Several months ago, I wrote about a certain instance where I left my debit card in an ATM at the supermarket. I was all completely convinced that it was gone forever and my dear Andrés was smart enough to go back there and ask if they had it…and they did. Dumb me.
Well, last Monday, I went to the same supermarket and the same ATM to withdraw money…to buy things and stuff. It is one of the ATM’s that you put the card into and it spits it out after it gives you your receipt at the end of the transaction. Well, almost all ATM’s in this country are the kind where you zip it in and zip it out right away, like a credit card swiper. So, naturally I am not used to this odd contraption that doesn’t give me my card back instantly. So naturally, caught off-guard and like a baby bird new to her surroundings, I took my receipt and left the supermarket. Leaving my card behind. Again. At the exact same ATM. In the exact same supermarket. I don’t make these stories up or do these things on purpose to have something to write about. This is my real life that I have to live and deal with. You all just get to laugh at me after the fact.
Didn’t realize it was missing until I look in my wallet the next day and it’s nowhere to be found. Backtracking in my mind, I clearly remember that the ATM was the last place I used it and immediately realized that it was where I left it because blast it!…that ATM doesn’t return the card right away like all the other ones do!! So, not my fault. But it’s still not in my wallet and it has been a day and the card isn’t blocked. I am on my way to the dentist (aka Andrés’ cousin, thank you very much for fixing my mouth on multiple occasions) and start frantically calling Andrés to get him to call the supermarket and see if someone turned it in. I am not fancy nor up to times with the world and do not have an internet plan on my phone to look up this information, so I rely on desperately calling my husband to fix my life for me. He is of course taking care of our son, so I can’t get mad when he tells me that it’s not on the top of his priority list (all the while hearing my child screaming in the background).
I get back from the dentist and rip open my computer to see that my account is still intact, but the grocery store does not have my card. Happy and sad face. I proceed to block my card, and make plans to visit the bank the next day to get a new debit card.
Fast forward and I am at the bank. I hate my bank. But it’s a free account, so I suppose I am not paying for the luxury of short lines and non-smelly bank branches. The bank next to mine looks like a freaking Ritz Carlton in Paris next to my Motel 8 bank off exit 20 in BuFu, Nebraska. I go in through the miniature sized broken door with my stroller the size of Optimus Prime and take my number. I usually do this out of courtesy when I’m with my baby, as someone let’s me cut them. Not at Motel 8 bank: the land where everyone hates life. There are 2 women taking all customer service inquiries and I am 50 numbers away from being called. Thankfully, the counter lady saw me and waved me over. She must have hated life a little less that day. I tell her I need a new debit card because mine was lost, and she types in my ID card number. Then get this, she tells me I cannot get a new debit card because my ID card is expired. Why is my ID card expired? Because the Department of Foreign Affairs has not approved my visa…that I applied for on July 3, 2013. I am looking at her like an open-mouth bass because my mind could not form words. So, not only am I living her illegally not by my own fault, but I also am being deprived of having a debit card not by my own fault. She does tell me that I can take cash out at the cashier upstairs without a valid ID card. But gotcha!…there is no elevator. I swear, every time I come into this bank I have to act like that Dora the Explorer chick. ‘How do we get over Alligator Lake?’ ‘Let’s build a bridge!’ ‘Vamos! Sí se puede!’ With much much less enthusiasm.
I get the 70 year old guard to try and help me take monster stroller up the stairs, and he’s like, no let’s that the escalator that is two inches wide! Dude, bad idea. He starts up it and monster stroller clearly does not fit, so he ends up having to run down the escalator almost falling. Is this real life? He says, yeah, that stroller doesn’t fit, kind of in an irritated tone. I’m like, dude, I told you it wouldn’t fit, don’t get all mad at me for almost falling down the escalator because you were stubborn and didn’t want to believe the foreigner. So we hauled it up the stairs, me almost having to remind him that there is a human baby inside and we don’t need to run. Crazy man. He went back downstairs right after he dropped the stroller onto the second floor and I’m thinking in my head, no don’t worry, I’ll just carry it back down myself and rolled my eyes nice and wide for everyone to see.
I am thinking that I never ever want to come back to the bank again and just withdrew my entire account balance. The downside to this was that I was carrying around a large amount of money in my purse and based on my luck with life, it would get stolen. Thankfully it did not. And thankfully there was a nice man customer that was a bit more willing to help me take monster stroller back down the stairs…and who did believe me when I told him that the stroller does not fit in the escalator.
Well, last night we head back to the debit card-eating-supermarket, and I go to the information desk and try one more time to see if anyone has turned it in. And what do you know, some good samaritan (my guess is the exact person that turned it in last time) turned it in and I am back in business. Some crazy stories just have to come full circle.