I wish they didn’t like me so much

I had to call Citibank this week because an employee had destroyed his credit card and we needed  new one.

So I dialed, and put in some numbers, and told them the name of my 7th grade English teacher, which is my password.

Finally speaking to a person and not the computer, I told her my sad tale of woe and requested  a new card.  She said she wasn’t able to do that, and transferred me to somebody else.

Who promptly needed know all the things I had just told the first person.

Naturally, I inquired why this was necessary.  Why couldn’t the original person fulfill this relatively simple operation?

Turns out that Citi thinks I am an “elite” customer and the people in Manilla or Bangalore who answer the phone aren’t able to access my account.  Only a proper stateside customer service rep can safely cope with simple requests from special people like me.

So being “elite” means that I get to do everything twice and waste twice the time on pedestrian tasks.

I asked him if I could be taken off elite status, and just get my jobs done efficiently, but that is a concept too advanced for Citi.  Noblesse oblige and all that.

If only they didn’t like me so darned much.

 

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