Last night, in the face of all the rapidly changing technology these days, with me listening to an audiobook on my phone that I downloaded from cloud content, driving a hybrid vehicle and sending photos instantaneously to friends overseas while I’m nowhere near a computer, I wrote a check for my groceries grandma-style and totally got denied.
As I fumbled through my purse to find a business card to give to a visiting distributor yesterday afternoon, I realized I had left my wallet in my gym bag the night before. Well shitballs, I thought, there go my plans for errands after work.
Then all these things happened that made me forget I didn’t have my wallet. Plans to see a concert that evening started to fall through, I had a beer with my dad after work at the pub, all these crazy plot twists were happening in my audiobook, and then Sean got a pizza for dinner. I love pizza dearly, but since I started eating paleo, pizza is a no no. So, pouty, I hatched a scheme to get a rotisserie chicken, spinach and avocados from the grocery store not far from our house.
I picked up the greasy but delicious smelling chicken-in-a-bag, dreaming of using its leftovers for a rad homemade chicken soup, as well as the other items and halfway to the register remembered I don’t have my wallet. Shit. I went and put everything back and just as I had set down the last avocado remembered I had my checkbook. I… think I can still use these for things other than bills?
So I picked everything back up again, waited in line for what seemed like ages, and confirmed with the checker (is that what they’re called?) that I could pay with a check. She bagged up everything as I got a pen and like a grandma, scrawled out all the necessary information, trying not to move at a grandmother’s pace. When the checkout ladygirl ran it through the machine, it beeped a “NEED PHOTO ID” in green text. Fuck.
She knew my plight, and knew I couldn’t do anything about it. “I know my ID’s number by heart though!” “Sorry,” she said. “I need to see ID.” I looked down at my checks, my address in The Dalles still on them, and felt the bitter taste of defeat and not the savory, delicious taste of chicken. “So… I guess I’m not getting my groceries then.” She tried to be nice about it. “Maybe you could come back when you get your wallet?” I mumbled a “Man, that’s kind of a pain in the ass. Thanks anyway,” and left with a flush on my face, feeling like a meth dealer trying to get away with forging checks for Sudafed.
I came home, pouted to Sean, who thought it was adorable, and made myself a paleo dinner while he merrily ate his pizza. And then I stole a slice and ate most of it. Hey man, 80/20 rule, and if I couldn’t have my rotisserie chicken, goddammit I’m having some of this motherfucking take and bake pizza.
(It wasn’t worth it, btw. Cold pizza FTW.)