OH. MY. GOD.

I am not confident that I can adequately put into words what just happened to me, but I am going to try.

You may remember, this from Friday. Well friends, today the banking saga hit the roof.

I finally ran out of all the cash I took out on Friday, when we discovered that my new ATM card had been issued with no account number attached. This should be no problem, since the she-man told me my card should be functioning in 24 to 48 hours.

But I think it should be no surprise to any of us that the bitch lied.

Motherf*cker. Straight up, that�s how I feel about that biatch.

So, I am so soooooo busy at work that I wait until 2:50PM to go to lunch, because my plan had been to work out during lunch today, since my life is basically a NASCAR race flying past me. And I see that I have $5, so I brace myself (because you just know, right? Like a cheating boyfriend, you just KNOW.), and I go to the ATM.

But instead of the �swoosh, swoosh, swoosh� sound of my money being counted as it comes out of the machine, I hear the disturbing, �zzzzzzzzzz tat tat tat tat� of a receipt being typed. That dreaded sound. Could there be any worse sound?

I brace myself. In that impersonal digital font (could there be any worse font? Why do banks use that shitty font?) I am told �Transaction Denied. Request Not Allowed At Our Bank.� What the�?

The anger explodes inside of me, and I run back to my office to place the phone call to my branch at 2:57PM. My office is packed with the usual bystanders who love to watch the drama unfold in my office � seriously, they pack in here to watch the drama, and I just want to ask � IS THIS THE FUCKING TRUMAN SHOW? Are they trying to get in my still or what?

So, I walk in and I announce, �Outta my way, you are about to see me lose my shit.�

And the show began.

I called my branch, while simultaneously calling another branch and conferenced the two calls together to ensure that I got a live person. And then that lucky person picked up. This is how it went down:

PARTYGIRL: �Hi, I have a really serious problem with my new ATM card and it needs to be resolved immediately.� I then explain what happened Friday and bring us up to date.

BANKER: �Right, well it takes 48 hours so you should try your card later today.�

�I don�t think you get what�s going on here. I have no money. And this is your problem. I want resolution.�

�I can�t help you if you aren�t here.�

�Listen! I want you to take my social security number and plug it in and find out if I even have an account yet or if there is some other problem!�

She takes my social and says, �Nope, everything is fine now. Go back to the bank and try your card.�

�I don�t want to go back to the bank and try my card, I want you to tell me what was wrong with it. I�m not getting off the phone with you until you tell me, because if I go to the bank and it doesn�t work, there�s not going to be anyone for me to speak with.�

�Ma�am, I will pick up the phone when you call. I am here until 5PM. Go try your card.�

So I go BACK to the bank, and try my card. Receipt comes out � same message as before. So now I go into this bank and show the customer service rep my receipt and card. He asks me, in a hushed voice, �Are you sure you have a $100 to take out?�

Okay, do I not look like I have $100? I mean COME ON. I�m 27. I�m well dressed. I have impeccably colored and styled hair courtesy of Miguel at the John Barrett Salon. Granted, I was wearing a crocheted poncho over my red, boat-necked top paired with a simple black skirt, which falls right below my knees but is playfully slit up the side. Perhaps my platforms or glittered pedicure may indicate my youth, but COME ON. I�m starting to get offended. Do you think I am that stupid? But the man is kind and smiles and says the card should work, so he recommends I go back and call my bank.

I speedwalk across the street, more determined than ever to seek vengence. To right this wrong. I run into my building, fleetingly smile at the doorman � I can�t help myself, and really HE didn�t screw me over, it�s this damn bank. I run into the elevator and hit the button for my floor, and before the doors shut, a messenger sneaks in and presses the button for the floor below mine. I silently curse him in my mind for delaying my express ride up to my office, but I smile at him to make him feel comfortable because it can�t be an easy job to ride your bike through the traffic in this city to deliver people�s packages and probably get yelled at every other delivery for running 10 minutes late.

When I stop at his floor, I wonder to myself, why do I have to smile at everyone and make them feel comfortable? What am I, Polly-fucking-anna?

So now I�m pissed again and I rip open the door to my workplace and I throw it against the wall and I storm past the junior staff who stare at me with pure fear at my dramatic entrance and the fury on my face, but there is no time for smiles and pleasantries now, because I have been screwed and enough is enough.

I call my branch and I get the manager. We go through the charade. I read the receipts. She looks at my account. She insists there is nothing wrong and she tells me she hasn�t heard about this happening to many other people. I tell her, I don�t CARE what other people are dealing with, I�m concerned about my account and the fact that I am walking around NYC with $5 to my name! Finally, she refers me to the 1-800 #. I ask her if she understands that I�ve had no use of my ATM card for 5 days? She says yes and apologizes.

