Idiots and butts

In the end, bad days usually end up being good stories.

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The day did not start out promising.

I went to the bank this morning. I honestly thought the bank closed at noon on Saturdays.

I pulled into the parking lot, and there was no line. Sweet!

Then some jerk in a huge vehicle pulled out of their parking spot, cutting me off in the process, and pulled up to the window right by the bank building.

No problem, I thought. I pulled into the second lane.

Whatever the vehicle was doing was not a simple transaction. They talked with the teller for a few minutes. By then, it was nearing 11:30 a.m.

No one offered to help me. I thought maybe there was only one person working the drive through, so I let it go. I buzzed for help.

After a few minutes, I buzzed again.

I thought about driving to the bank's other location, but I couldn't justify the drive just to deposit a whopping $20.

I waited. The other vehicle finally pulled away. The teller looked at me, then closed the blinds in the window.

It was 11:32 a.m., and the bank closed at 11:30 a.m.

I drove away, kind of laughing, and kind of mad. I can't tell you how many times I've had terrible customer service at random businesses this year.

Dozens, it seems.

I thought about switching banks, but then I realized that throwing a fit would not actually change anything.

I will deposit my $20 on Monday, which is way less than that because after the bank debacle, I went to Hobby Lobby to drown my sorrows in shiny glittery crap.

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I called my mom in the bank's parking lot, preparing to whine to her, but she didn't answer my call.

Mom, what could you possibly be doing that's more important than the problem I'm having at the moment?

I mean, Jesus.

(I'm joking. Kind of.)

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When I did finally get to my Mom and Dad's house, they basically asked me what crawled up my butt and died.

It's not that I'm in a bad mood, I said. It's just that I have this special gift for finding idiots and inviting them into my life.

They laughed.

It's like the more idiotic you are, the more likely you are to live in Monicaland.

(I can have a pity party for no reason if I want to, okay?)

Despite the fact that the world almost ended when I didn't get my way, my day went on. Believe it or not, it actually got better. And by that I mean worse.

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While I was having the bank meltdown, I was doing so while wearing a pretty cute pair of leggings. I wasn't trying to impress anyone this morning, so I threw on the BRAND SPANKING NEW leggings on with a hoodie that covers my butt.

Because leggings are not pants, dudes. Somehow I justified going out into public with leggings and a hoodie. Because, who cares?

After I had the bank meltdown, I went into a store and got a drink, and I went to my Mom and Dad's house.

I sat down at their kitchen table, thinking about how terrible my life is, and I wondered what drink  they spilled on the wooden chair.

It was cold!

I lifted my butt up, and felt the chair. There was no liquid, so I sat my butt back down.

That feeling of cold came back. It was then that I realized the cold I was feeling was of my cheek, and not the cheek that's on my face, touching the chair.

As in, bare skin on a chair. As in, there was a hole in my BRAND NEW LEGGINGS.

I covered my butt, told my Mom not to look at my cheeks, and left in a hurry.

I hauled ass back to my house (get the joke?). When I changed clothes, my bad day got worse.

There was not one hole in my leggings. The butt portion of my leggings had six holes that I counted, and we are not talking small holes.

You guys, my butt just claimed another victim. If my butt in those leggings was any holier, it'd need its own church service.

Leggings that cost $7 for a two-pack are not worth it.

Sometimes you get what you pay for.

Sometimes you get a good story out of a bad day.