INSULT + INJURY (The Ballad of First-World Problems)

Get over it, Mom. Zombie geese are chasing me on my bike. That’s a REAL problem!

Part of last week consisted of a little bit of insult + injury (DISCLAIMER: the content that follows is nothing more than First World Problems – equivalent to OMG, The Soda Machine Is Out Of Diet Coke or If My Download Speeds Are Under 2MB I’m Going To Kill Myself).

Let’s start with the INSULT:

Every Thursday, my dad comes to take me (and whichever kids may happen to be around) out for lunch. It’s a pretty fun time. Dad arm wrestles the kids, we tell jokes (SweetZ’s make no sense but are somehow always hilarious), we laugh a lot, and are generally a loud bunch. I’m sure to some folks it’s terribly obnoxious. Whatever. We have a good time.

My boys’ favorite place to eat with Papa is this diner called Curly’s. It is a seriously greasy spoon with an all-American menu that will leave you full as a tick. Last week we found ourselves seated in a booth, cackling like we always do, when the waitress came up. She took our orders (burgers, fries, corndogs, onion rings, and enough soda to drown in), and then looked at my dad and said:

“So, are you the uncle or the daddy?”

OH. MY. HORSESHIT.

My dad immediately looks at me to see how I’m going to respond, and I somehow managed to grin at him (don’t be fooled, people – inside I’m dying), and he tells her he’s the grandpa. She manages a sheepish smile and makes a fast getaway. Somehow I keep the grin on my face, and high-five my dad, because, damn, dude that’s a HUGE compliment to him

(ohmygosh, it just occurred to me…was she hitting on him? She could have totally been hitting on him. I can seriously hear my mom cackling her head off over this)

but…yeah. Not so much a compliment to me. Apparently, in this lady’s twisted brain I look old enough to either (a) be my dad’s sister or (b) be the mother of his children (ewwww). Not that I have any weird quirks about people having age-gaps in their relationships (I know a few couples who have thriving relationships, ages be damned), but when it’s actually your dad??? Yeah. It puts a different (and oh-so-painfully depressing) spin on it.

Moving on to the INJURY:

Last January the Hubster and I went through Dave Ramsey’s Financial Peace University – a thing I cannot recommend highly enough. One of the things that changed in our lifestyle thanks to that course was that I pay for everything with cash now. At first it felt inconvenient because I was so used to the swipey-swipey of my debit or credit cards; fumbling with bills and coins just felt like returning to the Dark Ages. But I got used to it. So used to it, in fact, that I completely forgot my pin numbers for my debit cards.

In the aftermath of our little vacay, I didn’t withdraw cash for the rest of my July budget. There wasn’t much I needed to buy other than groceries, and so I figured it wasn’t a big deal. Until I’d checked out my cartload of groceries (you’d be AMAZED at how much food a family of six goes through in a week) and was faced with that pesky keypad. I, being the dummy that I am, typed in the first set of numbers that came to my head, which of course, weren’t the right ones.

And so the bank froze my account.

So, I pushed my cart of groceries to the front of the store, called the Hubster, who then called the bank (because I hate talking on the phone and get all weird when I’m forced to, and the bank would have probably thought I was a meth addict with a lisp who’d managed to steal someone’s card and was trying to buy economy amounts of Sudafed). Bless him, he got my account un-froze, tout de suite.

I went back through the checkout, and instead of choosing credit (which would have allowed me to just sign and walk away, and that would have been WAAAAY too practical and easy), I decided to try my pin number again. Because damn it, I’m not getting old, and my memory is not failing, and my mind is not slipping, and I punched in those four numbers that I was certain were right and MOTHER OF PEARL,

they froze my bank account again.

So, I pushed my cart of groceries to the front of the store, called the Hubster, who then called the bank, and I waited…

and waited…

and waited…

He calls back to tell me he had to get lippy with the bank people to get them to unfreeze it again, and he tells me, very carefully, that I need to run it as credit because they WON’T unfreeze it again.

So, I ran it as credit, and all was well. *see Myndi skipping out of the grocery store with a wild look and a twitch in her eye*

Fast-forward to the next day. I was at Barnes and Noble shopping for a book for a friend and BLAMO! I find out my card is blocked. Again. The worst part? The guy at the check-out had that look on his face that says, Yeah, honey, I hear it all the time. The money is there, it’s the bank’s fault, yadda, yadda, yadda. Just go ahead and march your poor-ass self out the door and come back when you can pay.

Did I mention that earlier that day I’d had my annual check up with my OBGYN? And that I had to endure a pap (and all the fixin’s) while holding a teething-feverish-crying 18 month old Took who refused to let the nurse hold her? Um, yeah. So, not the best day ever. Not the worst day ever (not by a long stretch), but still. Not the best.

I guess some weeks are just tough. We get through them, and find ways to safe-guard ourselves from crap like that in the future. For me, it’s pretty simple: Always, always, take out the cash I need for my budget, and never, ever be seen in public with my dad unless I’m wearing make-up and something other than yoga pants and a ratty old t-shirt.

And, yeah – make sure I have a baby-sitter for that lovely yearly exam.

p.s. You want to know what was AWESOME about last week? YOU GUYS. Your response to WEDDING RING DO-OVER was so generous and stunning and amazing. Thank you so much for voting for #23. Voting continues through August 2, so if you haven’t had the chance to do it yet, JUST CLICK HERE. If you’re wondering what the heck I’m talking about, READ ABOUT MY WEDDING RING DO-OVER here.

 

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