You know, it used to be in the olden days that when you wanted to deposit money you went to the bank and handed it to a teller who zapped out a receipt and you were done. If you wanted a loan, you filled out a form and handed it to the loan manager. Sometimes the manager handed you back a check and other times it took a bit longer. Sometimes they just said no on the spot.
Now we have ebanking. Ebanking is where you spend an hour at your computer on the phone trying to get the inet to agree that your numbers and letters really allow you to access the information on your account. Take today for example. I went on line. Opened my account. Paid a bill and checked out cancelled checks. WONDERFUL.
Ten minutes later I go back to the same account after checking another account in another banking facility and the wise electrons won’t let me back in. I call the bank. Get a nice sounding young lady that tells me I checked back in too soon or some other drivel. I try signing in again after she clear the boondogel that kept me out. Still no joy. She tries something else. Nada. Squat. Zero. Zip. and all that stuff. I go on hold while she checks with her supervisor. 10 minutes pass. Supe comes on the line. The password .
have been using since day one is not the correct password. My password has magically changed in fifteen minutes. BUT, no one knows my new password. I didn’t change it. Nice gal didn’t change it. And, the electrons aren’t talking.
Please Miss Supe, cancel out my online account info and i will set it up again. Oh, but sir, we are not allowed to do that. You will have to go to your local bank so they can verify your ID personally. But, my local bank has been closed due to your company’s money saving efforts which already included no interest on any account under a bazzilion dollars and charges per check written (yeah, I still write checks, do you wonder why) and grouchy, way under-payed tellers that changed every week due to the great responsibility with no reward. Yes, sir, that bank. Will you pay my fuel fees? No sir.
At this point I am in a wonderful mood. Sorta like playing squat tag in an asparagus patch while running barefoot through bullheads. Miss Supe, please empty my account and send me a certified check for the amount of money that I cannot spend or see how it has been spent. Oh but sir, I have no information that you own that account.
Ma’am, with out any respect for you or your bank, kiss my grits. I hung up.
Here’s the punch line. I tried logging on one more time. It worked with the old info. I am again rich within my vaguest dreams.
Blessings. Now go write.