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

Who Could Ask For Anything More?

Okay, so last Thursday morning, my daughter and I tore like tornados through our house, desperately trying to get the last of our moving to-do list accomplished before our flight to Chicago to (taa-daa!!) move in with Scope.

Or I did.

My daughter might have snuck away from me and my newfound best friend, Hysterical Panic (don’t call her “Hissy” if you like your nose the shape it is), to go back to sleep on my stripped bare bed. Maybe.

And I might have a picture (or three) to prove it…. but I can’t show you because I’m on Scope’s computer right now and he’s at work and….. ummm….. I have this here fancy memory card and all, but I can’t quite figure out where I’m supposed to stick it (that’s what he said) to pluck the pictures out of it like I could do on my own ‘puter back in Seattle….

….uhhhhhh….

….hmmm….

….????….

Well, anyway….

Even though I worked on it all for weeks, just packing and sorting and dumping things off at the thrift store and plugging holes in the walls with toothpaste, I somehow didn’t manage to get all the moving chores done in time before we had to leave for the airport.

*PANIC!*

And now those lucky relatives I left behind in Washington are stuck figuring out what to do with all my boxed up stuff I left piled up in my rental house.

*GUILT!*

My dad had wanted to drive it all over for me…. but then *POOF* that plan fell apart at the last minute (like, seriously, the night before I boarded my plane!), and now…. well…. word is he’ll probably be bringing some of my stuff over.

Some.

Eventually.

But he has no idea when. And he’s not sure how much he’ll be bringing. And it looks like the vast majority of my stuff is going to be locked away in a storage unit 2000 miles away from me by my mom for me to figure out how to get to Chicago myself later.

Basically, it’s complicated.

But besides the moving-with-nothing-but-a-few-bags-of-clothes-and-my-camera-and-my-Strawberry-Shortcake-Dolls-(shut)-(up) drama, my new married life is pretty damn splendiferous! :-)

Being married to Scope rocks, people! ROCKS!! Dare I say it? It rocks more than a whoppin’ big ol’ Rocky Road ice cream sundae!

Amen.

We’re happy. Like walking-around-with-big-stupid-grins-plastered-across-our-faces-which-we-can’t-seem-to-ever-wipe-off happy. Even my 13 year old daughter (who should rightfully be royally ticked at me for dragging her 2000 miles away from everything she knew) is happy and not the teeniest bit resentful….

(Except for yesterday when I forced her to try on pants for back-to-school shopping even though she loathes clothes shopping.)

(‘Cuz she’s.... umm... a different breed of teenage girl.)

(Clearly.)

Anyway, gotta run. I’m suddenly craving Rocky Road ice cream for some inexplicable reason and, lo and behold, there's a grocery store right across the darn street! Mmmmmmmm….

Bye!

© Coracabana

An End and a Beginning

Friday was the last day in San Francisco for me and Scope. :-( We had a few short hours to play before taking our flight back to Seattle, so, of course, the first thing I wanted to do was have my picture taken with our awesome doorman….


We had an almost-free breakfast (thanks to $20 worth of vouchers we had saved up by opting out of maid service two days of our trip—score!) at Scala’s Bistro. The food was delicious, but the wait staff kinda creeped me out. They were waaayyyyyy too formal and tended to walk around together in groups of three, almost as if the waiter had bodyguards.

Bizarre.

After breakfast, we walked to The Embarcadero to snap a few (or like 50) pictures. These are my favorites….










Then we had to go check out of our hotel and get ourselves back to the Oakland Airport to fly back home…. or my home, I guess…. but not really my home since I’m moving to Chicago soon *fingers crossed*, and my stuff is all half packed and whatnot….

Hmm….

So, basically, we flew back to some place that used to be home, but doesn’t feel like home now and looks like a bomb hit it and where there are no pictures on the walls anymore and boxes are piled precariously everywhere.

Totally depressing.

*sad sigh*

I ended up in tears that night, sitting in my dining room. I just bawled my face off. I’d sooooooooooooo rather be back in San Francisco, just playing, y’know? Packing up my entire life can really SUCK. But oh well….

Saturday, Scope and I went to the hospital because my sister had her baby that morning. It’s a girl! I can’t tell you her name, but I can tell you she’s named after two trees. Yes, two.

(No, not Willow Sequoia. Don’t be silly!)

(No, not Maple Nut either. C’mon, knock it off!)

*snicker*

Scope was the first one to get to hold the baby, besides her parents….


(AWWWWWWWWWWW.)

And here is the baby with her very delighted and proud big brother….


Next, the big sister (who WAS the baby until now) got to hold her….


