Dear Credit Card Company,
You don’t know me, but you have a file loaded with data about me. The file is accessible to many in your company, and with the right security clearance, your employees can view my social security number, my address, and my birthday. Which, consequently, has produced no more than zero birthday cards and Christmas packages in my mailbox and yes, I’m holding a grudge.
I tried making calls about this grudge, but my call was outsourced to India and the worlds “Christmas” and “package” and “mailbox” weren’t on his list of credit terminology and therefore, your Indian associate went home that night with a bout of confusion. But not before I spent a half-hour attempting to navigate this confusion, during which I learned that your company is fully aware of:
- the year I graduated high school.
- the make and model of my first car.
- my last 15 mailing addresses. (Need I remind you that there were no cards or packages sent to these addresses?)
- my grandmothers’ maiden names (though the pronouncing of these names was another half-hour battle).
- the name of my first pet.
- the name of my second pet.
- the name of a pet I never had.
- the name of the squirrel I ran over and buried during my senior year of high school.
And despite this vast knowledge at your disposal, you really have proved nothing beyond your keeping my answers to five years of security questions on file.
Sometime later I called again about an actual credit question. Specifically, I wanted to know my current balance because it’s time to close that hunky piece of plastic and move on to a life of cash and in the black. So when I made this call, one of your American employees answered. (For future reference, it has been noted as to which number to push on the automated recording so as to speak to an American, regardless of the reason for the phone call.)
Let it be said, however, that I really don’t care who takes my call, except that I’d prefer to not be charmed by a woman with a must-please attitude, as is the American way. Because now my credit card is still open. As in, it’s not closed. As in, it’s still active. As in, she charmed me into keeping it with promises of more rewards and higher credit limits and now I still have a hunky piece of plastic in my wallet with which to buy me the world.
So thanks, Credit Card Company, for making my dreams come true. But let’s not make a friendship out of this, if that’s OK, because friends don’t loan friends money.