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Bankloser

If anyone saw Scrubs last week you'll be familiar with blonde-doctor's hysterical nickname of "Bankfarter". In a nutshell, her friend told her co-workers about a time that they were in line for the ATM and blonde-doctor whispered to Carla that her chimichanga was barking and she needed to . . . uh . . .let one go. Carla noticed all the men in line and advised blonde-doctor to just do it, since they would likely assume it was one of the men. Blonde-doctor let it go, only to have one of the men say "Hey, I think that blonde girl farted!" After Carla told the story at blonde-doctor's work, everyone started calling her "Bankfarter."

"Hey Bankfarter - we need you in the staff room"  "Where's Mrs. Adams' chart, Bankfarter?"  "Exam Room 2 is open, Bankfarter" etc., etc. So, so very funny!

Until, that is, I earned my own bank nickname this morning.

No, I didn't fart in the ATM line, Sherlock, so stop with the deductions and let me tell my story in my own way, will ya? I wouldn't very well post something THAT embarrassing on my blog, now would I? Chuh! (Actually, when hard up for material, I probably would. I have no shame. I'm shameless. Mrs. Starved-for-Shame. Shame deficient. Shame, shmame . . . who needs it? Heh)

Anyway . . .

I took Karl to Physical Therapy this morning, which is in a pediatrician's office, and rather than sit in the waiting room for an hour with my Sudoku puzzle, listening to hacking children, watching the fish swim around in the tank, thumbing through Parents and Healthy Baby magazines (What? pediatricians are too good for People?!) and generally being bored out of my gourd, I decided to run to the post office to mail a package and get some of those 2-cent stamps so that my Christmas stamps, which were not used for Christmas cards (Please. What was I thinking? Buy some stamps and the cards write themselves?) can be salvaged for paying bills.

Apparently 8:30 is an excellent time to hit the post office. I was in and out in no time at all, leaving plenty of time for drive-thru breakfast (a treat! a treat!) and an opportunity to deposit a check that's been in my purse for two weeks.

It was 8:42 when I parked in front of the bank, wiping biscuit crumbs from my mouth and marveling at my front-row parking spot. A truck pulled in beside me so I hurried to get out, planning to foil whatever plans this lady had to get in front of me in line. There are two automatic doors to enter the bank and the first one opened right up but the second one . . . did not. I jumped on the sensor a couple of times and then, as if waking from a dull fog, glanced at the "Bank hours" sign painted so prominently on the locked door. NINE O' CLOCK?! What? Really? I thought "bankers hours" was just an expression. You know, like "greatest thing since sliced bread" or "crazy like a dolphin."

After the confusion lifted, the embarrassment set in. Banks are made of glass, as everyone knows, and glass is really good at being seen through, as this glass was currently being seen through by all the bank workers and security personnel. I turned quickly, trying to avoid seeing what I imagined to be extreme laughter, coffee spewing, donut choking, pointing, chuckling, comments like "Mrs. Dŭmăs must have some early morning banking to do!", and the likelihood that I would win the grand prize at next year's holiday party "Security Camera Bloopers" event.

Ah, but then I remembered the lady in the truck! Redemption! I wasn't the only idiot! Misery loves company! She was just stepping through the outer door when I looked at her and said, in a shocked voice, "The bank doesn't open until 9!" And then she gave me "the look".

"The look" is the one that Vizzini gave the Man in Black when he put the poison in the goblets and then did a little mid-air shell game with them before placing them back on the rock table. A little backy-forthy move that was so cheesy and unimpressive that Vizzini responded with "the look." A combination of shock, disdain, amusement and boredom. A half-smirk, combined with an audible "Hmmph", that clearly conveyed how much he considered the Man in Black to be a half-wit.

That's the look that the Woman-from-Truck gave me. Instead of a "hmmmph," she said just one single solitary word:

"Right."

And yet, wrapped up in that word were so many conveyed feelings; pity, amusement, superiority, disdain. She was obviously insulted that I tried to recruit her into my idiot club, and, to prove it, raised her hand ever so slightly so its contents would float into my field of vision.

She held a puffy zippered bank envelope.

Oh.

Talk about a shot to the heart! Nothing screams "experienced bank customer" like the puffy zippered bank envelope. They don't give those out to just anybody you know! You have to be a regular. A daily depositor. A big shot. You get your own slot, after all!

Sure enough, she pranced right by me and deposited her puffy zippered bank envelope into the slot, giving a little half-wave to the bank employees and exchanging a superior smirk with regards to me. Well, I'm not sure about the smirk because I was slinking back to my van at that point, but I can imagine!

I spent the rest of the drive back to P.T. with a flushed face, trying to recover my dignity by railing against the smug woman and the unjustness of banker's hours. What kind of modern-day business opens at 9 am?! If they opened at a reasonable hour they could retire all of their puffy zippered bank envelopes, plug up the slot with some additional mocking-friendly glass, and require Ms. Smuggy Smuggerson to haul her superior hiney into the bank and stand in line with the rest of us! The dirty people. The unfortunate shmucks who just want to deposit a stinkin' check and get on with our day, thank you very much! Grumble. Grumble. Grrrrrrrr.

But I'm over it now. I'm fine. Truly. I wasn't really upset.

Well, maybe I was a little bit bothered but that's not the same thing. *grin*

And so. . . you may now call me . . .

Bankloser.

TPBQOTD ("He's no concern of ours! Sail on! I suppose you think you're brave, don't you?"  "Only compared to some.")

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