While in Boston, Nick lost his money-clip for, like, 30 seconds. During which seconds, naturally, he canceled his debit card, which was inside.
Even more naturally, ordering a new one is a hassle that neither of us has been especially up to tackling either with a time change or jet-lag.
So now Nick’s in Barcelona with my debit card, while I sort his out this week. I took out a bunch of cash, but he also reminded me that the French write an obnoxious number of checks. It drives me crazy in the grocery store and the post office (what the ____?), but for the kennel, the vet, and other various high-euro but low-traffic places, why not?
I’ll tell you “why not.”
Today I wrote out two checks (the electronic one is different, Beth; relax!), dated “5/4/09.”
In Europe, of course, today is “4/5/09.”
The irony? It wasn’t because I mixed up the date style. It’s nothing I can blame on the U.S. trip, my long history of dating American checks, or anything else excusable. It’s because I miscounted the months and was mistaken about the day. Twice.
%#%$@$%^&*@!!&!!!!. Is all.