The sound of one's name is the sweetest? Not always.

When I write that my brain-o-meter dial is all the way to crazy, I get a lot of hits on my blog.  We like to hear about someone going crazy because most of us feel just a few steps outside of crazy town ourselves.  Yesterday I had one of those days.  My first mistake was going into a bank.  Two minutes in for a transaction with Ms. China Vargara and I felt as if someone had poured lead into my bloodstream and all the blood had gone to wait out the pandemonium in a cavity near my ears.  I think it was the contrast between the bright sunlight (outside) and the industrial light (inside.)

In order to let me withdraw a substantial sum Ms. Vargara, asked me where I lived and my birthdate.  I couldn’t remember either answer. All that blood near my ears had erased my memory.  Fortunately, I had my driver’s license and handed it to her.  Not two seconds after the transaction she said, “What else can I do for you, Consuelo.”  What!!!!!!!!!!? I don’t like the bank calling me by my first name. Hey, we haven’t been introduced.  This institution handles my money.  I want a little decorum.  I would never say, “Have you ever faced the barrel of a gun, China?”  The name tag has her full name for a reason.  China proceeds to tell me that if I get one of their credit cards they will give me $100. Somewhere in this organization there’s a training manager that is telling these front line people that they should call the customer by his/her first name and then try to sell them something.  The rationale must be that the sound of one’s name is the sweetest and when the bank says it, your dopey inner child thinks it is finally back in the arms of their long ago nanny.  You are going down a bad road, Capital One.

The bubble over my head with a crisp $100 dollar bill in it, takes some of my crankiness away. By the time we get to a desk to finish the credit card dance, I begin to quiz her in an aggressive way.  Is there an annual charge?  When do I get the hundred?  Do I have to do something else to get the hundred?  She gives me all the right answers and then hands me a bunch of pages with tiny print.  Uh oh.   Why all this material?  Am I going to find some bad stuff that you don’t want me to know? She reassures me again and then she says some magic words:  they don’t give the hundred dollar incentive to everyone. I’m old enough not to fall for this faux flattery but stupid enough to let it seep into my brain pan.

I leave the bank both disturbed and slightly satisfied.