I’m getting a divorce. I have to. It’s kind of an emergency. No, he’s not cheating. There’s no issue of abuse. No sign of addiction or alcoholism. He’s got a job. In actuality, he’s a pretty decent guy. But still, he’s got to go.
You may be asking yourself why I would end a 25 year marriage for seemingly no good reason. It’s simple. The bank put the wrong last name on my new debit card.
By now, I’m sure you’re saying, Christine, just head back to the bank and get it straightened out. But I’d have to tell you, with my most stern face while possibly wagging my finger at you, I can’t and you won’t make me!
Perhaps I should lay out the backstory.
Picture it. Two years ago, a family of three packs up everything they own, including an elderly cat, and drives 12 hours to start a new life in North Carolina. There’s also more backstory, including me throwing up tater tots and damn near an entire bottle of wine the night prior, but we’ll deal with that another day.
When we moved we knew we’d have to get a new bank account started right away, as our credit union had very few branches outside of the Sunshine State. So, one day after work, my husband popped in and opened an account at a local bank down the street from our apartment. I’d have to go down one day, simply show my ID, sign a few papers, and then I’d receive my very own debit card. Easy peasy. Am I right?
Well, wouldn’t you know it? I found a way to be “busy” every single time he asked me to come down to the bank with him. For two damn years.
In those two years we shared his debit card. And it worked out great, with the exception of the time he got the flat tire and I had the debit card or the 85 times I went to the grocery store and forgot that he had the debit card.
So, one day he put his foot down and made me wear pants and go out into the world IN THE RAIN and talk to people so I could get my own debit card. For that reason alone he deserves for me to leave him, but I digress.
I should start my bank tale of woe with the anecdote about how he forgot his wallet and ID at home and I had to sit in the bank waiting area while he ran home to get it, but that would be embarrassing for him, so I’ll leave that part out.
Once he returned with his wallet, we sat down with, fuck what’s his name again? I forget his name, so we’ll just call him Guy Who Spelled My Last Name Wrong Because He Was So Busy Talking About Politics He Couldn’t Do His Job Right, or Guy, for short.
Look, I hate Trump as much as 2/3 of the country does, maybe more. But, Guy really, really, really hated Trump. And, normally I would be here for that all damn day long. But, this time, I just wanted to get my name on our checking account and get a debit card. That’s all. In. Out. IS THAT SO FUCKING HARD TO UNDERSTAND, GUY?
And also normally, I would tell Guy to fuck the fuck off, but the husband is one of those “nice guys” and he frowns upon my outward displays of curmudgeoness when I’m with him. So, I had to pretend to be “nice” too. It was awful.
In between signing this and presenting my ID for that, dating, initialing, and other such nonsense, Guy hammered Trump. And, hey man, I GET IT. I hate that fucker too, but just PLEASE can I just get a debit card?
After an hour. AN HOUR! An hour of paperwork and listening to Guy carry on about Trump, we were finally released into the world. And, as Guy assured us, I would finally have my own debit card in 7-10 days.
Every day I checked the mailbox and, as Guy said, on the 7th day I received said debit card. After I called the 800 number and activated the card, I flipped her over and gave her the old John Hancock. No more sharing a debit card! Yay for doing simple adult tasks after being lazy for two years!
Then I flipped the card over and noticed that my last name was misspelled. Instead of Knapp, my card read, I SHIT YOU NOT, Trapp. Christine Trapp.
LOOK AT IT! LOOK AT IT! IT SAYS TRAPP! THAT FUCKER SPELLED MY NAME WRONG BECAUSE HE WAS SO BUSY TALKING ABOUT TRUMP!
At this point in time my husband was nearly in the fetal position and dying from laughter. Then the puns started.
Husband: If only your first name was Itsa. Get it. Itsa Trapp. *Sean Connery voice* Itsa Trapp. *leaves the room, comes back* Itsa Trapp!
Me: This isn’t funny! Now I have to put pants on and go back to the bank and fix it. What if I get Guy again and he spells my name wrong?!
Husband: You could just go find someone with the last name Trapp and marry them. It might be easier.
Me: *thinks for far too long* It’s really not that bad of an idea.
So, as you can see, I’ve laid out a compelling reason for how I should divorce my husband and marry someone, anyone with the last name Trapp. I mean, the husband was the one that suggested it, so it’s not like I should feel bad or anything. And this way, I avoid having to put on pants and let Guy screw up my name again while he carries on about Trump.
I’m not the bad guy here. Guy is the bad guy. Guy is also a good guy. I mean, obviously he his. He hates Trump. But Guy is also very bad because he screwed up my name and caused the demise of my two decade long marriage.
But, hey …
I wonder what Guy’s last name is.