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Stupid delay in medical plan initiation. All this time I couldn't figure out why they hadn't cashed my cheque, and I guess in fact they had tried to cash it during the half-day last week when my account was $0.40 low of the total and my bank bounced the cheque. Which -- I'm sure I used to have overdraft protection -- but probably not since the crash, right?
So -- my fault for not being paranoid enough about maintaining the balance.
I thought it had been ages since I posted them the cheque, but if I count back it's only been three and a half weeks. These were just incredibly dense weeks. They took up more space in memory than the weeks before them, creating a temporal-optical illusion.
I got a call from an unknown area code and assumed it was a scam/phone company (same thing) -- but when I looked it up it was Montreal, which isn't in my mind at least a scam hub, so I listened to the message. Swore a bunch, called them back. It's more or less sorted. I have to mail another cheque within a week and pay a $25 fee. It's stupid but not impossible.
Taints my love of Montreal a little, though. O bagels. O white stone and giant eyeball modern art. Redeem me.
It was twenty years ago I went to Montreal and fell in love with it, and I haven't been back since. I thought I might move there that one year -- 2002 -- when I got the lot of back tax refunds -- but the Co-conspirator and I moved to Vancouver instead, as a compromise. Spent all my money on storage and moving. Spent all his money moving back a year later, and buying furniture we had to split up a few months later.
And that was okay, I guess. I started this journal there, in that tiny lemon-drop house. I bought wings. I wrote long lonely letters to people and wrote half of a novel in a cafe on Commercial Drive. Never finished.
And here I am here. Here. I am.
{rf}
So -- my fault for not being paranoid enough about maintaining the balance.
I thought it had been ages since I posted them the cheque, but if I count back it's only been three and a half weeks. These were just incredibly dense weeks. They took up more space in memory than the weeks before them, creating a temporal-optical illusion.
I got a call from an unknown area code and assumed it was a scam/phone company (same thing) -- but when I looked it up it was Montreal, which isn't in my mind at least a scam hub, so I listened to the message. Swore a bunch, called them back. It's more or less sorted. I have to mail another cheque within a week and pay a $25 fee. It's stupid but not impossible.
Taints my love of Montreal a little, though. O bagels. O white stone and giant eyeball modern art. Redeem me.
It was twenty years ago I went to Montreal and fell in love with it, and I haven't been back since. I thought I might move there that one year -- 2002 -- when I got the lot of back tax refunds -- but the Co-conspirator and I moved to Vancouver instead, as a compromise. Spent all my money on storage and moving. Spent all his money moving back a year later, and buying furniture we had to split up a few months later.
And that was okay, I guess. I started this journal there, in that tiny lemon-drop house. I bought wings. I wrote long lonely letters to people and wrote half of a novel in a cafe on Commercial Drive. Never finished.
And here I am here. Here. I am.
{rf}
