I stood there in the bank on Saturday afternoon wanting to leap across the teller desk and claw the bank manager’s eyes out.

I’d gone to the bank with two checks: one, a wedding gift, made out to the Dork Lord and me, two, the Dork Lord’s paycheck, signed over to me. We did it that way because, as a new customer, Bank of America has held his paycheck for ten. full. business days. I don’t have to tell you that being absent his salary for ten days was something akin to being kicked in the face. With boots made out out hot molten magma.

What unfolded was one of the most frustrating experiences I have ever had with customer service. And in the end, I was left with the following explanation:

1. I cannot deposit his paycheck because they cannot prove that it’s really his signature on the back of the check. They have his signature on file, mind you, and I pointed this out very helpfully.

“Please just look at his signature,” I said. “I will happily give you his account number.”

No go, lady, sorry. Next.

2. I cannot deposit the wedding gift with my name on it because the Boy has not acknowledged, with his signature, that I have permission to deposit it.

“But, you just said you wouldn’t be able to prove it’s his signature anyway.”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s correct. You will have to ask {insert name of brother-in-law} to reissue the check in just one of your names.”

“I can’t even aritculate how little sense that makes. I have deposited a dozen checks with both of our names on them through the ATM and have not had a single problem.”

“Yes, ma’am. You should track those. Those funds can still be rejected as fraudulent within the next two to three years.”

“Two to three YEARS?”

“Yes m’am. New policy.”

“This is crazy.  Absolutely crazy.”

“I’m sorry ma’am. But good luck!”

And so here we go again. Ten more days without his salary and ten more days of wondering just where the hell I’m going to get the money to pull it off. I’d take my ball and go home but I gather that every bank on the planet is a nexus of stupid and that it would be a losing battle.

One of my favorite experiences on our honeymoon was meeting the owners of the villa we stayed at in Tuscany. It’s quite possible that there aren’t any two people in the whole world who are more genuinely charming.  When we arrived at the villa, Riccardo was manning the fort on his own. Susan, his wife, was in Britain dealing with the death of her father, so Riccardo was going about tasks that, you could easily tell, were out of his normal jurisdiction. The meet and greet part was one of those tasks.

He fussed and clucked and zigzagged between the guest house and the villa, collecting forms and maps and towels and keys. Then he sat us down at table in the foyer to go over the details of our stay.

“I’m sorry,” he said, tilting his head to one side and studying me. “but ninety percent you look like chair.”

I only blinked. I looked like chair?

“When she was not old, of course. Very young with the long hair. You know, yes? Chair?”

I smiled. “Cher!”

“Yes. Ninety percent you look like her in the face.”

When I hugged Riccardo at the end our stay, it was mostly for that.

Once he’d finished with paperwork, shown us to our room and armed us with half a dozen hand drawn maps and far more information than we could process, he changed tracks rather quickly.

“The frigo! Come. I will show you where you keep your food.”

Like ducklings, we followed Riccardo through the foyer, down the hall and into a large, airy kitchen.

“The frigo,” he said, opening the door to a squat refrigerator. But before we’d even seen inside, he slammed it shut.

“Christ!”

The Dork Lord and I looked at each other, puzzled, both of us wondering what horrible, moldy mess must have overtaken Riccardo’s frigo. Did something spill? Was something rotten?

“These Australians,” he said, hands cutting the air with unspoken and  unmistakeably Italian vocabulary. “They put red wine in the frigo!”

We smirked. And then Riccardo laid down the law.

“You go to the store, you get meat, cheese, chocolate. You can put anything you like in the frigo,” he said. “but not red wine.”

Noted.

Eating a lot and spending money at the vet’s office. That’s really the most accurate summary of how I’ve been passing the time lately. Besides work. Which has been bizzzzy, but simultaneously boring, so let’s move on.

Hal stopped eating a last week. Insert days of nagging concern here. Because the last time we went through this and it took me far, far too long to notice, and resulted in hours of surgery and hundreds of dollars, I’m particularly honed to his kibble habits. So, two days after Midge went in for her Orphan No More check-up (2lbs 6 oz!), I wrastled Hal into his carrier and made the half-mile trip to our new vet. Taking Hal to the vet makes me feel physically ill. Because he hates it so much. It’s panic at the disco with a full set of claws after which he hides for at least a solid 24 hours. Forgiveness is hard earned after a vet visit – and I’m the one bleeding. Which is why I thought I was experiencing some sort of alternate reality on Monday afternoon when went about this whole business with complete calm.

