Banking with Corky

March 1, 2006

You know that song “If I had a hammer”? Well if I had a hammer, I’d go back to the Bank of America and wait outside for that teller I met with today and beat his ass “… all over this land…”!!!

This was by far the most frustrating transaction I’ve ever endured.

I received my last check from the gym I used to work at and it was a piddly $17. The check was issued in December and it is now March. It’s just been sitting around and now has been taking up space in my purse for a couple of weeks, so I wanted it out. I regularly bank at a credit union based in Portland and don’t really know where any other credit unions are in Salem, so I thought I’d save myself the trouble and just go to the bank listed on their check.

First I waited in line to get up to Shlo-mo the “special” teller. I handed him the check and he proceeded to count on his FINGERS (I’m not making this up) and tell me that he didn’t think they could cash the check. I then stated that I thought the check itself said I had 120 days. He looked at the check and said “actually it says 180 days”. Well that would be more then wouldn’t it?

He proceeded to ask me for two pieces of ID so I handed him my driver’s license and debit card. He then informed me that he couldn’t accept a debit card as a form of ID. Umm okay then… “Do you have a credit card?” he asked. This is the only time I was mildly upset that I no longer have credit cards as I can’t be trusted with them so have since cut them up and just pay on the bills every month in attempts to get rid of any and all debt. So I asked him if my social security card would work (as I view this as one of the ultimate forms of ID). He of course said “no”, so I was forced to dig through my wallet attempting to find another form of acceptable ID to cash a friggin $17 check! I finally came up with a gas card my parents had happened to give me umpteen years ago and that apparently pleased the little mouth-breather.

Upon entering all of my information on to his computer, I then had to put my fingerprint on the check, give a blood sample, turn my head and cough, sign over my first born and put my right foot in and take my right foot out (I refused to shake it all about though). Once he finally collected all of the proper specimens he informed me that there would be a $5 fee. “FOR WHAT?!!” I bellowed. “Because this is a ‘company’ check and there is a $5 fee for company checks”. Trying to pull myself together in a non Manson-esque way I said “you mean to tell me that you are charging me $5 for a $17 check because it was issued by a company? But they used THIS bank! Your bank is the one on the check!” He looked at me with his one good eye and said “yes”.

It was at this point that my left eye started to twitch and I opened my mouth and took a deep breath to start in on what would most certainly be a verbal form of castration, thereby saving the world from more little Shlo-mo’s and thus being appointed world leader or at the very least President of the United States (although I hear that anyone can be that these days). However, what came out was: “Fine just cash it. I don’t want it in my wallet anymore”. I know! I couldn’t believe it either but there it was, clear as crystal and straight from the horse’s mouth. He looked down, counted out the money, handed it to me, and I left… snarling all the way.

I drove straight to Safeway to purchase a bottle of champagne as I felt that alcohol would be in order that night. As I got out of my car and approached the entrance, there by the door sat a little girl scout hocking those addictive little cookies. She seemed to not notice me as I entered the store, but sat up straight when I went in the door as if to say “oh I’ll get you when you come back out. It’s only a matter of time”. I went directly to the champagne and wine isle and found no acceptable bottle to purchase. I then left out the far door of the grocery store in order to avoid the little cookie dealer. Not because I’m afraid of saying “no”, but because I didn’t want her to experience her first string of foul language by a neurotic Amazon in pseudo-fishnet leggings.

I got in my car with no champagne, no cookies, and less $5. As I sped back to work I realized that this was all part of growing up, or in my case - continuing to get older and increasingly more bitter while wearing uncomfortable shoes. I’d like to say I learned something from all of this… so if I gave you a “moral of the story” synopsis, I guess it would be: If at first you don’t succeed, go get a bat and try again.

Massage Masochism

Right between my shoulder blades and about 2” up has been killing me since last weekend. I know this because Whit asked me to pinpoint the when and what I was doing to make it uncomfortable for this long. I was visiting Josh and no, I wasn’t doing “that”… at least I don’t think that’s what it was from.

Whit visited her friend all day and night yesterday for her friend’s birthday so I had the whole day and house to myself. What’s the best thing to do when you’re by yourself? No, not “that”. I booked myself a spa appointment. The massage was lacking in every aspect and my neck, back and shoulders still hurt. God I LOVE blowing $100 on nothing, don’t you?

So Whit got back today and was unable to sleep at her friend’s house. She’s a light sleeper and apparently had to sleep on her friend’s couch. Her friend’s dog is about the sweetest German shepherd you’ll ever meet and didn’t want my poor sister to be alone in the room so he plopped down on the floor below the couch and slept there. He’s a sleep talker which apparently kept her up most of the night.

