On Monday I called my credit union to check on CD rates. I was
transferred twice and put on hold twice before I got to the right
person. I think I had to answer seven questions about my identity
before she would quote me current CD rates. Who else is on your
accounts? (Easy). When did you open your first
account? (Hard. It was thirty-nine years ago.) What branch did you
open your account at? (No clue.) When did you open your home equity
line of credit? (No clue. We've never borrowed a cent on it). The
questions went on and on. In the end, convinced that I was who I
claimed to be, she quoted 0.21 % for a twelve month CD. In a year I
would earn about what it would cost her to mail me a confirmation for
the new CD. I told her I would pass.
I called my
business bank today, and got the same sequence of events. I think there
were eight or nine questions to prove my identity. My date of birth?
(Gee, I'm not sure I should trust you with that. What's your date of
birth? Oh, you aren't allowed to share it, because it isn't safe?)
This conversation was made more difficult because I was talking to someone overseas, to someone with a heavy accent.
My
bank encourages me to make deposits via eDeposit, which involves taking
a picture of the check with my cell phone. To make a deposit I have to
provide my log in, my password, my pin, and the name of my best man.
It's supposed to save me time. I think it takes ten minutes for me to
log in and deposit one check. If my time is worth anything, I'd be
better off mailing the check.
I passed my lovely wife
an envelope over coffee this morning. It contained directions on where
to dig in our front yard after I die, to get to our savings account.
It's in a mason jar. It took me less time to dig the hole and write the
note than it did to call the credit union. While I dug, I listened to
the birds tweet, and to the wind in the fir trees. And when I was done
digging, my blood pressure was lower than when I began.
Our world sure has changed, hasn't it?
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