ER that day. Uh-huh.

That picture up there is my favorite picture in the whole world. (Yes, really.) That picture saved my life. It is my actual MRI which showed the Neurologist all the missing pieces of the puzzle. Without that picture, I would have bled to death internally in the ER, never knowing what was wrong with me.

See the dark blob in my spine where the arrow is pointing? That was the blood clot. If you’d palmed the clot into a orb, it would have been the size of a golf ball, they told me. And that is HUGE.

(Eww, I know.)

Statistically, I should not be here. Statistically, blood clots in spinal cords are exceptionally rare, but the freak times they actually occur they almost always kill. And, if by some miracle they don’t kill, they always (ALWAYS) result in paralysis. Statistically, I wasn’t supposed to walk out of that hospital.

But I did.

My Neurologist calls me “Miracle” and says I’m famous in his universe. He excitedly shows me off, yelling, “you’ll never see anyone like this again! NEVER!” whenever he has students in his office.

I had spinal surgery six years ago today knowing at the time that I would either wake up paralyzed or not wake up at all. But, nope. I woke up in much better condition than anyone expected. Instead of paralysis, I ended up with nerve damage on my entire right side from my armpit down. But—eh—big deal.

What’s nerve damage like? Well, it’s a bizarre mixed bag, really. It means I have an extremely sensitive elbow which hurts A LOT whenever anything touches it, I have a numb (ish) foot, I have a numb (ish) leg, and I’m only ticklish on one side. It means that when I sit in a chair, I pretty much only feel half my ass there because I have a numb (ish) butt cheek. And it means I have a numb (ish) boob (nicknamed Beelzeboob! – *snicker*) which, oddly, refuses to stay put in my bra now and which I introduced to y’all way back in THIS TMI THURSDAY POST….


(Ahhhhhh, that picture never gets old!)

(But anyway….)

Bizarre boob and numb ass aside, I know I’m really, really, REALLY lucky. I know I’m lucky with every step I take. And so today, November 18th, is MY day. That’s right, I own it. So there.

*sticking out tongue*
I usually try to do something nice for myself every November 18th and, if I can swing it, I typically take the day off work. But since I’m not working right now (and, NOOOOO, shut it, I’m not being a bum! - Scope and I have agreed it will be best for me to wait on the whole job-hunting quest until after the holidays, ‘kay?), I can’t exactly take the day off work today, now can I? No.

So, Scope is going to take the day off instead!

*SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!*

Scope is playing hooky with me today and has plans for the two of us which do not involve us leaving home, from what I’ve heard…. and…. uhhh…. hmm…. why the hell am I over here blogging?!…. ummm…. yeeeaaahhhh…. I.... uhh.... gotta go!.... :-)



© Coracabana

Chopped!

Back when we were in Seattle, my daughter and I didn’t have cable TV.

(*gasp* I know.)

As a single mom, I just simply couldn’t justify actually PAYING to watch TV (whaaaaaaaaa—?) So, screw it, we didn’t. And I have no regrets on that, because if I had plunked down all that hard-earned moolah for a bunch of stupid TV shows, I seriously doubt I would have been able to afford to take my baby to Disneyland the two times we went…. and I would much rather have had those Disneyrific vacations than cable TV.

Hands.

Down.

So, we survived with our free basic local TV channels (well, minus PBS and CBS, which would never ever come through! *sniff*) and our piece of crud converter box which kinda sorta maybe worked when it felt like playing nicely with others and wasn’t PMSing or dropping nine words out of every ten word sentance or pixelating the images sooooooooooooooooo badly that I often thought I was watching a game of Tetris.


Nice, huh?

Yep.

And, for obvious reasons, we never really watched much TV. It was too frustrating to be honest.

Of course, I knew that would all change once we moved in with Scope. Scope, like 99.99999999999999999999999% of you reading this, has cable TV.

Me, personally, I’m still not too fussed about the TV. I like me some Dr. Oz every now and then and I admit I’m looking forward to American Idol starting up again (Steven Tyler???? As a judge???? Seriously???? C’mon!!!!), but otherwise—eh—I don’t really care what’s on TV. Even with cable. Whatever.

