Do not. Do business. With companies that operate primarily on the internet ("CTOPI," I just made that up, and I probably will never use it again, but OK). With. Your primary. Bank account.
Repeat in bold.
Do not. Do business. With companies that operate primarily on the internet ("CTOPI," I just made that up, and I probably will never use it again, but OK). With. Your primary. Bank account. It's a bad idea.
Since I've pretty much deduced that attempting to attain this free laptop will definitely involve doing business with the CTOPI (ha! I used it again), I figured a new bank account especially dedicated to this project was definitely required.
Miracle of miracles, at the same time that I am in need of a new bank account, Bank of the West is coincidentally offering all new checking accounts a FREE IPOD TOUCH. No freakin way. Awesome, I love free. I'm there.
Dear Husband of Mine (hereinafter know as DHM) and I decided to open up a joint account, because, after all this time, we've pretty much decided that separate accounts worked for us. I'm not really sure why we all of a sudden think we need a joint account. Maybe it's just because we're married? I can't explain my own thinking process, much less DHM's, and when we together have a mutually agreeable thought, there is typically no way to figure out how or why it happened. I usually just accept that the miraculous has just occurred, and then move on. Anyway, the needing a new account for CTOPI purposes, along with the FREE IPOD TOUCH was reason enough for me to meet DHM at the Bank of the West on his lunch break, to open the new account. Yay, right?
Fail.
Upon entering the bank, we find it to be littered with a many, varied and (some) unusual sorts of characters lounging about the waiting room chairs and aimlessly milling around the lobby.
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| this isn't the actual bank. but you get the idea. |
There are three tellers at the teller window but no one's standing in line there. Everyone's waiting for a "banker" (the ones who are sitting at a desk, you know the ones) to help them open up a new account (DUH. Free iPods. In the first 15 seconds of standing in the lobby, I lost count of how many times I heard the term "Free iPod.") I had a question, and I thought maybe one of these super un-busy tellers could probably answer it really quickly. Wow, no dice, big time.
Here, do this. Stare at someone with the sole expectation of having them merely acknowledge your presence, and start counting. Just stare and count (not out loud, that would make you seem strange). If you get to 30, I bet you'll start to feel a little awkward. 40 and you're thinking, is this f*&ker ignoring me on purpose? 50 and you're ready to reach out and poke them in their shoulder, like "Hey, buddy. Over here." Resist the temptation. Keep staring, counting and waiting for another 45 seconds, and then you'll kind of understand how I felt just trying to get this bank teller's attention. I think she may have been asleep on her feet. Maybe she's actually a cyborg teller* and someone turned her switch off to preserve battery power, because, like I said, she was decidedly un-busy (don't use that word, it's not a real word and you'll sound stupid). I start considering directing my question instead towards the stuffed bear on the counter.
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| for service, please ring the bell. or bang on it 40 times, until you break the curse inflicted upon my cyborg brain. |
Ahem! Excuse me?
Snap, she's back in action. Someone spoke to her. I must have interrupted an ultra-super pleasant daydream or something, because she was instantly annoyed.
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| yeah. can i help you? |
I immediately apologize so as not to be vaporized, and then ask "Where do I sign in?" and she points with her laser gun** towards a desk in the lobby that is currently hidden under 3 teenagerish (also not a real word) types waiting to open accounts in order to get free iPods--all of whom, coincidentally, are CURRENTLY PLUGGED IN TO IPODS (selfish bastards). "OK. How long is the wait?" She says at least an hour. DHM throws his hands up and says he needs to get back to work. I decide I'm going to stick this out. Cranky, cyborg, laser-gun-toting bank tellers be damned, I need a CTOPI account and a free iPod.
But oh no, Bank of the West. Things are not going good for you.
In the ensuing hour, DHM, the kids and I have McDonalds in the parking lot. I get to have McNuggets with no sauce because they forgot to give it. I know the missing sauce thing is not Bank of the West's fault, but I am blaming it on them, because if it weren't for them, I would probably have had my lunch inside the L&L down the street. In the air conditioning. Did I mention this is Rancho Cucamonga during a heat wave? Strike Two, BotW.
Later, as I wait in the lobby with 3 kids, of course two of them need to go to the restroom. We walk down the hall only to find that the restrooms are locked. Seriously?! Locked restrooms? Bank of the West, at the same time that you are giving away free iPods, are you also afraid that someone is going to steal the toilet paper? Not to mention there are a hundred people in this bank right now, and anyone stealing toilet paper would have to march through the lobby to get out the building.
Back to the cyborg teller.
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| damn, somebody turned her off again. |
Hey lady. Look alive.
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| put the gun down, lady. i just want to get my kid to the bathroom before she pees on that chair. |
OK, get this. The key to the restroom is attached to a little bungee on her arm. She won't give it up. She tucks the gun*** in her waistband and then literally escorts our party to the bathroom. I decide right then and there that diamonds and other valuable trinkets are hidden in the bathrooms of Bank of the West.
Returning from the bathroom after not stealing toilet paper or discovering any treasure, our little troop watches as a variety of individuals whine, shout, moan and b&*tch about the wait. Several times, an olderish Asian woman insists that her name is the first on the sign-in sheet, and several times, a banker tells her that yes, it is first. It's first at the top of page 3, and they are currently servicing page 1. After being interrupted in her account-opening work 16 times by people asking "How long is the wait?" an ornery banker barks at a customer "It takes as long as it takes!"
The customer is always wrong biatch. Strike Three, Bank of the West. You lose.
My name is finally called. Well sort of. My first name can never be pronounced at first glance, because of it's odd nature. So, a very confused banker starts mumbling syllables that I recognize and I raise my hand. I recognize the banker from earlier when she was making the old Asian lady cry.
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| her horns are tiny so that you can barely notice them. as a matter of fact, she only busts them out when provoked by hordes of needy customers asking stupid questions. |
Because I do not want my soul possessed, I decide not to mention to the nice horned banker that her bank sucks. I politely hand over all my personal information, collect my new account package and leave as quickly and quietly as possible.
Mission accomplished.
LOOOOoong story short: Bank of the West sucks. Soon as I get this free iPod and finish Project Internet Unicorn, I'm out.
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* Cyborg tellers are a great idea. Think about it. They will always perform their mathematical functions perfectly, will never complain about standing for too long, and will never ignore you while they have conversations with their neighbors and drink coffee. The only drawback I see is when you switch them off during un-busy times and forget to switch them back on when someone has a question. Maybe a remote controlled cyborg teller?
** The teller doesn't really have a gun. Certainly not a laser gun, because I don't think they actually exist in real life. This is an exaggeration. Hyperbole, if you will.
*** Again, there is no actual laser gun. This isn't Star Wars. It's Rancho Cucamonga.
*** Again, there is no actual laser gun. This isn't Star Wars. It's Rancho Cucamonga.
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