Keeping you abreast of all my banalities.


By Hannah Wallace


To begin, a sub-update of my recent, shall we say, misunderstandings with Bank of America:


· A letter from BoA containing a pin number for my damn credit card was forwarded to my parents’ house, labeled with their Sarasota street address—and the city, state and zip for my college address. Where I have not lived for six years.


· Worried that perhaps other important documents are Stetson-bound, I changed my address on the BoA web site.

            -BoA customer service informs me that they already had the correct address on file. Really? Because the DeLand postal service begs to differ.


· Realizing that my no-interest-on-balance-transfers BoA credit card is much preferable to the usurious rate on my MBNA credit card, I attempted to transfer the balance. I acquired the card my freshman year of college (1997); BoA purchased MBNA (2006). BoA does not make intra-company transfers. Lovely.


· My BoA credit card, which was solicited to me specifically as an overdraft failsafe, did not, in fact, keep me safe from a recent…er, miscalculation. Which is especially brilliant because the overdraft was caused by paying my credit card bill. Let’s see if that ever happens again, hm?


· Finding myself much more willing to withdraw money from my savings account than actively deposit it, I signed up for that cute little “Keep the Change” promotion.

            · At the end of the next statement period, $3.21 was removed from my checking account.

            · At the end of the next statement period, $3.21 was not deposited into my savings account.

            · I calmly sent a note to BoA customer service, to wit: “WTF, yo?”

            · $3.21 was deposited into my checking account. To date, no more change has been kept.


It seems I’m destined to go broke by means of a Feydeau Farce.


And in other news…


This weekend was supposed to be our sad little UnGala rebellion party at the Ritz. But instead, CCB landed tickets on the glass for Saturday’s Lightning game. So close you can smell the gloves—it doesn’t get more un-UnGala than that.


My Shakespeare’s quest currently stands at 71 beers—nine more to go! This is getting exciting, people!


Not to over-share, but y’know what I love? Having to deal with protesters on a Tuesday when I go to Planned Parenthood to get my BIRTH-CONTROL PILLS. God.


My plug for the Flying Dog Café needs a caveat: Though it’s still awesome on the grounds of food, beer and Bartender Mark, that place has wonky hours—apparently they aren’t even open on weekends.


CCB’s celebrity is spreading, much to his nonplus…-itude? Last weekend, an ex-coworker of mine spotted me and immediately ran up to CCB with an excited, “Are you Cheetah Club Boyfriend?!” So very awesome.

NO PHOTOS, PLEASE: CCB sports the scruff and pretty sunglasses to hide from his hordes of fans.


Speaking of, did anybody catch that mention of me in the Creative Loafing blog ( last month? That was among maybe the most awesome things ever. Not just “things that have happened to me.” All things. Ever.