But my daughter…. she feels a little differently.

Gwen is LOOOOOOOOOOOVING cable TV.

*insert the sound of angles singing: “laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”*

And, oddly, her favorite channel is not MTV. Nor the Disney Channel. Nor anything else you might expect a 14 year old girl to gravitate towards. Nope. Her favorite channel is Food Network. And her favorite show is Chopped.


If you haven’t seen Chopped yet, lemme sum it up for you like this: you take four chefs and force them to compete against each other creating a three course meal out of completely insane “mystery ingredients” (grasshoppers, raw lamb hearts and gummy vampire fangs, anyone?!) which they need to throw together into (hopefully) tasty (or at least roughly edible) meals in a ridiculously small amount of time without managing to poison any of the judges.

Gwen adores it. And Friday afternoon Gwen asked me if she, Scope and I could have our own Chopped competition here at home over the weekend.

Hmmm. Interesting.

So, we did.

We simplified it, of course. We focused on creating desserts only, not a three course meal. We each picked one mystery ingredient with which to spring in each others' gob-smacked faces (with evil glints glinting in our eyes) which had to be included in the desserts and we had 30 (ish) minutes to throw our masterpieces together.

And, oy, it wasn’t easy.

*whew!*

Here is how the Cora, Scope and Gwen version of Chopped played out yesterday afternoon:

Gwen’s mystery ingredient was: semi-sweet chocolate chips….


My mystery ingredient was: cherry flavored Craisins….


And Scope’s mystery ingredient was: crescent roll dough….


Scope created these yummy little doughy muffin thingies topped with melted chocolate chips infused with Craisins and marshmallows and topped with vanilla pudding and powdered sugar….


While Gwen made these ultra cute teeny sandwiches filled with melted chocolate chips, Craisins and marshmallows….


And I got out my Harry Potter party candy molds and made marzipan-filled chocolate frogs on Craisinified cresent roll lily pads sprinkled with powdered sugar….


We noshed on each others’ desserts until we felt a little nauseous (or at least I did anyway) (blah) and then we voted. We judged each other on creativity, taste and presentation. I lost a few points because my chocolate frogs were still chillin’ in the fridge when my 30 minutes were up. (*sniffle*) And once all the votes were tallied, Gwen announced the winner:


SCOPE!!!!

Of course, now Gwen is begging for a rematch and, because we are still suffering with icky sugar high hangovers today (*cranky shudder*), Scope and I are thinking of ditching the whole dessert plan and making the rematch all about appetizers instead.

(Hmmm.... just what do grasshoppers taste like anyway?.... Chicken?)

(Sorry, Gwen!)

So, congratulations to my hubba hubba hubby, Scope, our Chopped Champion of desserts! YAY!!!!

But, uhh, don’t get too attached to that title, dear, ‘cuz next time I’m kicking that cute little rear of yours!

*pinky swear*

;-)

© Coracabana

You Know You’ve Been a Nanny Waaaaayyyyy Too Long When….

….You offer to tie your husband’s shoe for him in the grocery store.

And then you double-knot it.

Just sayin.’

© Coracabana

You Say It’s Your Birthday?

So, today is my daughter’s birthday. Unfortunately, it’s also The Big Bad Ugly Test Day at school too, so—y’know—she’ll be celebrating her arrival on this planet by fretting and sweating over test papers alllllllllllllllllllll daaaaayyyyyy lonnnnngggggggg.

(Poor kiddo.)

(See, this is why when I was a kid I was always relieved my birthday was smack dab in the middle of Summer where the only thing I had to worry about was whether or not I could shovel my cake in my belly before the ice cream melted.)

(Yeeeaaahhhhh!!!!)

However, all is not lost. Tonight Scope and I will be taking her out to dinner at Olive Garden, taking her out for dessert at Cold Stone, and then plying her with a plethora of presents…. even though I kinda think that SHE should be giving ME presents on her birthday since she was over NINE POUNDS at birth and I AM THE ONE WHO DID ALL THE WORK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*pouting*

But wait! There’s more! Today is also my friend Callista’s birthday too. Funny how that one worked out, huh?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GWEN AND CALLISTA!!