OH YES, SHE DID. At this point, I scream in my office. A co-worker offers to get me lunch. On principle, I refuse. To make me feel better, they imitate that AmeriTrade commercial, which is my favorite, with the guy on hold who starts to sing �Let�s Get Physical.� That guy is GENIUS and he needs a development deal, which reminds me to make some calls and start investigating him.

But back to me. I hang up and take a deep breath. I can�t yell at a woman who apologizes. I should confess now, I have a hard time yelling at people. I have the ability to be very angry, extraordinarily angry, but I do not have the ability to confront a person nor project the anger. I have decided this is my fatal flaw: lack of expressed anger.

So I call the 800# and I am really getting worked up again. The automated greeting is telling me I will be on hold for 8 minutes. I am so angry I am screaming into the microphone on the cradle of my phone and I am pounding my fist of the phone because the muzac on the phone is to me like a red cloth to a is bull.

The people in my office are trying to calm me, but I will not allow it. I must maintain the anger for the customer service person. They must understand how wrong they have treated me. They must fear my anger. They MUST wave my bank fees! I must be compensated! Yes! Compensation.

And the next thing I know, a soft voice picks up and kindly asks if she can help me, and I don�t even know what happened (WAS DAVID BLAINE IN THE ROOM?) but my anger leaves me and the I calmly say to her, �I am having Major issues and I hope to God you can help me." Because I am at the end of my rope. And I just don�t know what I am going to do.�

This woman is silent on the other end, and then I hear her breathe and she says, �Okay, tell me what happened.�

And so I do.

And she checks my account. And everything is in order. Until I tell her I went to a different bank�s ATM. And she says, �That�s it!� You have to go to our bank, until tomorrow!� She tells me to go to a bank and try the card.

I ask for her name and I tell her I want to file a complaint against my branch for being so unhelpful. She says the call is being recorded and she will alert her manager. I say, �Melissa, I am going to be writing letters about this experience and you are the only one who won�t be going down with that sinking ship of my bank.� She laughs, but I tell her, I�m serious.

So I hang up and at this point, I am crying and laughing as I try to explain what happened. I am hysterical. My office is also crying after hearing my end of the convo.

And for the third time in an hour, I leave my office to go to the ATM machine.

TRANSACTION DENIED. That�s what flashed on the screen.

I am shell-shocked. Dazed and confused, I walk into this random branch where the DREADED she-man works. She is not there. I breathe a sigh of relief. I think I am going to cry again, but I remember to breathe because my mom taught me to never give them the satisfaction of letting them see me cry. And to this day, I will never give anyone the satisfaction. Normal...I know.

So, I suck it up.

The customer service rep calls me. It�s a woman. I am silently cursing my luck, wishing for once to get a man to deal with. Men feel bad when I get that catch in my voice and when the water threatens to spill over my bottom row of eyelashes, they go the extra mile for resolution. These women, on the other hand, are the enemy. They don�t want to help. I almost want to push the woman over and read my file to see if there�s some sort of �woman code� note telling other women customer service reps to box me out. And admit it, you�re starting to wonder that too right? I mean, have you ever heard of anything like this?

So she can�t figure it out and she decides I have a defective card. She cancels it and orders another one. 7-10 business days she tells me, very blase. I want to scream, �I am going to pull my account!� �I am going to write letters to your President and your CFO and I am going to CC: the Better Business Bureau and every GODDAMN consumer watch reporter from here to Topeka!� but I am too tired to fight anymore. I can�t withstand the confrontation that comes with the screaming and so I quietly thank her and go to withdraw cash from the teller. My eyes well up as I start to fill out the withdrawal slip�something so easy�but so hard right now. I feel so silly, but it�s like this bank has sewed kryptonite into the hem of my skirt and I am devoid of any powers that I would normally have. All because of a stupid ATM card.

I get my money, and I walk out of the bank and I light up a cigarette. Start walking. And then I stop dead in my tracks.

Because I saw Santa Claus walking down Third Avenue. Truly. Now b4 you think I�ve lost it and remove me from your favorites list, gimme a chance here � because I also thought I lost it. I squinched my eyes shut beneath my aviator shades and I opened them and not only did I see good 'ole St. Nick standing front of me in authentic garb � straight outta the original �Miracle on 34th Street� - but I watched the smokers outside register their surprise at seeing Father Christmas in October and stop him and shake his hand.

Truly, they did. And he said hello and shook their hands. And he �Ho, ho, ho�ed� in his exquisite velvet knickers and wished people a happy day. And I marveled at his genuine snow-white beard, with its beautiful curls matching his gleaming white long hair; his rosy cheeks and his sparkling gold rimmed specs.

And his presence was contagious. I watched adult men smile and light up and for a moment I knew what they had looked like as children. Beautiful, innocent children believing that goodness would deliver toys.

And at that moment, when I saw Santa Claus on Third Avenue in October, I knew that everything in the world would be good again.

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