I made the mistake of telling the #1 son that at 18, he is old enough to have his own checking account, without my name on it. He decided that we had to sever the relationship today. My Devil's Playground day.
The Pony and I rushed to the bank, after listening to #1 complain that we are SO SLOW and that I should take that 7th hour stack of homework papers home to grade. No. He left anyway, to stop by the park to take pictures while he waited.
I let The Pony stay in T-Hoe while #1 and I went in. But first I had to fish around for a deposit slip with the account number, because #1 didn't have one, and didn't think the bank could look it up. Then he said he would do the talking, but hung back in an "After you, my dear Alphonse" way until I entered the door first. The teller told us to have a seat. It's a cushy job if you can get it.
In the midst of a rollicking story of a clandestine air-vent-opening in my early years at Basementia, a little slip of a girl walked from behind the clear, non-soundproof privacy walls and stuck out her hand. I was taken aback. I almost handed her my checkbook. Then I saw that she wanted to shake. No need, my dear. I can see that you're not carrying a weapon. And I might just crush your tiny bird-boned appendage in my work-calloused man-hands. She did not endear herself to me when, upon luring us into her cubie, she started hacking up a lobe of lung. I was itching for the Germ-X, tucked away in my purse in T-Hoe.
That girl had no idea what she was doing. She asked for ID from both of us. Got up twice to get something approved. Which meant she was going to ask for instructions. She came back and typed a bit and said, "Now, your card will be no longer be valid." WHAAAAAT!
"I have to use it at The Devil's Playground in a half hour. What do you mean?"
"Well, to take your name off of his account, you have to get a new card."
I begged to differ. The kid had his own card. It just had my name on it because he was only 16 when he got it. But it was a totally different account. My card always brought up both accounts at the ATM. But his only worked for his account.
I'll be ding dang donged if that little slip of a girl didn't go haul somebody ELSE back into that open cubicle. I swear, less privacy has not been observed since I was splayed out post-#1-birth having stitches when Farmer H flung open the delivery room door and waltzed in with my mom and dad, half the waiting room peering in for an unsettling glimpse of my nether region repair.
To rub salt in this current card-slashing wound, the newcomer blocked my view of The Pony and T-Hoe in the parking lot. I had my eye on four men who climbed out of the cab of a work truck and stood next to them, gawking at my purse on the front seat, and The Pony in the back. I swear one of them stood under the big orange corrugated water cooler mounted on their tool box, and sucked from the spout as if it were a teat.
I was not pleased.
After a thirty-minute interlude, betwixt the two of them, Bankers R Cussed got their act together and said my card was still active, but #1 would have to wait seven days to get a new one in the mail.
He might be rethinking this decision in a few days.