There are reasons that I want to keep all my money in a shoebox under my bed.

So it's S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y night (!) and I'm at home, getting things ready to install my photo exhibit tomorrow and drinking a glass of wine to try and help me calm down from the events of the afternoon.

Close to 4:30pm the Robeau dropped me off at Staples on his way out of town for a gig so that I could get some things I needed for the install tomorrow. I took about 30 minutes walking around picking stuff up and when I went to cash out I realized that I had left my debit card in the pocket of the coat I wore when we went to the drive in last night to see American Gangster. I know. We went to the drive in. In November. How cool are we? American Gangster was really enjoyable, by the way, and I want to go on record here as INSISTING that Ruby Dee get a Best Supporting Actress nomination. But I digress. I had no way to pay for my goods and no way to pay for transit home. I was stranded (not at the drive in, natch).

In a panic, I called the Robeau simply to vent about the fact that I'd have to go home on foot and would probably end up not being able to get back to the store before they closed. He, in is calm headedness, suggested that I take a cab home, ask the driver to wait, grab my debit card, stop at a bank machine, go back to Staples and then head home any damn way I please, with my stuff. Seemed like a plan, and it was only going to be an extra $20. Frankly, at this point, $20 seemed like a bargain for the peace of mind I would have for getting all of this stuff done by 6pm. And it all worked out until the "stop at a bank machine part". Now, while I may not be Miss Money Bags I have a fairly healthy balance in my chequing account at the moment and for some reason Mr. ATM wouldn't let me access ANY of it. No way. No How. No money.

Now I am in a STATE. Forget the fact that I won't be able to follow through on the plan and get the things I need for the install, I owe this cabbie $12 and I have no way to pay him. The debit card was my only recourse. No cash. No credit. And at this point, no brain in my head. I dial the Robeau again and proceed to freak out. I hand the cabbie my cell phone and half wimper something about "take his credit card number...I have no money..." Turns out this isn't going to work either, because unless he can swipe the card, well, it ain't gonna work. I think the look in my eye freaked the cabbie out. "Don't worry, Miss, I'll come to your house sometime and get the money..." and now I'm all grateful and sobby and walking backwards away from the car. He wants to drive me home the six blocks but I'd rather walk the street angrily crying to myself. This? This is the perfect time for a weird French Canadian dude carrying a bag of recycling and riding his bike to whizz past me and shout "Beautiful day, eh?" I don't want to talk to this guy, so I keep my head down and keep walking. Seems my refusal to acknowledge his declaration of this day as beautiful has upset him and he keeps trailing me, demanding to know why I do not find this day, this most beautiful of days, beautiful. Ever the lady, I tell him to take his recycling and go bug somebody else (I may have also called him a f&cktard). Leaving me alone, it turns out, wasn't an option for him and I kept getting an earful all the way home. Awesome.

So I get home and I call my bank right away. Turns out about a month ago I shopped at an establishment that was suspected with taking people's debit card numbers. They put a limit on how much money I could access at a time. You know, for my safety. Except NOBODY TOLD ME!!!!!!! Gee, Scotiabank, thanks for helping me out with that. WOULD A PHONE CALL HAVE KILLED YOU? I hate banks. I hate bankers. I hate that I can't keep all my money in a bra, in a sock or in a shoe box under my bed. Tell you what, Bloggy McBloggerson, heads are going to ROLL at Scotiabank on Monday. There's not enough Merlot in the world to keep me from going all Revengor on this one. Not enough Merlot in the world.