Last night, I dropped an f-bomb on my dad.
I couldn’t help it. It just came out.
The weird thing was, in my head I was like, “Say freaking… Say freaking…” but my mouth still said, “fucking idiots.”
For the most part, I don’t sensor what I say in front of or to my parents. We’re kind of friends and I don’t want there to be a moment ten years from now when they realize I wasn’t being honest about myself to them.
They know I’m not exactly an angel. And they know where I get it from.
Both of them have some pretty inventive choice words. But neither of them use “fuck” that much. Part of it I think is a generational thing. My mom was also brought up to believe that word was fairly unacceptable, so she saves to use for special occasions only.
On the upside, my dad didn’t really react at all.
Probably because he could tell I was so pissed I was trying not to cry.
A few years ago, I got a new car. Like, new, new. I’ve been paying every month for it and will probably continue to do so for probably several more years. Then, I will not buy another car until I am trying to use my feet to push it around like a Flintstone.
The fat, greasy guy who was drawing up the paperwork at 6:30 on a Sunday night decided he’d rather talk to my dad about golf (I’m not even joking; he spent 20 minutes trying to convince my dad to go golfing with him) than complete my paperwork properly.
My parents co-signed on the car and requested their names be put on the registration with mine in case they decided I was being irresponsible or defaulted on my payments (I got the car right before I moved in with Bambi and during a time when I wasn’t really known for being dependable). However, the loan was supposed to be in my name so that I could build my credit.
Greasy Golfer put the loan in my dad’s name.
Maybe he had a crush on him. I don’t know.
I had to wait at least a year after I started building credit (in some way other than the car loan that was supposed to do it in the first place) to be able to transfer the loan into my name. I’ve been building credit for over two years and, since I’m moving soon, I’m trying to transfer the loan.
The only way to do that is to open an account in my name and refinance the loan.
Two weeks ago I called the credit union through which the dealership did the loan to find out exactly what I needed to open an account and get the ball rolling on a transfer.
Friday was the first chance I had to go because I finally finished night classes last week, so I went to the credit union and was told I couldn’t open an account without my social security card, which I was not told over the phone.
Yesterday, I went in again. (Mind you, it’s a huge inconvenience for me to try to get to this place after work because it’s completely on the other side of town from my office and I have to cross one of the busiest intersections in town at 5:00 PM to be able to get there.) I had my social security card and driver’s license, as directed.
I walked up to the teller and told her I needed to open an account.
Her response was, “Do you have an account with us?”
This is the kind of stupid I will apparently be forced to not only deal and coexist with for the rest of my life, but will also be in competition with me for jobs. I don’t get it. How do these people even brush their teeth?
Maybe this is what happens to those little kids who constantly pick their boogers. Their brains disappear, piece by piece, out their noses. Just a thought.
“No, I don’t. I need to open one.”
“What’s your social? I’ll look up and make sure you don’t already have one open with us.” Am I really the only halfway intelligent being to ever set foot in this place?
I gave Dipshit (as I will affectionately refer to her from now on) my social because, to be honest, it was either that or punch her in the tit. And I’m pretty sure if I did the latter, they would throw me out of the bank and I’d never get the damn loan in my name.
Dipshit taps away at her computer for a minute. “No, you don’t have an account with us.”
Dipshit then indicates a person sitting at a desk across the room talking to two customers.
“You have to talk to our loan officer to open the account. She’s currently helping customers (she said “customers” in a way that almost directly said “which you are not”). I don’t know how long she’ll be and we close at 5:30 (25 more minutes), so I don’t know if she’ll be able to help you today. If you want you can make an appointment or you can call to make one. Would you like one of our cards?”
Dipshit wants me to make an appointment. To open a fucking account. Isn’t my opening an account something they actually WANT? And why do I want to make an appointment when I’ve already been TWICE? Dipshit, I just want you to put my name, address, and social in your little computer, take my money, and tell me my account has been opened. Then give a receipt with the account balance on it, because I don’t trust you not to steal it. You seem that stupid.
“No. If I need the phone number, I can just Google it.” Which was my almost polite way of saying, “No. I don’t actually want to open an account here, and I don’t want to touch a business card that could potentially contaminate my flesh with your stupidity. Or Chlamydia. Or whatever it is you have.”
I quickly started stalking out before I could start my involuntary angry cry.
Dipshit called after me. “Have a nice day!”
“You, too.” Somehow it sounded more like, “Fuck you, Dipshit whore” in a kind-of almost friendly coating.
But maybe that was only to me.