At the bank

I had to talk to a banker today because my CD reached its maturity date and they require a personal visit if you want to do more than have it roll over.  Since the interest rates are horrible on it, I decided to move the $ to another account (at least temporarily) so I can decide how better to invest it (I may need more than the 8 day grace period they provide).  While there, they – the bankers – always take the opportunity to try to upsell me on more of their products.  I got a credit card pitch, was urged to upgrade my accounts for more benefits (which didn’t seem that great to me, especially since I don’t have their credit card), and was asked about my financial advisor.  The last almost made me giggle, because, um, no, I manage my money myself.  With occasional family harassment.  So when my banker asked whose services I used I said, “Oh, that would be my dad.”   “Great!” he said, because he was not going to tell me that I should fire my dad.  Once again, it has been proved to me that you don’t fuck with the bank of dad.

It exists!  The Bank of Dad!

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