:-)

Now, please excuse me, I need to go walk a million miles on my treadmill so I won’t have to feel too guilty when I’m making a big pig of myself at Cold Stone later on. Bye!

© Coracabana

Something Wicked This Way Comes

So, voters were presented with candidates. Voters went to the polls. Votes were cast. Votes were tallied. And a winner was just announced.

Me.

Uh-huh.

What?…. Oh. Yeahyeahyeah, I know there are a couple other election type thingies and whatnot going on today—pffffffft!—but whatever, I’m not talking about them; I’m talking about the one election I could actually get behind (and vote in, thanks to the fact that I moved cross-country and totally forgot to re-register in time (which really (poli)tics me off! – hee hee!)) this year: Beckeye’s Big Wicked Online Pageant.

I won it, people! I have just been crowned Ms. Wicked for that Safari Gone BAD costume I posted last week!


YEEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

(So, see, jerks from high school who laughed your ridiculously big-haired, Bon Jovi-lovin’ butts off at me for sewing a cute teddy bear in Home Ec, pointless sewing skillz DO come in handy! So there!)

Thanks for the votes, you guys! I appreciate it!

:-)

© Coracabana

The Big Wicked Online Pageant

Because I’m feeling Halloweeny (lucky Halloweeny! *ba dum tish*), today I’m taking part in Beckeye’s Big Wicked Online Pageant, which, as I choose to understand it, is kinda like a costume contest AND a time machine all globbed deliciously together in a Phish Food Ice Cream-esque way.

(Mmmmmmm…. ice cream-esque….)

Beckeye’s rules say I’m supposed to show off a photo of a costume from a Halloween past and post it here today—and then if I am truly a rock star and some people vote for me and stuff, I might win (*fingers crossed*) an actual prize!

SWEEEEEEEEEEEET!!

[If you too want to participate or vote for me (*batting eyelashes*) or if you just wanna read the non-Coraified version of the rules, you can do so HERE AT THIS LINK.]

Okay, so I couldn’t make up my mind on which picture to post. So, I’m giving you two. (Two.) (Two costumes in one.)

Hmm?

What?

Cheating?

No, no, no—I’m not cheating! Really! I’m just indecisive! I mean, asking me to pick just ONE picture is like asking me to eat just ONE Hershey’s Kiss! It just ain’t gonna happen, people, ‘kay?!

Seriously.

So, shhhhhhh, don’t tell anyone I posted two pictures. That’ll be our little secret, just you and me. And when you go over to Beckeye’s blog to vote for me (hint, hint) just erase from your mind whichever picture of mine you like least and only remember the one you like most, okidoki? Cool.

So, here we go.

My first picture is from Halloween 1982. I was ten and my mom made this costume for me because I begged her alllllllllllllllll Summer lonnnnngggggg for it….


Yeah. I was Ms. Pac-Man. And your point is….?

My second picture is from Halloween 2006. I was—uhhh—30-something-ish and, inheriting my mom’s talent for making ridiculous costumes by hand, I made it myself….


I called it “A Safari Gone Bad”. Basically, I was wearing a safari shirt and hat, I was inside a huge cooking pot I made out of felt which was being held into the air by a monkey. My legs were actually inside the monkey’s legs, so when I walked around it appeared the monkey was the one walking and carrying me around in a cooking pot. Not too shabby, eh? ;-)

Okay, so that’s it. Please visit Beckeye’s blog at the link above, check out the other bloggers participating, and then vote your Halloween-lovin’ guts out!

Go! Go! GO!!!!

© Coracabana

Because You Gotta Have Priorities

So, my mom will be flying into town tomorrow to spend four days with me, Scope and Gwen. Isn’t that nice?

*curling into a ball on the floor*

This will be her first trip to Chicago and her first time seeing our new home. Isn’t that wonderful?

Scope and I have been feverishly and furiously trying to get the condo ready (aka cleaning and decorating) before she gets here…. in *glancing nervously at the clock and shuddering* just over 24 hours from now. Isn’t that peachy?

