Ever had one of those days where everything you touch just doesn’t go your way?
Today is one of those days.
I sit here typing, downing a beer, reflecting on the absurd comedy of errors I’d like to call Saturday. Thank God it’s almost over.
It started out like most Saturdays do. Coffee, breakfast, endless cartoons on Nick Jr. The sun poked out, husband woke up and I was free to go do my errands.
I drove to Wal Mart (where we buy most of our groceries). I got a rock star parking spot (close to the door). I got a cart that didn’t wobble or squeak. There were a few early birds, like myself there. I should have known it was too good to be true.
I effortlessly wheeled around the store, picking up a few items for the week ahead. Proud of myself that I managed to decline the decorative outdoor throw pillows, I scooted over to produce to pick up ingredients for salad week. (side note- husband and I are on a weight loss kick. Of which I am not really kicking at the moment)
I even found a fairly short line at the check out.
And then it happened.
The lovely cashier rang me up, bagged my goods and gave me my total. I slid my debit card in the machine.
Ok, let’s try it a different way.
Maybe it’s just the card. Why not try punching it in by hand?
By now, the growing line of people behind me began to raise judgmental eyebrows while simultaneously shooting dirty looks in my direction.
We have an ATM over there (cashier motions to the in-store bank). I’ll suspend your order while you go grab the cash.
I reach the ATM.
I get on the phone. With the bank (who shall remain nameless… FIRST CITIZENS….. YOU BASTARDS). After pressing exactly 42 buttons to get a human who speaks English, I was told my wait would be approximately 18 minutes. But they value my call.
So I call my husband on his cell (he’s home, by the way)
I call the land line at the house. No answer.
At this point I’d settle for my three year old answering the phone.
NO ONE IS BLOODY ANSWERING THE BLOODY BLEEPING PHONE.
I hustle back over to the cashier.
By this point, customers are burning holes in my head, their eyeball lasers branding me a loser who mismanages money.
I made sure (in a rather loud and dramatic voice) I mentioned to the cashier that there IS money in the account (I double checked on my phone and even transferred money over just incase) It didn’t seem to convince any of the townsfolk and their pitchfork eyes. All we needed was some lit torches and a post to tie me to and I’m sure a public stoning would have ensued.
After failing to contact anyone I’m related to to come bail me out, failure to speak to a human at the bank customer care line and failure to use my debit card, I left, tail between my legs, frozen foods melting in the cart I was forced to abandon at register #11, with Marge, the somewhat sympathetic cashier lady.
I raced home, all the while on the phone with elevator music, the bank valuing my patience (or lack thereof) waiting for a customer care representative to come to my rescue.
Finally, I got a very nice girl named Megan.
Megan explained to me that my card had been compromised at another large American chain store (MICHAELS …YOU CRAFTING BASTARDS) and any bank card used from my bank during a certain time period was flagged as potentially compromised and subsequently subject to deactivation.
I should have gotten a letter about this.
Well, I did get a letter and a new card about a month ago. Figuring it was a replacement card because my current card was soon to expire, I tossed it in my bill basket, ready to activate it later. Sure, there was something in the letter about compromised cards, but it was so vague that I assumed it didn’t apply to me.
That was a MONTH ago. I just used my current debit card last week without a problem.
How the hell was I supposed to know the bank would choose to deactivate it for security purposes THE FREAKING MORNING I WANT TO GO GROCERY SHOPPING???????
Megan, the lovely customer service rep activated my new card for me and assured me all was right with the world. My frantic, neurotic story left her howling on the other end of the line, so I guess the problem was fixed.
I returned to the scene of the crime (leaving frozen foods to melt is a crime to me)
Of course, when you’re in a hurry, NO ONE seems to move fast enough and EVERYONE is in your way. You name it, it was in my way. Old ladies in wheelchairs. Fat people on scooters. Screaming children throwing tantrums in the middle of aisles.
I whipped around the store as fast as I could, recreating my first shopping experience. In record time I managed to pick up all of my items AND I managed not to run into Marge, the friendly yet judgmental cashier working at register #11.
While in line, I noticed something purple dripping on my shoe. WTF? I didn’t have anything purple and/or frozen in my cart. And now I have some sort of mysterious purple juice on my shoe.
By this point, I am so desperate to leave the store, I ignored the mystery slime, paid for my purchases (with cash I got from the ATM WITH MY NEW CARD) bid the cashier a good day and bolted for the car.
And then I went to Dunkin Donuts.
After this morning of hell I deserved an Oreo Mint crème donut. (Which, by the way, is counteracted by the salad I was planning on having for lunch)
The rest of the day muddled on. I dropped stuff. I broke stuff. I snapped at my kid and my husband. The pork chops didn’t thaw in time for supper.
Oh, and I think I butt dialed the mother of a classmate of my son’s while I was ranting and raving about my debit card fiasco. I’m sure she heard the whole F-bomb laden rant I delivered as I vented about the embarrassment of being mistaken for a delinquent welfare check abuser at Wal Mart.
And here I sit, drinking a beer.
Hoping the day will end soon before I can do any more damage to myself.