There are a lot of misconceptions about the beautiful city of Boise, Idaho. The most prevalent of which is that Boise is in The Potato State, when, in fact, it is The Gem State. In reality, I feel that is a misnomer since while I see many, many beautiful, firm, healthy-skinned young people potatoes in the supermarkets here, I have yet to see any bags of sparkling gemstones for sale. Especially not for $1.00/lb.

Another misconception is that Boise is very rural – which couldn’t be further from the truth. Boise is a very small city but, much like Barbie’s house and toys, everything is here, only on a smaller scale. Some people hate the sprawl of larger cities like L.A. and Houston, but at least in those cities everything you need is within a mile or two and/or has multiple store locations. Here in Boise, the closest Ballbuster Video store is five miles away. The nearest Mall-Wart is also five miles away, but not in the same direction as Ballbuster Video. The library is near neither of them. Ditto my bank.

Oh, and just to be extra helpful, the banking system in Idaho, Washington, and California is on a different network from the rest of the country. An inferior network I must add, which is why I have kept my account in Texas. Even though it’s all meant to be electronic these days anyway. It’s not like they actually have a tiny pile of my pitiful money sitting in the Houston branch. Nor do they risk life and limb in sending my cash funds via horse-drawn coach across bandit-infested territory. Well, not since last month anyway. This “out-of-State” account has caused some banking issues locally, despite my bank having the word “America” in its name along with the suffix “N.A.” which stands for “National Association”. National my arse.

Texas, bless their collective hearts, has a debit card system for paying we unemployed deadbeats. Which is really cool and convenient . . . if your account happens to be with Chaste Bank. As aforementioned, though, my account is not with them, thus when I receive my fortnightly desperately-needed pittance I have to visit the five miles away Mall-Wart in order to splurge a heartbreaking 60¢ on a money order so I can drain the debit account and put the money into my own account whence I can pay my bills via the fabulous method of free eBill. But my audacity does not stop there, nay, despite having my account in a “national” bank named after this fine country, due to the ostracization of the banking network in this far-flung region, despite that I am for all intents and purposes depositing cash [certified funds], the cashier has to “cash” the money order and then deposit it into my Texas account. A simple straightforward deposit would result in the money order being treated as an out-of-State cheque which would take days to clear. The “cash” deposit still takes two days to clear because apparently “cash” and “national” have different meanings here.

Speaking of my bank branch, they have roughly five employees. One of them sits in an office, probably playing non-blocked computer games all day while dreaming wistfully of a time when folks actually came into the bank to beg for a loan. One of them covers the counter AND the drive-through. The other two vigilantly stand guard by the entrance doors in anticipation of a surprise ambush on the unsuspecting customer who dares to enter the hallowed foyer. “Can I HELP you?” they demand in perky, high-pitched tones as I attempt to slide through the doors and make a sudden bolt towards the counter. I’m guessing, and this is strictly a guess on my part, that 99% of the incoming customer traffic is more than likely there to make a counter transaction and not to apply for a mortgage or credit card or personal loan to cover their internet gambling debts. Still and all, it would make far too much sense to have more than one person working behind the counter when, like a kitten lying in wait to pounce on your toes with cutesy razor-edged teeth, big eyes, and needle-sharp claws, they can have at least two employees ready and willing to scare the bejesus out of you as you nonchalantly attempt to fling open the overly-heavy glass doors and stride inside to deposit your piddling unemployment pay. Of late, I find myself hiding behind a ballcap and sunglasses, hunching my shoulders, taking a deep breath, and executing a rapid soft-shoe-shuffle as soon as one foot hits the carpeting in a panicked attempt to avoid the dreaded squeaky “Can I HELP you?” as I shamefully mumble the same exact words every two weeks “Just making a deposit … or trying to.” I have begun to feel that I have quite the cheek to barge blatantly past their sacred inner sanctum, dodging the entrance guards in order to interrupt their not-so-busy day with my wretched little deposit. Sorry! Not quite ready to take out that half-million-dollar loan to buy my one-bedroom mobile home at 45% interest! The teller giggles now when she sees me and quietly congratulates me on avoiding the cheery ambush. It’s getting to the point where I may have to charge in brandishing a semi-automatic firearm, screaming “GET ON THE FUCKING FLOOR!! GET DOWN NOW I SAID!!! … YOU, YES, YOU, DEPOSIT THIS!”

I may have already mentioned a time or ten that the dating pool here is virtually non-existent . . . everybody is either underage, married, or geriatric. So, unless I want to date somebody my Daddy’s age, and, granted, if these mature gentlemen were as attractive as my father — at the risk of sounding as though I have an Electra complex, which I don’t since my father isn’t wealthy — then that’s simply not an option. Granted, I am indeed shallow in some ways, and while I don’t object to dating somebody of normal economic status, I couldn’t see myself dating one of these fine geriatrics unless he were both attractive and wealthy.

While I have my share of issues with Texans, I have to almost-grudgingly admit that they are as real as you get. They are absolutely genuine, no-bullshit, cut-me-and-I-bleed people. Scratch their surface — if you dare — and you’ll find a person underneath … which you may or may not notice before a pointy-toed cowboy boot kicks you in the rear, knocking you off your feet, only moments later to find yourself being picked up and dusted off, given a slap on the back, and offered a frosty beverage by way of apology for overreacting to that silly little scratch.

The strangely interesting thing about Boiseians is that on the surface they are jolly, friendly, pleasant folks. They are polite to a fault, cheery, and ever-helpful. They seem genuine in their offers of sociability. But scratch that surface and you’ll find . . . nothing. What you see really is what you get for the most part. Oh, they’ll greet you and chat with you and be complimentary and even a little flirtatious. They’ll act like they want to be your new bestest friend and they’ll throw out casual invitations to get together. But heaven help you if you take those invitations seriously because that’s when you’ll find yourself all dressed up with no-one to hang out with. One rare but firm exception to that is my sweet buddy DangerousDave, who is one of those rare aforementioned gems, even if he is originally from California. As broke as I am right now I had to endure some serious soul-searching when he invited me to see my ex-BIL’s band last weekend. First off, the show wasn’t really something that I was interested in seeing. But it would have been a night out. And I would have seen DD_ whom I adore. But I only had $6+change left to get me through a fortnight until my next unemployment deposit. And parking would have cost me $5. When it came down to it, I had to decline.

Not too long ago I was stood up not once, but twice, in less than 24 hours. I had made a date with a fellow I had met once previously. In all honesty, there was no chemistry; he was a nice enough guy but his personality and sense of humour were pretty much comparable to a cabbage. Nonetheless, three months had gone by since our first date and I was desperately bored, so I agreed to a second date. Naturally, he never called to make firm plans. The day before our tentative date I had met a charming young mother at a local State park. We had chatted, bonded, laughed, shared life stories in that instant way that women have, and she had invited me to join her and some of her family members at a local wine bar that weekend. I was excited, I hadn’t been out in weeks, I hadn’t had any excuse to wear make-up in days, and I was very much looking forward to the outing. I wore a pretty-but-not-naughty dress for the sake of the children. I put on fancy earrings which I don’t usually do during the day. I found an immediate parking space. I found the wine bar with ease. I also found that they didn’t show up.

Perhaps it is a Boiseian defense mechanism born from the huge influx of Californians who have moved here over the past two decades. Maybe they have reached a limit as to their willingness to welcome yet another outsider into their midst. Either way, I’m beginning to feel as though I am stranded in The Stepford State.

This entry was posted on Thursday, October 22nd, 2009 at 4:11 pm and is filed under Humour. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.