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Send Lawyers, Guns, and Money

April 04, 2011

Actually, we already have lawyers and guns. Just send cash! Because, thanks to me being a complete and total disaster as a grown-up, I have none. And also I am slightly a felon. Hi! It has been a busy week!

Actually, the money part is not entirely true. I do have money; I just can't touch my money. Allllll of my money is hiding right now. And it would be lovely if there were anyone in the world to blame for this who is not Me, but there isn't, and hello: story of my life. Anyway, lemme explain how I accidentally committed a felony! Then we can talk about your week.

SO. Know how Brian and I got all married? Remember that? It was very nice, and everyone had a lovely time, and now we are husband and wife. But, being that we were both independent, mid-30's type people when that whole wedding business went down, we already had established money things. We each had our own mortgages and accounts and credit cards and stuff, and combining them just seemed like a major and unnecessary pain in the ass. So we decided that instead, I would just go to my friendly bank and open a new account for Bills and Household Shit, and we would both contribute to it each month, and that is how we would pay for Bills, and also Household Shit. Otherwise, we remain mostly financially separate, which has worked well for us -- we both do grocery shopping, we both pay for dinners, and we each handle a few random household expenses here and there, so it's actually quite reasonable and equitable. Or, at least it was; back in those heady days of last week, it worked GREAT. ALL WAS WELL. Until I fucked it all the hell up, as I very often tend to do.

Because, see (and here is where I try to blame my own personal criminal activity on my poor, long-suffering husband; let's watch!), every month, Brian writes me a check for his portion of expenses. And I deposit it into the Household Shit Account. But I do not like depositing Brian's checks at the bank, because I know all of the tellers; the main branch of my bank is in my office building, so I see the employees aaaallllll the time. Every day, even. We chat! We ride elevators together! They know my dad! And, thus, it is sort of embarrassing to deposit a check with Friendly Teller Kyle, only to have Kyle interrupt our normal small talk with, "Yeah, I saw that last week, and couldn't belie----hold on, girl, what does that say in the memo line? Is this check for...does that say Dirty Dancin'?"

And, you know what, Kyle? YEAH. YES IT DOES. Because my husband is incapable of writing me a Household Shit check that does not contain an inappropriate memo line. Because he thinks this is hilarious. Previous checks have included "French Kissing," "A Good Time," and "Wifely Duties." And Brian believes this to be funny, because...well, frankly, because it totally is. And I thought it was hilarious ALSO, until Thursday happened, and I became a felon because of the MEMO LINE THAT RUINED OUR LIVES* (*lying. Absolutely lying to you right now. Hyperbole plus blame shifting! Let's pretend it is literary license).

But it is true that Thursday was the day I became a master criminal. Admittedly, on that morning, I was not feeling very much like a master criminal. Actually, I was feeling very scattered and tired and maybe even a touch foggy, because Wednesday night had been date night, and Brian and I had a lovely evening that involved many wines and candles and Special Married People Time. Thursday morning, we woke up and I kissed him goodbye and explained my intention to do Many Things before work, including (a) depositing his monthly check, and (b) getting my emissions test for my car, and (c) getting my tag, because I am absolutely awful about that, and basically end up getting ticketed every year because I just flat-out put it off until the last possible minute, if not later.*

(*Which reminds me (woo, tangent!) -- My birthday is March 6. Last year, I did a ton of work traveling in March, and didn't get my emissions test (which is required for a tag renewal) until April 1. Then, a week later, I went to the DMV to get my new tag, only to discover that my local office was closed for renovations. A very non-helpful sign on the door informed me that I was supposed to drive way the hell up north somewhere to some satellite branch and do it there. I did not know where this was, plus I was kind of pressed for time, because that night, I was supposed to be meeting not-yet-fiancee-Brian for a Special Romantic Getaway up at my parents' lake house. So I left the DMV and went back home to figure out where this satellite place was; only THEN I got pulled over in my own NEIGHBORHOOD, by a cop who did not care whatsoever about my attempts at compliance. When reason failed, I resorted to bald-face lying (yep) and told him that I had gotten engaged that VERY DAY, and how DARE he RUIN MY HAPPINESS for a tag that was only eight days past expiration (additionally not true), and also, WAS HE MARRIED? He didn't fall for that, either, in part because I...had no ring (oops; I fucking suck at lying), but that did not stop me from hollering, "I BET YOU DON'T TELL YOUR WIFE ABOUT THIS!" as he walked away. He agreed that he probably would not, as she would smack him, for murdering true love. And then I drove (flounced?) up to the lake in an entirely unjustified huff, except then I got there and Brian proposed to me THAT VERY NIGHT and it turned out I hadn't lied after ALL, but I still got a fucking ticket on my way to my engagement. I am irresponsible! I should just get my fucking tags on time! The end!)

Uh...okay, so, back to the original story, although that one always entertains me, too. Look how this is a compendium of my crimes! I am an outlaw. And I am so bad at it. Anyway, moving on.