*pounding my fists on the floor, wailing, “why? WHY? WHHHYYYYY?????” and totally ticking off the neighbors…. again*

And, yet, with all the numerous chores still splattered all over my to-do list, I can’t seem to tear my sorry, slackerized self away from picnik.com, where I keep horrifically Halloweenifying perfectly innocent family portraits.

Like this.


And this.


Mom will totally understand when she gets here and her bed sheets aren’t clean yet…. r-r-right?

© Coracabana

Step 1: See My Posterior. Step 2: Kiss It.

So, Scope and I have these neighbors who live one floor below us and I’m pretty certain they are the loony, snot-nosed descendants of Mr. Heckles from Friends. They are snooty, uberpicky and chronically unhappy about random everyday totally normal noises emanating from our condo.

And their constant complaining is SOOOOOOOOOOOO annoying.

*gnashing my teeth*

I’ve met them once. ONCE. When we were struggling to stuff a mammoth glass display case into the elevator on Moving Day. They walked into the lobby, stared at us, rolled their eyes and then took the stairs up.

Nice.

Very nice.

No introductions. No ‘hey, welcome to the building!’ sentiments. No flipping offer to flipping help us with that flipping, flipping heavy display case, the flipping flippers!!!! Nothing but snottiness. And it hasn’t gotten any better from there.

Nope.

They email us now. Oh joy. They email us to lecture and whine and cry and throw hissy fits about what awful neighbors we are because they can *gasp* hear us when we are home.

Yep.

We’re not talking complaints about excessive or ridiculous noises here. No, no, no. It’s not like Scope and I are screaming at each other, having bowling tournaments in our hallway, yodeling “Welcome to the Jungle” or having Richard Simmons and Gilbert Gottfried over for dinner. Nope. We’re talking complaints about average, normal, everyday life noises here. Noises everyone else in this building has the privilege of making without getting hate mail from their neighbors.

Gah!

Last night they sent us ANOTHER rude email. Our horrific crime this time? They heard us walking across our dining room floor.

Yeah.

Walking.

Across the dining room.

Ooh.

Tragic.

Are you kidding me???? Who on Earth emails someone to complain about stuff like THAT???? Who????

That is completely ridiculous, of course. Completely. Ridiculous. When did walking across one’s own dining room become offensive? Hmm? What are we supposed to do, scoot around the house with pillows on our rears until we effectively learn how to levitate from room to room to avoid irritating the Heckles Herd (which is what I am hereby nicknaming them since they’ve never bothered to even tell me their real names: Adolph and Cruella Heckles. Heh heh heh)?

Needless to say last night’s email was the last straw. Scope is boiling mad now (and Scope NEVER gets mad, people!!) and is brewing up a scalding, blistering reply email as we speak.

(Give ‘em hell, Hubba Hubba Hubby!!!!)

As for me, I tend to fight like a girl. Sneakily. Sooo.... the next time I cross our dining room floor, I fully intend to do it while tap dancing in a bikini made of cow bells while banging pots and pans together and yelling "AYIYIYIYIYIYIYIYIYIYIYI!!" like Xena.

So there!

© Coracabana

How I Like My Hos, Yo

So, I’m sitting here eating dollar store knockoff Ho-Hos.

(Or Faux Hos, if you will.)

(*snicker*)

And I’m thinking these suckers are pretty darn good for a dollar.

Yep.

*awkward silence*

And that’s all the wisdom I have for you today.

Sorry.

© Coracabana

And Now For An Actual Conversation With My 13 Year Old Daughter

[Yeah, I know I already told this tale over on Facebook, but it still slays me, so I figure it’s worth repeating here. :-) ]


I was walking my daughter, Gwen, to school the other morning when off in the distance I saw a white stone figure in a neighbor's yard and I thought it was a Halloween skeleton. Cool! I pointed it out to Gwen, but as we got closer I realized it wasn't a skeleton after all.

"Oh, wait, never mind—it’s just Jesus," I said.

Maybe I need new glasses or something, I dunno, because it turned out it wasn’t Jesus either….

Nope.

It was a donkey.

And Gwen said, "Mom! Did you just call Jesus an ASS?!"

*sigh*

Christ. I doubt I'll be living this down any time soon.

