When Customer Service Goes Awry (Alternately titled: "headdesk")

Have you ever gone somewhere- grocery store, bank, dry cleaners, starbucks- where you receive "customer service" (I'm using this term extremely loosely), and end up leaving and wondering where in the blue fuck they found the moron who was helping you?

I have.

I suck at having checks on hand. I own that. I haven't ordered checks probably ever, since opening our checking account. However, we rarely use checks. Aside from rent and maybe one lone bill that refuses to join the current decade and get online with e-payments, we just don't need them. On the off occasion that we did, we just went to the bank and had them print one. So, there you have it. I'm lazy, and cheap.

Enter preschool. It has begun, and tuition is due the first week of each month. As I was toting the ankle biter to his first day, I realized I needed to pay them. I'm sure he'll eventually be labeled as the kid with the bad mom who swears, but I at least want to give him a fighting chance. So, after I dropped him off, I went to the bank.

Now, I have gone to this bank countless other times, and asked them to please print a blank counter check for me. Never had an issue. I walked in, and quickly took stock of the available tellers. A guy with a stack of paperwork in front of him, and older lady who was painfully slow at refilling a brochure stand, and a young girl who smiled at me. Ding ding ding! We have a winner! I went up to Margarita's window. No, I'm not kidding. That was her name. It was on a name plaque. I exchanged the mandatory pleasantries, pulled out my ID and bank card and said "I need a blank check printed out, and I'd also like to take out $100." I mean, this seems pretty standard, no?

She seemed to struggle at grasping the concept. While she stood there looking like a wild deer staring into the headlights of the semi about to mow her down, I got to take in the full beauty of Margarita. Let's start with the hair. Sister was rockin' the bumpit. She had to have been. There is no way hair can get that high without plastic assistance. Now, a bumpit alone, I wouldn't knock. Sometimes you just need to look like a texas housewife. The beauty was that she had (at least what I assume to be) the currently trendy long swoopy side bang. Cool. I have them too. But apparently that day, she wasn't feeling the swoopy bang. So, she gathered them up and twisted the tuft of hair then pinned it straight back. Like there was a nice little vienna sausage right in the middle of her hair. Sexy. That's when the bumpit came into play. So, vienna sausage, then unnaturally high, pouffed up hair. It doesn't end there. The beauty monstrosity continued. With a high ponytail, adorned with a neon scrunchy. I don't even know where you can buy a scrunchy these days.

It's moments like these when I wish it was socially acceptable to just pull out your cell, and snap a picture of the horror you are being exposed to.

By this time, she had been fully stumped by my request, and had begun questioning me. "Do you mean a money order?" No, I do not mean a money order. If I had meant money order, I would have said money order. "Um, no. I mean a check. A blank one. Where I can fill out the info." I was met with another bambi stare. "Oh. I don't think we do that." Well, yes. Yes, you DO do that. "Do you think maybe you could check with your supervisor? I've had checks printed lots of times before."

Now this is where I should have just cut my losses and run screaming from the building. I wasn't that smart, though. She finally figured out what I was asking for. Usually this takes 2-3 minutes to do. The 2-3 minute window had come and gone and we were at the ELEVEN minute time frame. I don't know if you've ever stood at a bank counter for eleven minutes, but there isn't much to do. That's when I noticed Miss USA's divine fashion sense. Either the stirrup pants are coming back, or she robbed somebody with an epic 80's wardrobe. Stirrup pants. Jacket with shoulder pads. And the best part? A big elastic belt, a la Peggy Bundy. The neon orange nail polish sealed the deal. By this time, I am having a hard time not laughing. I mean, it's not like she was just stuck in the 80's. She had to be 22ish years old, maybe? It was horrifically awesome.

Margi finally managed to show that check book who was boss, and brought it over. I reminded her about the $100 I needed. This was the point when we embarked on a five minute conversation on how I'd like the money. "Any size bills are fine. Whatever you have." To me, that's pretty explanatory. But she began offering me every variation of bill combos she could think of. I really started to think I was on Punk'd. I mean, somebody HAD to be screwing with me, right?! There are very few kinds of fuckery worse than what you encounter at WalMart. But this social interaction FAIL made me yearn for the filth of WalMart.

I did finally leave with my check and my $100. But Margarita kept a half hour of my time I'll never get back, and a little piece of my soul, that died right in front of her.