….and she seemed to be having some second thoughts on this whole big sister business….


(Hee hee hee.)

And here I am with the baby….


….and, of course, always the class act, not only was I having an atrociously bad hair day, but I had a Janet Jackson-esque wardrobe malfunction as well and I had to leave the hospital in disgrace a few minutes after this photo was taken because one of the straps on my dress broke with a big ol’ *SNAP!* which sounded (and felt) just like someone had shot me a rubber band!

Niiiiiiiiice.

Then, most unfortunately, Sunday arrived and I was forced to take my husband to the airport and send him back to Chicago.

Without.

Me.

*curling into a ball on the floor*

That’s right. I can’t move to Chicago yet. Nope. I have to stay here in WA for awhile longer, sorting things out and waiting for the legal a-okay to move my baby out of the state.

I know.

Sucky, huh? But it's temporary. Just temporary....

© Coracabana

Alcatraz Schmalcatraz. I’m Not The Only One Who Keeps Accidentally Calling It “Azkaban”…. R-r-right?

Our fourth day in San Francisco was cold. And windy. And foggy. And, apparently, so is my memory, because I have absolutely no recollection whatsoever of where Scope and I had breakfast that morning. (????)

We bundled up in layers (no, we’re not sissies; there were people out in scarves and gloves, for chocolate’s sake!) and made our way through the fog to Pier 39….


….where we bought tickets for a boat tour around the bay.

While we waited for our tour to begin, we amused ourselves by frisking the statues….


….and getting our Tacky Tourist on by having our picture taken on a green screen….


….which is actually one of my favorite photos of the whole trip, fake-iness and all, because we, frankly, don’t have many pictures of the two of us together.

*sniff*

Once aboard our boat, we set off out into the bay, passing dozens of barking sea lions….


….including this cutie, who gave us a wink!….


(Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.)

I, of course, was armed with my camera and shot—ohhhhhhh—roughly 200 pictures on the boat that day….


No exaggeration. (It’s sad, isn’t it?) (I know.)

We passed Ghirardelli Square….


….and headed towards the Golden Gate Bridge, all cloaked mysteriously in a curtain of fog….


A seagull kept pace with us, right overhead for awhile….


….(ACK!!) but eventually he got bored with us and flew off to terrorize someone else. Thank God. I hate birds.

*shudder*

We cruised under the Golden Gate Bridge….










….and then we set off for Azkaban Alcatraz, which I have a hard time remembering is actually called Alcatraz and not Azkaban (true story), and which has caused me much ridicule in many a conversation.

*pout*

(JK Rowling, I am hereby suing you. My lawyer will be contacting you soon. So there)….












We didn’t get to actually go inside Azkaban Alcatraz or anything. We’ll have to save that adventure for a future trip. But it was still absolutely incredible taking the boat tour all the way around the island.

Wow.

After Azkaban Alcatraz, I had to sit down and stop taking pictures for awhile because I started feeling worryingly seasick. Weird. I’ve never been seasick in my life.

Never.

I blame the Dementors. Clearly.

I was most relieved as we headed back to the pier. I definitely needed to be anywhere but on a swaying boat on the sloshing water. Like right away!!

The sea lions welcomed us back. And so did a couple of pelicans….


After lugging my queasy self off that boat, Scope and I stopped in Biscoff Coffee Corner for some hot chocolate (which came with free cookies!! WOOT!!)….


I don’t know if it was the hot chocolate or the cookies (maybe both) but after our stop at Biscoff’s, I was feeling much, much better.

We looked around Pier 39 for awhile and bought a couple of souvenirs and I made friends with this fella….


….while Scope found someone who made him feel runty for once….


….and then there was an impromptu meeting of the redheads….



We saw the famous Fisherman’s Wharf sign, of course….


….and then we hopped a bus to Golden Gate Park, where we snagged one more quick look at the bridge….


….then took a walk through the beautiful park to get to the California Academy of Sciences Museum, where we had our picture taken on a green screen yet again….


Ha! You can still see the green screen through my hair. I look like I’m molding! Or like I’m Beetlejuice! But I don’t care. I plunked down the $30 for the picture anyway because it is a picture of the two of us, and so I love it, darn it!

We had lunch inside the museum, then we checked out their Living Roof….


….which soooooooo reminded me of the Teletubbies!

*gag*

We also checked out the Extreme Mammals exhibit, which was so extreme (almost-unending standing, walking and reading) that we were both thrashed by the end of it and decided to bail.

*yawn*

We went back to our hotel and had a much-needed nap. Then we hit Cheesecake Factory for dinner. Mm-mm-mmmmm....

© Coracabana