© Coracabana

Identity Crisis

Ever since marrying Scope last month (*squeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!*) I have been grappling with the slow, sweaty, hulking task of changing my name, address, and phone number on—well—everything.

And sometimes it just ain’t easy. Grrrrr.

It seems that, while some agencies (my Target credit card, for example) are content to let me change any and all info I want just by placing a two minute phone call (E-Z), other agencies are not quite so accommodating and refuse to allow such shenanigans to transpire without proper documentation and/or the handing over of my first-born child.

Thus, my identity is a chaotic kaleidoscope right now, with all my info changed in some places (yay!), none of it changed in others (boo!), and, most frustrating of all, just part of my info changed in still more places (gah!), and half the time I have a hard time remembering who the heck I am.

For example, in some places I am Cora Newname living in Chicago, but in others I am Cora Oldname living in Seattle; in some places I am Cora Newname living in Seattle, while in others I am Cora Oldname living in Chicago; and, most fun of all, at one of my banks I am Cora Newname living in Seattle with a Chicago phone number and a debit card which says “Cora Newname” but checks on the same account which say “Cora Oldname”, etc, etc, etc.

You get the point. It’s confusing!!!! I can’t keep it all straight, trying to remember who I am and where I live every time I deal with different agencies.

Wednesday I signed into my eBay account and changed my name, address and phone number in a mere handful of seconds simply be clicking the edit button. Sweet. And once I announced myself as Cora Newname on eBay, I figured I’d better hurry on over to eBay’s evil twin sister, Paypal, and change all my info there before the whattheheck alarm sounded. I was trying to be a good girl, see? Ebay owns Paypal, of course, so they share information, thus, changing my info in Paypal would be just as easy as changing in it eBay had been, right?

Umm…. no.

For some reason, even though I’d just changed my name, address and phone number in eBay without an issue, when I attempted the same stunt over in Paypal, Paypal promptly handed me a dunce cap and made me go sit in the corner. I got an error message telling me I wasn’t allowed to change all that information at once (clearly, I’m the first woman to ever get married and move in with my new husband, and, according to Paypal, I’m a freak) and because I’d just raised a big ol’ red fraud flag, I was told that to proceed with any changes I wanted to make I had to first verify my identity by allowing Paypal to call me at home.

My old home.

2000 miles away.

At the phone number I was trying to change.

*crickets*

I wasn’t allowed to submit any other phone number for use in verifying my identity because, according to Paypal, my identity could only be verified at my ex-phone number. Clearly.

Wow.

Just wow.

Of course, there’s no way that plan is ever going to work. Ever. (Unless I send my sister over to my ex-house to fraudulently verify my identity for me.) (Tempting, but wrong.) So, I emailed Paypal a plea for help.

*ticked off sigh*

I’ve had spaztastic problems with Paypal before (don’t ask) and, in my experience, emailing Paypal pleas for help rarely leads to anything resembling anything help-like whatsoever. But rather than calling Paypal and being on hold for 17,983,666 hours, I figured I’d try emailing first.

Why not? I might get lucky and get a response from someone without a God complex and with a little—oh, I dunno—good old fashioned common sense, right?

It could happen.

No, really.

So, I got a reply the next day telling me they are allowing me to change my address (yay!) and phone number (cool!), but…. to change my name, they told me I now have to mail them copies of my Illinois driver’s license (which I don’t have yet because I’m still waiting on bills in my new name to arrive to prove my residence to the State of Illinois) and…. (….wait for it….) ….copies of my bank statements and credit card statements.

*big, burly, carnivorous crickets*

Excuse me?

Copies of my bank statements and credit card statements? Why does Paypal think they need those? I’m NOT sending Paypal THOSE!!!! That’s waaaayyyyyyyy too personal! I’d feel less violated spreading ‘em in the stirrups and letting Paypal give me a pelvic exam, okay?!

Surely there are less insane ways of proving I’m Cora Newname to Paypal than sending Paypal my BANK AND CREDIT CARD STATEMENTS! Are you kidding me?! That’s sooooooooooo not going to happen. C’mon!

Eloquent, sophisticated, and ubermature memo to Paypal: Kiss it, jerks. I’ll keep my old name. Thanks.

© Coracabana