Big fun at the Deathstar last night, but strangely the assholery that occurred wasn't their fault. For once.
Having gone through the week's budget meticulously and discerning I had enough money not only to do a full grocery shop but also get a little exercise machine I've had my eye on for awhile, I set off with my coupons optimistically, thinking maybe it wouldn't be as crowded as normal at 7:30 on a Saturday night. Unlike Lake City where Walmart on a Saturday night is the social epicenter and the place to be. I was also happy it was cool out since that meant I could buy my Breyers without it turning to chocolate/strawberry/vanilla soup before I could transport it into my freezer.
I was wrong about the size of the 'Mart's crowd, for it was plentiful, but whatever. I spent over an hour carefully getting all the items on my list, including the ones I had coupons for and then congratulating myself on remembering light bulbs. Have I mentioned the last four houses we've lived in kill bulbs at an extremely alarming rate? I'm not exaggerating when I say I bought eight and we immediately had to use six of them.
Anyhoodle, I finished shopping and took my place in one of the few opening lanes which all had lines stretching back almost to the clothes section. Love that. But, that was fine; I got to read most of the Fall issue of Lucky, so it worked out. Finally it was my turn and I was very excited, thinking soon I'd be home and eating something. I was hungry. But it was not to be. My debit card didn't work. I told the cashier it acted like a dick like that sometimes and she would need to enter the numbers in manually. Because of the Gamecock design on the card, she couldn't read the numbers, so I read them to her. The card didn't go through again. She tried to run it as a credit. No dice. I ignored the people sighing loudly behind me (seriously, fuck off) and the cashier called a manager over. Repeated the process. Still no go.
Now, I've been in the situation before where I thought I had money in the bank and didn't. Oh yes, that is a special feeling. But I knew, KNEW that was not the case this time. And I'm sure they hear it all the time: "But I'm SURE there's money in my account!" Well, that's all well and good, but if the card doesn't go through, their level of trust tends to drop a little. I said, "Okay. Hold my stuff while I go to an ATM. Which happened to be conveniently located ten feet away. I'm sure everyone who heard the exchange was expecting me to try to get the cash and then shamefully skulk away when no cash came. Wrong. The cash was there, as I expected. Everyone was surprised but me. I waited until she got done ringing up the person who'd been behind me, paid and cursing not really under my breath walked out.
Tomorrow I'm going to my bank. I'm handing them my worn out, scratched up stupid designed card, ordering a new plain one and demanding they credit me the $2.50 ATM fee I had to pay last night. Because it's the principle – what good is carefully cutting coupons and saving $5.00 only to lose half of it to a machine.
Yes, I just wrote a 2,500 word essay on my ATM card. In case you ever doubted my capacity for reliving minutiae in painstakingly epic detail.
Next weekend his parents will be out of town. We're going to spend one night at their house and go skinny dipping in their pool. If anyone wants to join us, contact me sometime this week and I'll put you on the VIP guest list. Summer is almost over (Praise the Lord and pass the mashed potatoes) and I figured that's a good way to end it on a high note. You know, naked.