Wrangler Dani

So, I’m going to say something right out front. Numbers are not my friend. I have been a successful manager of my personal finances for the last decade, and I get the basic ideas that you can’t pay for stuff without money, something my friends in DC have yet to figure out.

However, beyond such rudimentary ideas as “let’s not bounce checks” and “let’s pay bills on time” I’m a little in over my head, and I usually rely on an expert to tell me what the hell I’m looking at on any given piece of paper that the bank is mailing me with alarming frequnecy and regularity, because apparently their greatest heartfelt desire is that I become a victim of identity theft.

So, one day a few weeks ago, a Banker Dude calls me.

“Hey” he says. “Since you have so far escaped the clutches of identity theft, we want to change that by sending you a giant Sequoia worth of paperwork and convince you to get a new account that will change your life forever and make glitter rain on your parade. Great, right?”

Me, being an idiot, succumbed to his stupid pitch, opened this new glitter-filled account and was promptly smacked in the face with what I now call the Wells Fargo Black Hole of Office Space-Style Despair, You Made Money But We Can Keep it From You HAHA Oh And Also, You’ll Need to Talk to 1o Different People For Lotsa Hours and They’ll All Tell You Something Different, Good Luck Ever Seeing Blue Sky Again SUCKA.

I tried to deposit into the new account.

Suddenly the next day, no money is in the account.

I go to Wells Fargo and very politely ask why my money is gone.

They explain that I put it into the new account, which means they have the right to hitch it up to a horse and carriage and send it to Ohio, after which it might come floating back to me in an empty Coke bottle, if I’m lucky.

I cry.

They don’t care.

I demand that they shut down this stupid new account and give me my money.

They say that they did so, but they shrug about the whole “give me back my money” part.

Two weeks later, the check I’d already deposited once comes back to me via carrier pigeon.

The sun is shining, I’d had a good night’s sleep, I’m feeling optimistic, so I go back to try to deposit it again.

No can do.

They tell me that the account was not deleted, my life is not better, that everybody who made me cry before was wrong and I have to start all over.

I leave in a huff.

I went back today, only to discover that I had to delete every account I’d previously made, all the ones that Banker Dude said were all glittery and whatnot, and sit and stew for two hours at the desk of Incompetent Teller #35.

At one point, she asked me what my business was (as I was trying to set up business accounts). I said “writer” and she, all small-talky, despite the fact that I was searching for some sleeping pills in my purse to overdose on, asks if I like it and if I’m busy with it.

IT TOOK EVERY PIECE OF MY SELF-CONTROL TO NOT SAY:

“I do love it, actually, although sitting in this bank has started to make me doubt if I’m even alive anymore, as it sucks my creativity and my hope away and I am on the verge of banging my purse on the desk like a real nutjob and stowing cash under my mattress rather than ever coming here again. In answer to your second question, yes I am incredibly busy, and I’ve spent 10 hours IN THIS BANK in the last few weeks, so you asking me about my business makes me want to scream, as to-do lists dance before my eyes and I stare at some terrible photo of a kid and his birthday cake, which is supposed to make me believe that ‘We’re here for you’ when that is laughably untrue. Also, I write about my life, about my adventures and my husband and my business, and this debacle is SURE AS HELL going on the blog. All I want is to deposit my money and not cry when I do so. IS THAT SO HARD.”

Here’s the final tally:

Wells Fargo = 10 million clusters

Banker Dude = 1 glitter turned to poop

Incompetent Teller #35 = 5 unsuccessful small-talks, but apparently successfully dodged all my stabby-eyed attempts to make her feel bad about this

Dani = needs a margarita, I don’t care what time it is.