Apr
13

Splish.

Thursday I signed onto my checking account and found my money missing. “J’accuse!” shrilled the minus sign before my balance, and I scrolled through my transactions in a panic. How had this happened? The $200 in overdraft fees lovingly applied by my bank hadn’t helped, but it appeared the real culprit was a mysterious transfer to an unfamiliar account. The account number was followed by the initials CA—California? Was someone in California stealing my money? Squirreling away my hard-earned nickels to spend on organic produce and Mystic Tan sessions?

The next hour was a busy one, what with all the tears, confused phone calls, and flushes of shame and futility. I could chronicle every excruciating second, but why keep you in suspense? Somebody was siphoning money from my account into their own: Me.

To explain, I must take you BACK IN TIME, all the way to LAST WEEK. If I cast my mind back to this forgotten era, I can remember that my bank was located in the same building as my office, some 25 minutes from my apartment. Having just officially(!) resigned(!) from my job, I decided to open a new checking account ( “CA”) at a bank closer to home. I transferred money from my old account to open the new one, and then…I promptly forgot about it.

Did I redirect my automatic withdrawals to the new account? No, of course not! Did I retain any memory of opening the account at all? Well, sort of, in that I kept checking the mail for my new debit card, but I failed to recall both 1) that actual money had been required to set up the account, and 2) the provenance of said funds.

I have never screwed myself more efficiently. Following years of subtler, more complicated self-sabotage, the directness ought to be refreshing. At least that’s what I told myself as I kissed my money goodbye.

Happily, the next day was much better:
First Bath
After more than two months of lolling about in her own filth, Simone had her first bath.

She loved it. I loved it. One of her favorite nurses held her upright while I washed her slippery little limbs (Simone’s limbs), and at one point I started to giggle—I think it was while utilizing what appeared to be a hospital-issue Barbie comb.
“This is the most fun I have had…Well, ever.”

After the bath, I dried Simone with a warmed blanket and dressed her in one of those snap-laden garments all the babies are wearing. Where did all this snapping take place, you ask?
Oh, just in her CRIB.
Yes! A crib! All open to the air, and whatnot, so that I can rush over and touch her whenever I feel the need. Don’t mind me—it’s just your mother, rubbing your fat little belly.

Excuse the tardiness of my epiphany, but OH MY GOD. I have a baby.

By Alexa | Posted in Ceci N'est Pas Une Ecrivaine |