when you have a name like mine ...

... really, you have no use for ancestry.com. unfortunately, there are some people out there who need that kind of thing to establish their identity. why they feel they have to steal mine to get to the bottom of theirs, i don't understand. well, maybe i do.

large numbers on my credit card statement make me nervous, and i really only use one card due to my short attention span. a college junior, i acquired my VISA because i wasn't yet able to be mean and say no to random people, even tho i should have been that day because "maury" (back when it wasn't all about the baby's daddy) had just ended and i was on my way out.

"yeah, sure, ok," and 10 days later i was a cardholder.

for no apparent reason, i was nervous about it ... i didn't have an income to speak of and no reliable transportation (besides public ... yikes) to take me to places where i could do any kind of damage. i'd been in the habit of using my debit card to withdraw $10 every week for thursday nite pizza. who wants to pay interest on that? and! why won't ATMs let you withdraw just $10 anymore? i need $50, but i have to get either $40 or $60 ... either way, i'm left looking for a 10-spot.

so, to look like i was a grown-up, i used my card to buy books. once a term. instead of carting my clunky checkbook to the student union, i now had the sleek card in my student ID holder thing. either way, i still needed a pen.

did i pay off my balance when the statement arrived? of course. i didn't want to turn into one of those people you see on 20/20. or alicia. ;)

do i still pay off the balance every month? hell no. these days i actually am a grown-up (i can at least pass as one) and understand the social importance of spending beyond one's means, but i try to stay in control whenever possible.

last nite, while feeling much older than everyone else in the room because i didn't have any homework to do and oh-my-god-it-was-9:45-p.m., i handed my responsible-looking "member since 1996" card to the vet tech behind the counter ...

[i'd like to take this opportunity to mention how much i love the staff at the vet's office. they are fantastic people who recognize my voice on the phone, love my dog, and always manage to go out of their way for us.]

... as usual, she scanned the card and handed it back to me, complimenting the picture of zoey it sports. we waited. when the receipt finally printed out, it read, "REFERRAL." no one seemed to know what that meant, so she scanned it again. and again, we read "REFERRAL."

i hadn't used the card in almost a week, and had just made a payment that afternoon. once more, "REFERRAL." at this point, the receptionist tech called whoever it is you call when you don't know what's going on with credit cards while three other techs took zoey into an exam room to clip her nails and get her generally wound up, which is good because it eventually makes her tired.

the people you call when you don't know what's going on with credit cards flat-out declined mine. this was a first for me. surprisingly, it wasn't nearly as embarrassing as TV makes it out to be. maybe that's because i was too busy being shocked and seeing how much cash i had.

i was hardly in the house when i picked up the phone. 31 digits and practically no waiting later, i was asked the oddest question i've been asked since a prospective employer asked me to rate the person i was recommending on a scale of 1 to 10 with ten being the best. duh, 10.

"have you recently been making purchases at ancestry.com?"

today i have a new account number, but i still feel violated. i'm on the verge of reverting to paper statements and giving up online shopping. of course, if i did that, i couldn't order pizza online ... i'd have to pay in cash ... and that's just not me.

aaron's already seen most of this, so he doesn't have to read it

i've been invited to this seminar ...

Delivering Bad News to Employees, Customers, Neighbors, Critics, and Victims

... and i have a couple questions:

1. if you’re classified as a "victim," doesn’t that imply you’ve already received the bad news?
2. if you’re approaching a "victim" with the intent to deliver bad news, doesn’t that ultimately put you at risk of becoming a "victim?" if so, see above.

don't you wish you had the kind of job that would put you on the invitation for training such as this? i’m totally thinking of registering.

afterwards, i'll let you know the best way to tell your neighbor that you broke his lawnmower ... and then denise can let us know if that information is accurate.

an introduction

Why would anyone do such a thing?

Sitting at gate B2, I stuck my foot out to admire the disgusting job I'd done of polishing the night before. Uneven edges, colored cuticles. I really shouldn't try to multitask.

The 15-years-younger Cesar Millan seated to my right leaned in for a peek, too. "Looks good to me," he said.

Startled, I pretended I was someone else. "You don't think the big toe looks, I don't know ... darker than the others?" I angled my foot to see a side perspective.

"Not at all." he smelled like the cologne every woman should buy for her boyfriend for Christmas and his birthday and Arbor Day if that's what it takes. "They all look the same."

"Oh!" I said as if we hadn't been talking about my foot at all. "Not the polish ... I mean the actual toe."

Our eyes met for a moment before his moved back to my foot. He squinted and looked closer. So did the business class gentleman across from us who didn't notice me noticing his tendency to eavesdrop.

"I don't see it," said Cesar. "Why should it be any different?"

I smiled a coy smile, and this time it was my turn to break eye contact. We were both examining the toe but for different reasons.

Luckily, Delta flight 829 interrupted the conversation to announce that it was loading passengers who need extra time at gate B4.

"Ok," I said, reluctant to let more silence pass. "It was a beer bottle." I finished my sentence as if it should have been all the explanation anyone needed.

"What was a beer bottle?" the business man would have asked had he been an accepted part of the conversation.

I looked at my foot again and blew a stray lock of hair out of my face. "It was a beer bottle that almost severed it a while back."

The business man and Cesar suddenly sat straight up. "You're kidding," one of them said.

Yes, I was. "Nope," I said. "It was Budweiser. I was out with some friends, talking to this French guy at the bar. Apparently he couldn't hold on to the bottle any longer, and dropped it on my foot."

My captive audience remained captive, so I continued being hazy on the details. "The next thing I remember, the paramedics showed up, wrapped my foot in about 20 pounds of gauze, and carted me off to the ER. Surgery and a little physical therapy later, here I am."

My foot was now under the most intense scrutiny it had been under since March of 1985, when I'd stepped on a stray tack the school parking lot/playground. The straps of my sandals crisscrossed over my toes, so I used that observation to close my story.

"...so you can't really see the scar." I pointed my toes and swiveled my foot again. Despite the covering, I could tell he saw it. For crying out loud, I could see it.

"God," he said. "That's terrible." Our eyes met again, and I raised my eyebrows and my shoulders ... what can you do?

"Eric," he said, offering his hand.

"Melanie." I took it.

"Where are you headed?"