if you don't listen to Cracker, start now

Cross-legged in my beat-up desk chair, hair sensibly ponytailed, soft loose cotton leggings and ribbed tank top and big plaid flannel shirt, the cat dozing in her cat bed behind me, Cracker tapping mournfully and patiently through "Gentleman's Blues." This song always makes me feel languid and somehow out of time, a modern girl in a period noir full of dark rain-shiny streets and men in trenchcoats who call me a funny dame. I knew she was trouble from the minute she walked through my door, says the gritty voiceover.

No trouble tonight, though. I feel like hell. I must have picked up a cold. My head hurts, my chest feels congested, mild cough, low-grade fever, that sort of thing. I might venture out to rent a movie, but I think that will be the extent of my activities this evening.

I completely scored today, though: I have a storage unit. The superintendent called while I was out yesterday and told me he'd found an empty one. I ran into him in the lobby today, and he showed me the unit and had me sign for it. I just need to get a padlock for it.

The storage unit isn't huge, maybe 5' x 5', but it's perfect for me. Sometime this weekend, I'll haul all those boxes out of my closet and put them in the basement. I'll take some before and after pictures so you can all share in the excitement. (Look, small victories, okay?)

From the Stranger than Fiction Department: I stopped by the bank the other day to buy a few rolls of quarters because our laundry room doesn't have a change machine. I almost never go the bank; I do everything via ATM. I get a lower monthly fee from the bank for agreeing not to come in very often, which I think is hysterical. "Here, we'll drop the rate, just don't come in."

When I've gone to the bank in the past, I've swiped my ATM card and punched in my PIN through the little machine next to the teller window, whereupon the teller's computer pulls up my account and we can do business. I was waiting with card in hand when the next free teller beckoned me over.

"Hi. I'd like to get four rolls of quarters and deduct it from my checking account, please."

The teller, a tall woman with a no-bullshit air about her, looked over her glasses at me and said, "I'll need a check."

"I have to have an actual paper check to get money from you out of my own checking account?" The teller nodded. "But I don't need a check to get money from an ATM."

I could see the teller's face harden. She probably wanted to shake me. I could almost hear her thinking. Because it's procedure, you little bitch, you think I make the rules around here? I raised my hands in a gesture of submission. "S'okay, I'll pay cash... and then replace the cash with new cash from the ATM on the way out." Whatever. As long as you're leaving. I put down a pair of twenties; she uncrossed her arms and put down four rolls of quarters. I stopped at the ATM in the foyer and retrieved a fresh pair of twenties (without a check).

Am I missing something here? Does this seem as insanely stupid to anyone else as it does to me? Who the hell carries checks, anyway? Days later, I'm still baffled. But I've got my quarters, and the bank succeeded in making the experience unpleasant enough that I'm unlikely to go back until I need more quarters, so I suppose everyone wins.

And now I'm starving. If I can think of a movie to rent, I can push myself out the door and actually go to the market (which is near the video store) and buy food instead of paying for dinner delivery. But my bed just looks so inviting.