Grab A Saddle

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is hot to trot. And not in a Mine That Bird kind of way.I've got a burr under my saddle, and you're going to hear about it. That's why I have a blog.

I went to the bank after school to deposit my paycheck, and a reimbursement check that HH's company gave him for taking a salesman out to lunch. How lunch could cost $87.92, I'll never know. Maybe they flew a guy down from St. Louis to make them pizza. Anyhoo, my bank has an ATM lane, a commercial lane, and two regular lanes at their drive-thru. There was a truck in the commercial lane, and two cars in the next regular customer lane. I pulled in behind the two cars, even though the third lane was empty, because I need to make a sharp right turn upon exiting. That way, I can go down an alley by a church, and pull out onto the road without the blind spot the regular exit includes. And forget about making a left out of that exit, which is the way I needed to go. I had to explain this to the #1 son, as he was harping at me to get in the empty lane.

After waiting five minutes, with no movement, I backed up and pulled over to the ATM. I wanted to get some cash anyway, and had planned on circling back through the ATM after making my deposit. I got my cash, went up through the alley, and came back to get in line. I decided to try the empty lane, throwing caution to the wind and deciding I could back up a couple times to make my sharp right to exit. The second car must have had the same idea, because that chick gunned it in reverse and jumped into the empty lane ahead of me. I pulled in behind her. We waited another 10 minutes. #1 was harping to turn on T-Hoe because he was having a heat stroke or suffocating or some such minor ailment. I refused to burn gas to run the air conditioning. The hold-up car got her little plastic cannister of monetary goods back through the tube. Thinking she must now be leaving, I backed up and pulled back into the second lane. No dice. #1 said she was taking everything out of it and reading it. Meanwhile, the car in the third lane finished the transaction and pulled out.

I started up T-Hoe and moved back to the third lane. I sat there another two or three minutes after tubing in my checks. Did the teller greet me by apologizing for my wait? NO. She said, "How are you?" I understand it's their standard greeting. I resisted my urge to say, "Fifteen minutes older than when I pulled into this line." Instead, I merely said, "Fine." That's my standard reply. No need to tell her about my recently broken neck or my hacking cough for which I could not scam some sweet, sweet Histinex. This was a business transaction.

After having her way with my money, Teller said, "Thanks. Have a nice day." Any other time, I might have replied standardly, "Thanks. You too." But today I just wasn't feeling it. Nobody should have to wait 15 minutes in a bank with two lanes and three cars. No. It should not happen. I waited for my cannister of receipts, but it was not forthcoming. Then Teller repeated, in a sing-songy kind of way, "THANKS. Have a nice DAAAAYYYYY."

Oh, you can bet this set Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's tongue to wagging. "THANKS." Teller hit the button to send out the cannister then, because I heard the tube start humming. Again, this did not please me. How dare she withhold my receipt until I responded to her flippant prompting. HOW DARE SHE! It set me off. Just like that little Drunky Frat Boy Dude at the casino that time. You remember, the one who pulled my crank. I could hold my tongue no longer.

"Oh, so now we have to RESPOND? Some people need to mind their own business. And I don't care WHAT people think of me!" See, you mess with The Mom, you get the mouth. By then, the cannister was there. I extracted my receipt and left. About two minutes later, I told the #1 son, "I wish I would have grabbed that cannister, waved at her, and coughed all over it. I might have even oinked a couple of times." Even The Pony thought she was rude. Sweet Gummi Mary, people! Since when do drive-up bank tellers lecture the world on etiquette? Sometimes, silence is golden. If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all, unless a snotty bank teller gives you attitude. Do not goad people who are already ticked-off by your service. What does she do for a hobby, poke rabid dogs with pointy sticks?

Now I am truly incensed. A call to the manager would no doubt do no good. What am I going to complain about, that a teller told me to have a nice day? Unless you heard her, that plan won't work. I've had some sort of trouble at that bank the last three or four times I've been there. I've already closed a savings account there. It's to the point of closing out checking and opening an account somewhere else.

How dare that little whippersnapper play passive-aggressive with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom! One does not speak to customers in that manner, especially after they have waited 15 minutes for a teller. If I had that kind of time to burn, I would have gone inside, even at the inconvenience of dragging my annoying children with me. For all Teller knew, I had to rush to the bedside of my great-granny who had only hours to live. For all Teller knew, I was lapsing into a diabetic coma and needed to seek medical attention. For all Teller knew, I had to pick up my young son at daycare, or he would be left alone on a bus. HOW DARE SHE play the have-a-nice-day card on me!

I have students in my tech class who are not particularly fond of me. But when I drive through McDonald's (only the best for my young 'uns), they are polite and professional. They need to hold on to their jobs. This little teller must have been living in her momma's house, laying her rude little head to sleep on the frilly pillow of her pink princess bed every night. Or else she wouldn't have been so cheeky. I know enough to smile and fake politeness to parents who are annoying. Then I blog about it later. Teller should have known better. And besides, my only crime was to not respond to her 'Thanks. Have a nice day.' Off with my head!

Young people today need a stern lecture on The Customer Is Always Right, says Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, shaking her cane, stamping her orthopedic-shoe-clad foot, adjusting her shawl with her liver-spotted hand, as she waits for her son to come visit and play a game of Yahtzee.