It's Complicated!

So often in today’s society, we explain relationships on social media as “complicated.”  Most of us seem to understand this term “complicated,” and all that it can imply. 

My car and my phone refuse to talk to one another.  I don’t know what happened between them.  It's complicated.   One minute they were friends and talking, and the next there was only silence.   Even after a week, they both continue to ignore each other.  Both of them are available.  Their bluetooths are on, but they don’t care.  I've begged them to break their silence.  They don’t want to communicate.  Nothing I do seems able to change their minds.

I realize I’ve survived for more than half a century without having a cell phone or a talking car.  I tell myself to suck it up.  I should just grit my teeth, and pull over to answer or make a call on my cell phone if I need to do so.  I remind myself, at least, I have a mobile device, but their folded-arms, silent treatment annoys me.

I admit it.  I’m spoiled.  I liked pushing a button on the steering wheel and talking to the car.   The fact my car and phone refuse to speak to each other has begun to anger me.  They are not the only ones involved.  I feel helpless.  I can’t help them, and I can’t help myself.  I’ve checked the communication settings on both. 

Do modern life and relationships really have to be this complicated?  There’s only one thing left to do to solve this standoff.  I guess I should make an appointment with a counselor who excels in relationship problems.  Maybe he can help my car and my cell phone communicate.  This problem seems to be more than a misunderstanding, and I certainly don't wish a divorce on anyone.

We need an appointment with a relationship specialist.  The car and the phone, and I, all need help. Otherwise, I can't be responsible for what I might do.  Help us, Boy Wonder, before it's too late.  Counsel us.

The Bank Won't Take my Money!

Banking is a routine ritual in everyday life.   Sometimes it creates a momentary, mundane breeze, but seldom does a banking storm erupt.  After visiting my son in the big city several weeks ago, he asked me to deposit the $80 I wanted to give him for the computer parts he had purchased and installed on my computer.   He did not want the extra cash hanging around.  He’s a modern child who uses his credit card for most needs, paying it off in full each month.

Throughout his college years, I, the Mom, have deposited many dollars into Boy Wonder’s checking account. It’s what a mom does.  I have his banking card.  So, the following afternoon on my way to work, I drove up to his well-known bank and its drive-through window, as usual, with his bank card to deposit money into his account. 

After sending in the canister with the check card and the $80 to deposit, the Teller at the Drive-up Window smugly informed me I could not deposit the four $20 bills into my son’s account.   Shocked, I asked why.  She only offered the excuse that the bank could not take cash.  I explained I had deposited money into my son’s account many times, but she simply held her stance, reporting the bank could not accept cash deposited into someone’s else’s account.

Baffled over a bank not accepting cash, and infuriated because I didn’t want to be late heading into work, I drove around the bank to the front, parking the car, and hurried inside.  I approached the first bank officer in her little office.

“Yes, that’s right,” she espoused.  We can’t accept cash.  We can only take a money order or a check.”

Money orders cost money, so I obviously did not want to use a money order.  “You mean I can’t deposit cash into my son’s account, but I can write a check out to my son and you will take it?”

“Yes,” she smiled with her pasted-on, blank, banker look. 

I waved the four $20 bills in the air.  “This is real money!  Real money!  You won’t take real money, but you’ll take my check?  Why is that?” I inquired.

“We have to know where the money is coming from,” she replied.

I wanted to respond, “It’s coming out of my ass because I’m giving it to an asshole of a bank,” but I refrained.  There were other people around.  Instead, I patiently explained as if I were talking to a two-year old, “I’m not withdrawing money.  I’m depositing.  I’m a mom.  I’m depositing $80 into my son’s account, like I’ve done many times.  You’ve never objected to real money before.“

“I’m not a criminal,” I added.  “I didn’t rob a bank so I could come over to another bank and deposit stolen money into my son’s account.”

 She, and the bank, needed to know "where the money is coming from?"  Did she think I was a drug dealer and this was drug money?  I had news for her – drug lords make far more than a paltry $80, and they don’t deposit into someone else’s account.

As she trudged back to her office with her false smile pasted on, I plopped down onto a nearby bench and angrily wrote out an $80 check to my son. 

Holy Sheep Crap!  The kid had changed his last name to my maiden name last year.  Had he changed his name on his banking account?  Had he changed his account number?  I would never be able to explain that to these odd ducks.  Almost panicked, I decided to write the check to the kid using his first name, his original last name, and his new last name to cover all the bases.   I simply wanted to deposit money into the kid’s account.  Explaining would only make matters worse.  In anger and trepidation, I stomped toward the teller’s window. 

Another bank officer and his office were in the direct line to the teller.  I stopped in the open door and waved my $80 in the air, like it was flapping in the breeze.  “You can’t deposit cash into someone’s account?  This is real money,” and I waved it again to prove my point.  “You can hold it up to the light, or you can take your magic yellow marker and see this is real money.  I’ve never heard of a bank refusing to take real money!  You’ll take my check, but you won’t take my real money? That is definitely stupid and asinine.” 

By this time I had built momentum and evolved into hurricane-force winds. “This rule is asinine and stupid.”  I was pointing my finger at this juncture to emphasize the words “asinine” and “stupid.”   

I continued.  “I realize it’s not your fault, but the banking big wigs who made this decision to not take real money are asinine and stupid.”  Again, I pointed and jabbed my index finger in the air as I spit out the key words.

I finished making my point and pointing, “This whole idea is asinine and stupid!” and I marched over to the teller to deposit the check.

“I’m sorry.  I was the one helping you at the drive-up window, and I forgot to tell you that you could use a money order or deposit a check,” she gushed. 

I couldn’t stop myself from repeating the words that succinctly explained this situation.  “The fact this bank will not take real money is asinine and stupid.  I’m not depositing thousands of dollars in unmarked bills (if they have those?) into my son’s account.  I’m not withdrawing.  I’m depositing.”

 I continued, displeasure dripping from every word.  “I am so glad I do not keep my checking account here in this bank,” and I collected the deposit ticket, in case the bank tried to stiff me, and I stalked out the door.  I’m sure gale force winds began to swirl behind me.

Since when did real money become so undesirable and obsolete?  What kind of weirdos manage our banks?  I’ve heard of a material world.  Maybe this has become a paper/plastic world?  In the meantime, just give me all your cash, your real money, and I’ll take care of it for you!