I wonder what my horoscope says about this?
Okay, last week it was my glasses, which I found. This weekend The Unthinkable happened. I lost my wallet.
Now, by "wallet", I mean my checkbook. Yes, I'm one of those morons who runs around with my checkbook in my backpocket. I use my checkbook as my wallet. All my credit cards and personal ids are in it.
It's not like I write checks anymore. Hell, my debit card has replaced my need for checks. Mostly. I had to write a check to the plumber who unclogged my hot water line in the shower a week ago and just yesterday, I wrote a check for a pizza for lunch. Later that day, I was buzzing around town shopping and running errands. Stopped at a convenience store for a bottle of water and a roll of Tums (the "Sicilian Meat Lovers" pizza from Papa John's was chewing a hole in my gut). I paid with my debit card, then used the restroom, since I was there and all. A half hour later at another store, I reached for my checkbook. Not in my back pocket.
I ran to the truck and scoured it, not there. I remembered the trip to the men's room and called the convenience store. The Iranian dude looked while I was on the line, and it wasn't there. He said more than a handful of people had used the restroom since I was just there. I drove like a madman back to the store, checked the parking lot where I had parked, looked in the restroom myself, and then began looking through the trash barrels in the parking lot. And the dumpster, thank you very much. I've been face to face with WAY to much garbage in the past week.
Heavy sigh. I knew what I needed to do.
I started with my bank. They cancelled the debit card. They asked what the check numbers of the UNUSED checks were that were in the checkbook. Huh? Are you kidding me? I didn't fucking know that! I did know that I had written a check earlier in the day for the pizza that was trying to eat its way out of my abdomen at that very minute. I called Papa John's to get that check number. Any number after that would be a check number to put a "stop" on, right? My check had been put into a deposit bag and I would have to wait until the store closed for the manager to take the time to go through that bag and find my check. Cuz afterall it was, like, 9pm on a Saturday night, and they were up to their asses making PIZZAS right then. Fair enough. I told the manager that I'd call back after midnight to get that information.
Then it was the credit cards. Kids, I have a slew of credit cards, and every one of those puppies was kept in my checkbook. Cards I haven't used in YEARS. Sonuvabitch! I promised myself that from this point forward, I will only carry a regular billfold and only have the bare minimum of shit in it. I had to call 6 different credit card companies and wade through Phone Tree Hell with every fucking one. AND explain my retarded Tale Of Woe AND verify my identity by answering a shitload of questions. By the way, am I a bad son for not knowing the year in which my father was born? AND, by the way, how does CitiBank know that, if I never did? AND, by the way, how much other shit do they know about me that I never told them???
It took all night. I was talking to Pakistani Customer Out-Sourced Service until way past 1 am. By comparing the number on the pizza check to the number to the first number on my next book of blanks, I was able to give my bank the numbers of the blank checks in the checkbook. I've gotten everything squared away, for now, except one credit card. It'll be just my luck that whoever picked my wallet up, runs off to Rooms To Go and charges up $7,500 dollars worth of livingroom and bedroom furniture. But, that card's customer service department is closed until Monday morning, and I'm just gonna have to wait to close the card until then. Then, I start the process of replacing my driver's license, heath insurance card, voter registration card, and YMCA badge.
I lost some car wash coupons, a Buy 10 And Get One Free card from a sandwich shop (no biggie, I was only up to my third sandwich), my eyeglass prescription, my next dental appointment reminder, my sushi discount card, my tanning bed membership, and the phone number of this really hot guy I met at the leather bar one night a year ago that I never summoned the balls to call.
Now, I've got a twenty dollar bill, a half of a tank of gas, the other half of that abomination of a pizza, and a half a roll of Tums to get me through until I can get to the bank Monday morning. That's do-able.
Moral of the story: Travel light, Jim. And, avoid public restrooms at all costs.