Lately I've been having some womanly issues which culminated in me shaking a doctor by the lapels and demanding she give me either a very strong pill, a blood transfusion, a uterine transplant or a bath plug with comfort-grip applicator. She opted to prescribe me a very strong dose of hormones, which has done nothing to fix the problem.
It doesn't matter though, because I don't believe the purpose of those pills was ever to stop the period infinitas, as it's known in Latin. Instead, the ensuing emotional imbalance was meant to distract me from the original problem, because it's hard to be concerned with blood loss when you're simultaneously laughing, crying and strangling the life out of a coat rack for looking at you funny.
In this state, two days after my shocking and sad real-life encounter with my Telephone Boyfriend, I found myself in Costco. I think I was seeking the kind of comfort that can only come from knowing I won't run out of toilet paper until the 2010 Olympics.
I finished my shopping, a grueling experience in which I rammed three people's shopping carts on purpose and had a teary moment in the book section after stumbling upon a cook book on cooking for couples. And I still had my period, going on week 5. It was really the perfect storm.
Because it was a Saturday, everybody on Vancouver Island was also shopping at Costco. Shut-ins, federally protected witnesses, missing persons -- everybody was shopping, and in line behind me as I got to the cashier.
I handed over my Costco card. The cashier swiped my card, and then went very still and quiet. She leaves the till, and comes back with a manager. He swipes my card, purses his lips, blows out his cheeks, and asks me if I have another card.
It doesn't matter whether it's a Visa, a debit card or a Costco card. When your card gets declined for any reason, it's devastating. You are the lowest life form on the planet. And that's what was happening.
My Costco card was under my ex-boyfriend's name. There was nothing underhanded in me continuing to use the card after we broke up. Like a considerate and civilized person, I asked him if there would be any problem with me using that card and he told me no, there would be no problem.
Flash forward to me standing at the front of the line with fifty-seven increasingly hostile people waiting behind me. The manager informs me that Jack-Ass Incorporated (not the actual name of my ex-boyfriend's company but perhaps it should be), had requested my name be removed from the account.
Perhaps in explanation, the manager went on to give me the name of the woman who had been added in my place, probably hoping this would somehow calm the dangerous looking splotches appearing on my face.
It did not. I couldn't explain that I wasn't a disgruntled former employee of Jack-Ass Incorporated, which is how I'm sure it appears when your name is dropped from a corporate membership.
Nor could I explain that my name shouldn't be dropped and replaced by some other bitch because I was with the Jack-Ass when he was mean, when he drank, when he was nearly bankrupt and had no time for me.
She's with him now that he's sober, softened, relaxed and wealthy. At the very least I should claim the free Costco membership. I earned the right to wholesale prices goddammit.
You would think I also earned a phone call or an email from Jack-Ass Incorporated, letting me know I would need to purchase a new membership the next time I went to Costco.
This small slap in the face, combined with my hormonal imbalance, added to my depression over recent events, mixed with having some manager unwittingly telling me my ex's new girlfriend's name, and discovering she has a soap opera name like Tiffany Brooke Carrington, caused me to lose my shit in Costco.
The line-up for new memberships and customer service stretched out the door, given that it was a Saturday and everybody within a 100 mile radius had an unwanted Christmas gift to return at exactly the same time.
I started to cry. I'm not even ashamed. I didn't burst into great hitching sobs or anything, but I snivelled once. My one hand flew to my mouth and the other hand shoved my glasses onto my head so I could knuckle my eyes dry. It was a very brief crack, but apparently the Costco manager saw Armageddon.
"Wait right here! I'll fix this!" And then the manager ran, and I literally mean he ran, legs and arms pumping, to get a membership form from customer service. He was back within seconds, after ordering the cashier to start ringing through my items so I didn't have to wait any longer.
After paying for my new membership with my order, he directed me to what he called "a quiet spot" so I could fill out my membership form, and he again asked me to "Wait right here! I'll get you past the line!"
And he did. He took me past a crowd the size of the average pilgrimage to Mecca and snapped what is possibly the worst photo ever taken of me in my entire life for my new card, but really I was in no position to demand a retake.
He reassured me the entire walk over to the camera that I didn't have to worry about my shopping cart, because nobody would ever steal my groceries, perhaps out of concern that my head would start leaking again at the possibility.
He walked me back to my cart, and I thanked him. His panic, and kindness was really rather touching. He said I was most welcome, and that it was a new day. I was now "the master of my own card."
Indeed I am. I'm the master of nothing else, but I can rock my own Costco card. It's a small step, but right now I'll take anything.
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