I Was Awesome As A Baby

I don't know anything about what I was like as a baby because my mom always mixes me up with my brother. And by "mixes up," I mean she only remembers him. She says I was "old hat" by the time I came along, but I have a lot of vintage hats and they're pretty memorable. Like, one of them is entirely covered with black feathers and fishnet. You don't see hats like that anymore. My mom has never exactly been the fashion ninja in the family, so no wonder my fleek baby self didn't make a lasting impression on her.

Security

About once a year I have to get my credit union to reset my password for online account access because their system is archaic, and this time the lady made me attempt to answer my security questions in front of her. I'm not sure which one of us was more embarrassed...

What was your dream job as a child? My dream job? At which moment in time? Gymnast, I typed. Wrong. Librarian. Error. Hairstylist. Nope. Wait, let me try one more... Construction worker. After that she took the keyboard away from me. She graciously deleted that question but now I am dying to know what I put. Clearly I had gone through some phases, but there was never any one career I had my heart set on. The answer was probably "Nothing." Duh.

Next, What is your favorite beverage? Water was a fail. After my poor performance on the first question, the teller didn't even give me another chance. I knew it wasn't Water but I didn't want her to judge me if Gin succeeded.

Where was your favorite place to vacation as a child? First of all, this question is a microaggression against the economically disadvantaged. Did we even go on any repeat vacations? Who chose my questions?? Then again, it's not my fault that they're all subjective. I guess that's supposed to make your account more secure. In my case it's more like a super strict budgeting system.

They should really let me write my own questions, because my first one would be What is the answer to your security question? and I would be so perplexed, I would probably submit some nonsense like Kuboaa that would end up being the correct answer and my password.

After failing to remember a single one of my security answers, the computer concluded that I am an idiot unworthy of online credit-unioning in the first place and denied me access at every opportunity. Two tellers and three new passwords later, I could finally login again, but I was required to set up no fewer than five new security questions! I did myself a favor and wrote down my password for once, because by this time next year I am never going to remember who I currently consider to be my kindergarten teacher or the author of my favorite book. Don't even try to steal my thousands of cents, guys. They are locked up behind riddles and no one has the key.

Single vs. Unemployed

The great thing about being single is that it affords a self-sustaining lifestyle. You don't have to be with anyone, and actually you're better off alone than with the wrong person. You can go your entire life without a significant other and be just fine. (I suppose 200 years ago this was often not the case for women, but it is now.)

Unfortunately, you can't exactly just be unemployed until the right job comes along, and shrug if it never does. That doesn't work too well.

My Name is Abra, and I Have a Problem

Women commonly have a weakness for footwear, and I am no exception. Of course by footwear we usually mean shoes, but I have always had a thing for... socks. Yep, Christmas's worst gift is what I'm drawn to like a clearance sale whenever I'm shopping. I joke a lot about having a sock problem, but I never accepted its severity until this last time I moved, filling a huge duffel bag with socks. It was time to look my sock hoarding disorder in the face.

Turns out I have more than 42 pairs of socks. I stopped counting after that, but there were a bunch more in the laundry. I have sock liners, ankle socks, slouchy socks, boot socks, slipper socks, knee-highs, thigh-highs. White, black, orange, hot pink, striped, checked, polka-dotted, even herringbone. Socks for flip-flops and socks for d'orsay shoes.

In my new place, I even have socks hanging on hangers in my closet. Maybe because my addiction has become too unruly to be stuffed away in my dresser drawer? Or maybe because those are my "fancy socks" and they deserve special care? Or both?? You decide.

She's going to miss me soooo much...

One of my mom's homestay students is going back to Japan soon, and I'm going to be so sad! Here's an exchange we had the other day:

Reika: I hate my hair! I want to dye.

Me: Don't die! You have so much to live for.

Reika: No, I want to dye it!

Me: But you look great! You don't need to diet.

The things I would do to hold your hand.

I was house-sitting for a couple of weeks while my aunt and uncle were on vacation in Italy, and the best part was that it included car-sitting too. (Is it sad that while they were in the Sistine Chapel, just having a house all to myself and a minivan to drive to my temp job seemed like a luxurious vacation to me??)

Anyway, I did miss seeing those kooky signs on my way to work, so this week when I finally rode up to the signpost again in anticipation, I didn't quite know what to make of its latest offering. It was a red heart and a pink heart holding hands (attached to scrawny arms that were the only limbs they had), and it said "LET'S COLLABORATE." ...That's all? I kept staring at it, saying it out loud, trying to find the cheesy pun, but... I couldn't find one. I think these sign-makers need a vacation themselves, because that was rather disappointing. Also, a bit incongruent: the picture looked like romance but the caption sounded like business. Unless "collaborate" is a euphemism...?

I mean, if I were tasked with composing a caption for that illustration, it would be, "I WOULD GROW A LIMB JUST TO HOLD YOUR HAND." Seriously, why am I riding past these silly signs to my silly job every day when I should obviously be designing my own line of creepy Valentine cards?

Earmuffs could use some serious rebranding though.

I started physical therapy yesterday, and when I walked into the office and saw the denim-clad receptionist against the backdrop of the lime green walls, I felt like I was in a daycare... until I heard the obnoxious pop song they were blaring. Then I didn't know where I was.

The physical therapist, who looked younger than me, introduced herself by her first name (which was something like Krystel) and kept calling me "girl." She led me into a room, saying, "My friend Jon will join us in a few minutes if you don't mind." I agreed without listening too attentively, but then I was like, Wait. Your friend? Who brings their friends to work?! What if I do mind? I figured Jon was an intern, maybe some kind of job shadow thing, someone in training? Jon turned out to just be the PT assistant. I'm not sure why the euphemism was deemed necessary. He was worse than Kristul, constantly trying to be all funny instead of giving serious responses to my questions.

I know I sound like a grumpy old man, but these people were actually really nice and probably knew what they were doing. Maybe they were just trying to be friendly to match how friendly they were about to get with my legs. I'm not the Fun Police and I'm not against a cheery atmosphere, but is there some reason professionalism is becoming outdated along with privacy and keeping commitments and earmuffs? These are all good things, fellow millennials.