Friday, July 10, 2009

We Just Want Your Moneys

Its a strange place to understand the logical explanation behind the illogical premise of the "customer service" at the bank.

Bear in mind my love for banks is at an all-time low due to an on-going struggle with Wells Fargo that ends with a 30 minute call to their call center (which I'm pleased to announce has English-first speaking individuals) about a $12 fee that gets tacked on to my Super-Wonderful-Get-12 Cents-More-In-Interest checking account that the slick banker told me would cause no issues transferring to this "higher" tier of service. That's been going on for eight months with a new explaination each month TAKE SOME CALL NOTES YOU DOLTS.

Yesterday after working 11 hours I rushed over to US Bank before closing to get their signature on an insurance check which I would then turn around and sign over to the contractor that did an awesome job putting up new siding on the abode (picture coming soon after the wife picks up the new lighting).

Easy right? Its not your money, sign it off and away I go back to my bank.

Not so fast pal.

"What was this for"

"Hail damage, I need to get this to the contractor to pay off the remainder of his invoice"

"Where's the proof of work and insurance estimates"

/points to easily seen stack of papers neatly stacked behind the check along with signed invoice of work completed by contractor

He tries looking important while re-reading the papers for the next five minutes...

"I need to make a call"

Dials phone to some office.

"They need some forms filled out, I'll be right back"

Meanwhile my patience level went from complacent to annoyed that the waitress gave me the wrong drink.

He returns with four well-used forms, two of them look like Ad-Libs that I'm hoping he'll let me use to return the favor of this annoyance.

"We need to fill all these out"

Take five to seven minute to fill out forms, consider five rapid knees to the head but see adorable picture of daughter and wife behind him, decide to dream of free Cap'n Cokes and fake 36D's at a strip club instead.

"One moment"

This is now twenty minutes into something that should have taken about 15 seconds.

Comes back with spiffy self-important guy who judging by his dress and handshake enjoys pantsless parasailing and all night Bette Midler movie-a-thons while snacking on bon-bons.

He tries to be cordial, I attempt the same but feel a rage like I didn't get my extra Arby sauce packet again. He tries the same shuffling of the papers for five minutes then looks up.

"We need to wait until the head office is able to review these forms and may require an inspection of the home, notary signature from the contractor, your tax forms for the past 10 years, blood and semen sample, and proof that you know how to play Badugi"

/jaw drops

"Ok, this check is made out to me, tell me again why I need to jump thru all these hoops just so the contractor can get paid?"

He attempts to mumble some apologetic line from the employee handbook.

"Fine call me tomorrow"

I take leave before dropping the file cabinet on his Homer Simpson-sized head, fuming that I just wasted nearly an hour intangled in the bank's red tape.

For the record, I understand the need to protect assets. US Bank holds my mortgage (currently) but what I don't get is why the hell would they care what happens to the house as long as I'm making payments on time on the debt?

Its paperwork for nothing, an attempt to make someone at their home office feel important and have gainful employement because even if I was in cahoots with the contractor to bilk the insurance company out of money for a job never done (which 100% isn't true) they shouldn't care what shape the house is in as long as I'm paying down the debt ON TIME. There is no reason to believe I'm a financial risk besides the fact that I'm prone to overplaying AAXX at the $100 NLO8 tables.


Aside from that waste of time, there's golf and waterparks in my future as we travel up north this weekend to see my father's side of the family. Six brothers and plenty of cousins my age to sit around a lake-side cabin with cold drinks and homecooked food with my musician cousin strumming out tunes.


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