Another Goddamn Day In Shit City
My mom is old. Really old. Like, OMFG, please do not let me get that old.
So today we loaded up for a ride to the bank to break into her safety deposit box, which is the one thing I can’t make payable on death. I either get into it now, or I’ll have to open up an estate for just that: a box full of $2 bills and pictures of her furniture.
Preparing for a loved one’s death is just one of those things you have to do.
My advice to you is, start this process before they turn 93.
Eighty is probably a good time to seriously get your ass in gear on this front. Of course, good luck breaking down their resistance, since we’re all convinced we’re going to live forever as the 18-year-old who still resides in our heads.
Now, I’ve never seen a safety deposit box in real life because I own absolutely nothing of value. I’ve only seen them on TV, where James Bond or someone else equally suave and debonair, usually in a tuxedo, is escorted into a bank vault where a long metal box is placed before them on a swath of green baize, after which the bank employee discreetly leaves the room so that the person can count their diamonds or retrieve their nuclear codes in private.
I didn’t think about the fact that we would need a key. And no, no one fucking mentioned it when I was scheduling the appointment, thanks for nothing, Huntington Bank. If you don’t have the key, they have to drill out the lock, price TBD, but I assume it’s more than what I want to pay, which is zero.
Thus started today’s episode of “Indiana Jones and The Quest for the Key to the Safety Deposit Box.”
After an hour of tearing the house apart (so, so much wrapping paper and empty cookie tins), I left my 93-year-old mother on the couch to further contemplate where she might’ve hidden one small key 40 years ago.
I can’t even find my car keys, which weigh five pounds and have more things dangling from them than a Mardi Gras parade float, so I had little to no hope that my mom would come through.