SO. Thursday (and please do notice that -- once again --Thursday was already super long after March 6, because I continue to be a little scofflaw), I have these three things to do. Deposit check! Get emissions! Get tag! And then, go to work, because I had a conference call scheduled. So, I got moving. And, as I grabbed the check, I glanced at the memo line: it read: "Last Night."

Heee, I thought. Heeeeeeee. My husband was paying me $1000 for "Last Night." Apparently, for services rendered, on date night. Plus he'd left it on the counter, which further made me giggle for about ten minutes. Still, being a busy woman, I grabbed it and headed out the door. But here, I made a critical error; I also tore a blank check from my checkbook, to take with me to the DMV to pay for my tag. I put the blank check and the Household Shit check in the same envelope. DO NOT DO THIS; do not do this ever. I will show you why.

I hit the emissions place first, but as it was the last day of the month, the line was insanely long -- like, two hours long. By the time I finished that, I'd missed 6 calls at work, my secretary was in a frenzy, and I was already dangerously close to being late for the conference call. So I figured I would just swing by the bank, deposit the check, and go to the office, getting my tag later. GOOD PLAN.

Except..."Last Night." Now, here is the thing. Apparently, there is just some shy, puritanical part of me that does not want to hand Friendly Teller Kyle a $1000 check that is made out for...uh, "services rendered" the night before. I don't need that judgment! Nor do I need Kyle thinking about my services. So I was pondering this, when I suddenly realized that I could save some time, and just deposit the check in an ATM! This was the perfect solution -- no awkward pauses! No services-thinking! Indeed, no human contact whatsoever. AND, there was a branch over by the emissions place, so it seemed like serendipity just flowing all over my Thursday morning. Yay!

But, sadly: no. Because, I am an idiot. And I was flustered, and the emissions test had taken a million years, and I am always in such a hurry at ATMs because I don't want to be the bothersome person who takes a millisecond more than my allotted time, and I guess all of these things combined into a perfect storm that resulted in me...accidentally depositing the blank check, instead of the actual check. I had completely forgotten there were two checks in the envelope -- the slutty one from Brian, and my own blank check, which I'd included with the intention of paying for my tag. AND IT WAS A BIG ENVELOPE, Y'ALL, like one of those manilla folder-y things, so I just reached in and grabbed a check; endorsed the back; punched in all the buttons; put it in the deposit envelope; and deposited it into my bank account. The bank, because I am (was) a lovely customer, immediately credited me with the $1000. And then I went on my merry way, not realizing that I just broke about sixteen laws, and was now officially KITING CHECKS, which is a crime punishable by very bad things that include prison jumpers and conjugal visits. For which I probably would not get paid $1000. WHOOPS.

But off I went to work, having no idea that I was leaving the scene of my crime. And all was well there, until I went out for cocktails afterwards, and -- when I passed over my debit card for my $9 bill -- it got declined. As did my other debit card. And my credit card. WHOOPS AGAIN.

What I did not know was, upon opening the deposit at the other branch, and finding an endorsed blank check, they'd immediately frozen all of my accounts. And I do everything through that bank -- credit cards, checking, saving, the whole deal. And now all of that was inaccessible, but at the time, I had absolutely no idea why -- calling the 800 number only led to a message telling me that I really, REALLY needed to go to my branch ("SO WE CAN ARREST YOU," it did not add). I was locked out of my online access. And this led me to have a cow, which I am sure was enjoyed by everyone.

I went home and continued my conniption, until the next morning, when I called Friendly Teller Kyle, and asked him what in the holy fuck was happening. Kyle said, "Well, hey, Miss D! Let me just look that up for ya!" And then there was grave silence, and the getting of supervisors, and the announcement that One Should Not Deposit Blank Checks, and my own personal discovery of the whorin' check still in its happy manilla envelope, and I that is when I pretty much DIED. And that is also when I had to take myself into the branch, and sit down with no fewer than SIX different people, and try to explain that I did not mean to deposit a blank check; I actually meant to deposit this check here, that says I'm a prostitute! HA HA! Isn't that so logical? It was an honest mistake and could happen to anyone HOLY SHIT PLEASE DON'T ARREST ME.

So, um. They didn't. But now that "Last Night" check has become a thing of great fame, and I have to get all new cards, and I basically STILL can't touch any of my own money until Wednesday, when my new accounts are all set up. Plus Brian, who IS TOTALLY A LITTLE BIT SORT OF RESPONSIBLE, KIND OF, is off on a business trip, and the dogs and I have to eat beans until all of the new cards arrive. And he is SO not sorry at all. He is already thinking of things to put on his check next month. Meanwhile, I'm being greeted in the lobby with, "Hey! Last Night girl!" and also, I will probably starve and die.

So. That is why I am poor today! And also a master criminal. If you see me, please give me a cracker. Or wine. Or possibly bail.

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Y'all have a good week, and I'll be back as soon as I think of something else ridiculous to share. Of course, we're still here, if you aren't already joined up; most recently, we've been celebrating St. Urho's Day! For a white collar criminal, I live a full life!

But in the meantime, y'all take care, and try not to commit any felonies! And please don't mention my name to Kyle.

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