Before I relate my big bumbling blonde week, I issue a disclaimer of sorts: I have nothing against blondes, don’t think they are intellectually inferior in any way, and love being one. But there’s nothing wrong with taking a good-natured stab at my hair color every now and then.

Ordeal Number One

I’ve been a wreck since about last Thursday. I’ve obsessively checked my bank account online for the past week or so, waiting for two checks (payroll and a week’s worth of round-the-clock-sibling-babysitting) to post.

Thursday night: Still no money. My mom calls her bank. The check she wrote me for sitting cleared.

AAAAARH!!! Somebody has my money!!!!!! … right? I sure don’t have it.

Friday morning: Call the Herald, somebody cashed my payroll check as well. I take off work to battle with my mom’s bank, to discover the bugger who cashed that darn check. No luck there… A trip to Fayetteville, all to find the stupid system down.

The fiasco stressed me out so much, I was forced to go to the pound and play with puppies to alleviate the tension.

Monday morning: I spend a grumpy and drowsy pre-coffee couple of hours on the phone fighting with both my mom’s bank and my bank, trying to get to the bottom of this. Still, not much luck.

I get this call from my bank around one.

“Cassidy, we researched this check.”

“…Yes ma’am. (internal: YEAH, OKAY!!!! ABOUT TIME! AND!)”

“… apparently the deposit slip you used was for your parent’s business account with us. So the money is in their account.”

“Oh. Ooooh. Well, thank you for all your help.” (hangs up).

Furious giggles overtake my body and tears absolutely erupt from my eyes. I can’t decide if I’m frustrated or wholly amused. Perhaps I’m simply overcome with gratefulness because my money’s safely in my parent’s bank account. It’s also a bit unnerving — those checks were made out to me, they had my signature on them, and I’m not affiliated with that account at all. But whatever. Mostly my mistake.

Ordeal Number Two

I just couldn’t take the hint and stay away from banking this weekend. Last night I head out to Food Lion for the weeks’ grocery shopping (a big event for a family of six). I stop by the ATM, with what I firmly believe is my mom’s debit card.

The stinkin’ machine just ate that card UP. No hope of spitting it out. I call THAT bank (I’m burnt out on 1-800 numbers, let me tell you) from the sketchy parking lot (at great personal risk) and they give me the spiel about picking up the card at the bank in Spring Lake on Monday, blah blah blah.

Positively fuming, I somehow manage to get a week’s supply of milk and other necessities (I paid with cash, I think it’s the only thing I ever want to deal with ever again) and head home.

My mom reports her debit card lost or stolen. No problem, we can deal with this.

It’s two hours later. My pulse’s just returned to a human rate again, all the stress of the ATM fiasco’s gone, my mom’s cleaning out her purse…

“Uh, Cass… THIS is my debit card. You put my Discover credit card in the machine.”

… Whoops. Now I really do want to cry.

So this morning, while I’m on my cell phone resolving Ordeal Numero Uno, she’s discerning the location of her credit card.

She ended up reporting it lost or stolen, too.

The End.

Because of my mishaps, my parents currently lack a debit card and are one credit card short — but they do have a big chunk of my money in their bank now. I’m not touching anything short of cash for a while, and nothing of theirs, lest they disown me/take money out of my check for the grief I’ve caused them.

I feel utterly ditsy. Both ordeals stemmed from totally dumb mistakes. Maybe several years’ worth of monthly exposure to ammonia really has done a number on my neurons.

But who am I kidding? As soon as I get a bank-free evening, I’m totally doing my roots.