Vet let him out of the carrier: complete calm. She checked his mouth: complete calm. He wasn’t happy about it, but he didn’t freak out or bite or Ginsu knife anyone with his talons. She talked to him and petted him and he lay on the metal exam table in such a state of relaxation that she had to heft him up to prod at him with a stethoscope. His innards sounded fine, but she was mildly concerned there was something else at play. The ulcer in his mouth, while painful, was most likely not our culprit.

“Is he acting more lethargic than usual?”

“He’s a cat. How do you tell?”

“Fair. What about liquids? Is he drinking more water than usual?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t recall filling his water dish more often?”

“He… well, he drinks… out of the faucet. He comes and gets us, lures us to the bathroom, taps at the faucet and we turn it on. So, yeah, I don’t know that one either. I think I’m failing your quiz.”

“Okay, what about his personality? Has he been different?”

“He’s been pissed. We brought home a kitten. But come to think of it, he’s kind of always pissed.”

“Hmm. I think we’ll need to take some blood for anything conclusive.”

I conceded. So Hal calmly took a steroid shot  for his mouth but the blood draw was a massive fail. I had to give him credit for even letting us talk about taking his blood within earshot and not calling on the powers of Chuck Norris.

Okay, enough cat talk. The lack of blogging combined with feline-centric content is starting to bug even me and I’m one of the most Content-to-be-Boring people I know.

We could talk about how I’m making a slideshow of wedding photos for you! Also of interest? I saw J in an HTC commercial on the big screen when we went to see a movie the other night.  And my spinster sister (heh. I kid!) is getting married! We don’t get to go – it’s a big ole hurry since he’s a Navy man and getting shipped out to scary parts of the world and we haven’t recovered from our own wedding yet – but I’m gonna send a cardboard stand-in to be her  maid of honor. Not that she asked, but I know any day now she’s gonna and I want to be prepared.

Oh man, oh man, you guys. I am toast. Yesterday was my seventh consecutive 12-hour workday and while it’s nice to know that all that overtime means a healthy paycheck, it also means that I haven’t had time to do anything else but wrangle cats and drool on myself.

Speaking of cat wrangling, Midge is an absolute, pure delight. Hal didn’t necessarily share that opinion and until about 72 hours ago, that cranky old bastard tried to kill her every time we turned our backs. I don’t just mean “used force to teach her lessons about who’s at the top of the food chain.”  I mean, “dragged her down the hall by her throat” or “attempted to disembowel her with his fangs.” By the time I could rescue her, she’d be soaked in his angry, angry saliva. Regardless, that little fuzzball went back for more. Every. Single. Time. He’d hiss, smack, claw and bite and she’d hot foot it right back to him. Which, naturally, worried me because I’d seen that movie on Lifetime before. It doesn’t end well.

About three days ago, though, things shifted. Hal voluntarily climbed up on the couch to lay down with her. I glanced at the Dork Lord and we both shrugged and waited for him to realize what he’d done. And then eat her. But he didn’t. He just curled up in a ball and Midge… well, Midge rolled onto her back, whack! popped him in the nose and climbed onto the Boy’s lap to resume sleep. Somewhere in the middle of my amused shock, I swear I heard her say, “pwned!”

Lady friend has doubled in size in three weeks and I guess this is what happens when you weigh two whole pounds. You get to be in charge.

Because I am a glutton for punishment, I have rather unofficially assumed responsibility for Midge’s momma, too. Every day I feed her in under the bench on our front porch and we have conversations about life on the streets (she’s very vocal) and once or twice I’ve even managed to touch her ever-so-briefly. For a feral cat, she’s remarkably interactive.

Kittico, the cat rescue  I contacted, said they’d be in touch about doing one of those trap-n-spays, but I’m guessing they’re over-extended because two weeks have gone by and nothing.  Baby Mama is very young (8 months, maybe?) and I’d hate to see her get knocked up again before I can break that cycle. Obviously, we can’t take her in and she doesn’t want us to, but I want to do the responsible thing. I just can’t do it by myself. I don’t have the physical means (i.e. a cage) or emotional fortitude (seriously, cannot do it. Can’t. I would fall apart) to trap a cat. I volunteered to pay for the spay and her shots and flea treatments, but nada. Like I said, they’re probably over-extended. I get it. But now what?

If you’re in Dallas and have any experience with this sort of thing, I’d love some help. Like I said, I just want to do the right thing.