Long story epic, we both felt like we needed a massage today and we sort of got one.

We’d never been to this place before. No, scratch that – Whit had been there before when it was under its former management. She got a massage from a 3” stiletto wielding tranny whose long finger nails kept stabbing her in the back. This should be the part of the story where I say “… and that’s why we laughed and drove somewhere else and had a fabulous experience and lived happily ever after.”

I scoff in logic’s general direction; scoff, scoff, scoff!

The appointment was for 4 o’clock. The receptionist didn’t speak English very well so when the reservation was made for 2 people for 1 hour each at 4 o’clock, we were surprised to arrive and be escorted to a joint room for the lovers’ package. Somehow this did not put my sister or me in the mood. But no problem, we’ve known each other our entire lives, it’s cool we can deal with this.

We got undressed and hopped up on to our individual respective massage tables and waited for our massage therapists to come in. When they did, Whit explained to each of them that she needed a soft touch as she has extremely sensitive muscles and skin and I needed someone to beat the crap out of me. They started. Here’s the summary:

Whit’s gal was a spider monkey ninjasian. She was all over the place, and at one point I swore I looked over and she was sporting “the crane”. Whit said she had “thumbs of fury” and she could never tell when or where super ninja spider monkey massage lady would strike next.

My massage therapist you ask? Ah yes, her. When she was told I like it hard… no, not “that”, she assumed the people’s elbow was in order. I finally smelled what the Rock was cookin’. Unfortunately the pressure was in all the wrong places and my neck, back and shoulders still hurt. My ass on the other hand has no stress whatsoever. Wanna know why? Tell you why. She must have thought my Kardashean sized keister was so big because that’s where I keep my stress (even though I assured her it was my neck and shoulders) because a good 20-30 minutes of my massage was spent rubbing my bum. I kept wanting to whisper to Whitney – “umm where’s YOUR towel?” And of course every time I thought this, I started giggling which made my massage therapist press down harder in the wrong spots.

In every massage I’ve ever had, the therapist will move the privacy towel around as to make sure the client isn’t exposed for some, if any of the time spent there. The privacy towel was a mere laughable suggestion. That, or she thought the backs of my knees and calves were shy. I thought to myself “so this must be what Neverland Ranch feels like”.

After an hour long assperience, Whit and I couldn’t get to the car fast enough to share our thoughts and hysterical fits of laughter. I’ll never go back but I’m kind of glad I went. My neck, back and shoulders are still killing me but at least I still have my prid- umm my dignit- umm, my health. Did I mention I’ve got my health?

Your Important Unimportance

I’m starting a campaign, who is with me? It’s going to be called the “you’re just not that important” effort. Hear me out.

Cell phones are a fantastic invention. I have no idea how anyone functioned without them and don’t know howI’d cope without mine. I have exactly two phone numbers memorized: mine and my sister’s. I don’t know my parents’ numbers, my friends’ numbers, or even my own boyfriend’s number. If something happened to my phone, I’d have to make all new friends and put myself up for adoption.

All of that being said, I know when the appropriate time and place is to use my cell phone. I also have activities in my life where I realizeI look like das uber tool when I’m talking on my phone, so I don’t do it. These places include but are not limited to:

· While I’m sitting at my table at a restaurant
· While I’m working out at the gym
· When I’m paying for whatever at a store (cashiers are people too)

I have been at the gym jogging on the treadmill and have had some ass hat get on the treadmill next to me and clunk his cell phone down in the cup holder. If you are SO important that you can’t take one hour away from your Nokia, you probably should be back at your desk, or out flying around the city in your super-suit trying to find your arch nemisis. Which brings me back to my campaign – you’re just not that important. I assure you, you can put your cell phone in your locker and focus on your workout for one hour, and if not – I have other suggestions for where you can put your Motorola.

If in fact you do decide you are that important and must talk on your phone when you’re working out/in a restaurant/pretending the cashier isn’t a person, at least make your conversation interesting to those around you. It’s the least you can do since you’re now making me listen to your LOUD apparently invaluable conversation that you just can’t miss.
Lines that are acceptible include but are not limited to quotes like:

· “If it weren’t for that horse, I’d have never made it through that 2nd year in college”
· “… and that’s the 3rd time I got crabs”
· “… so I said to him ‘hey that’s my cousin, and she still has the one good leg!”

And so forth.

So please, stop bringing everyone into your retarded conversations. You’re uninteresting, you’re loud, and you’re just not that important.