Wednesday afternoon. Approx 12:54 pm. I go to the grocery store. Accompanying me to said grocery store are my two children, Alana and Ava. We are tired. As a result of exhaustion, everyone looks a little fuzzy headed. Hair is uncombed. Pajamas are being worn in public. Its not a pretty sight.
Rewind to Tuesday night, approx 3:30 am. Alana wakes up entire household with her extremely loud vomiting. Vomit on the bed. Vomit on spare sheets. Vomit on princess pillow. 5:30 am: Everyone finally gets back to sleep after cleaning up lots of puke and doing two loads of laundry at an un-godly hour.
Back to Wednesday: My children are groucho-deluxes. Ava is whiny. Alana doesn't want to be at the store anymore. To buy some affection from their cutenesses', I purchase a bag of puffy Cheetos at the register on the way out of the store.
Next stop: Drive-up ATM. The beauty of the drive-up ATM is this: No one sees you. If you look like crap and your kids are covered in Cheetos it doesn't matter. Who is the drive-up ATM to judge you? Its not looking so fresh right now either, with its touch screen all covered in dirty fingerprints and such.
Problem with Bank of America's new state-of-the-art touch screen scan your check and take your cash with no envelope ATMs: They are tempermental. If your cash is wrinkled it rejects it. It will accept $40 out of your $50 deposit. Then it will spit $10 back at you because it deems itself a high roller ATM with no time or patience for measly $10 bills.
Wednesday afternoon approx 1:30 pm. My kids are half-asleep. Covered in Cheetos. My hair is ugly. I'm wearing an old Race for the Cure shirt. Its hot. My groceries are in the trunk slowly reaching room temperature. The picky stuck-up good-for-nothing drive-up ATM refuses to take my $10 bill.
I could just blow it off and keep the $10, but I need it to be in the bank for all my bills to clear. The difference it makes in my puny little bank account is big, so it must be deposited.
Wednesday afternoon approx 1:37 pm. I take my dirty tired kids into the bank. Covered in Cheetos. With half-eaten Cheetos still in their dirty little hands. And I wait in line. To deposit $10. And I look like major white trash. Depositing $10. With Cheeto covered kids.
Good thing the tellers weren't too judgemental. To my face at least. When I left they were probably like Whoa, that lady never bathes her kids. Or combs her hair. And that old t-shirt? So 2008. Literally.