On Probable Cause

Ever since my grandfather went into the nursing home we've been helping my grandmother get all the finances and insurances and assorted paperwork in her name.

Most recently, it was decided that she needed somebody new to have joint access to her checking account, in case there is an emergency and she is out of town or in a coma or otherwise incapable of reaching her money.

Her daughter, my aunt, can't legally do it as she has power of attorney over that account and that would represent a conflict of interests. My mom can't do it because she works at minimum ten hours a day, six days a week. Also, she divorced my dad twenty years ago.

So guess who got signed up for the job, due to his complete unemployment and total availability (assuming you count nocturnalism as availability)?

That's right, boys and girls. If my grandmother drops dead from any mysterious accident, I have to hope no major transactions were made recently, because I can expect a call from Lenny Briscoe et al wondering what the neerdowell grandson was up to, worming his way into grandma's pocketbook.

This is in fact what the little Hispanic lady working our transaction thought. I was cool with handing over my ID, and the phone number was fine and I even recognize that doling out my social is perfectly acceptable now, there are just vague dystopian sci-fi elements to it. Once she asked me what my annual income was I was livid. I hate that question. Apparently it's the most important question any advertiser can ask you because it breaks down who buys what, but you know what? Fuck you. What fucking right do you have to ask me about how much I earn? That's none of your goddam business, assholes.

Eeeexcept if its a bank asking. That's, uh, kind of all their business is, in fact.

I swallowed my outrage and moved forward, butfor me moving forward entailed me saying, "Well, I just graduated, so I'm unemployed." Technically I'm six months unemployed, but she didn't ask that. What she did ask makes her a bitch-and-a-half. Maybe five-eighths.

"But you must do something…," she said.

Fuck you, whore, I'm a mutherfuggin writer. I write books an shit you ain't heard of. Sooo I told her I'm in the process of writing a book so I make nothing right now, but I thought a really angry face at her. Hopefully somewhere in her head she saw me being really angry and the words "Que malo, puta."

But I showed her.

Soon after she looked at her screen, puzzled. "Is this right?" she asked. "You have zero credit?" Now I had actually been wondering about this. I have a check card and a copy of my mom's credit card for emergencies. I also have no student loans, which is unheard of. Not 'I paid them all off already,' I literally have never had a student loan.

"Oh, yes, I wanted to check that but, yes, that's right. No credit at all."

"You don't have, like, a credit card?"

"Nope."

"No student loans?"

"Nope. That's how I can afford to be unemployed." Face!

Bitch just let out "Lu-ckyyy…," and shut the hell up. So yeah, she thinks I'm a spoiled little Jew heir, but that's probably an apt comparison since I'm pretty sure she grew up in some Venezuelan fishing village and everyone in this country seems rich.


Down side: New York shot down legalization of gay marriage 38-24 today.

Up side: Today I made the best Christmas gift ever. After having to wake up when it was still light out made me insanely productive. Got some Hanukkah shopping done and made something cool I will post some time soon. (It's a surprise.)