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.