teller
Yesterday (Friday, September 29) we patronized the mighty Canandaigua National Bank branch in East Bloomfield to pay our school-taxes.
The East Bloomfield School District apparently has an arrangement with the bank to accept school-tax payments.
Theoretically we could have done it online — we have CNB Bill-Pay, and I’m sure they could credit the school-district.
But it would have come out of our CNB checking-account, and I’d rather pay the school-taxes with the line-of-credit my brother in Boston noisily insists I close, so I could pay more interest, and jump through hoops, should I want to use a line-of-credit in the future, like to buy a car. (I bet if I closed that line-of-credit, and had to open another at a higher rate, he’d start bellowing about “poor judgment;” A BROKEN RECORD!)
As soon as we walked in the door we were greeted by an invisible voice from behind the counter: “What can I do for ya (schnap)?”
I walked toward invisible voice and found a bouncy young strawberry-blonde with freckles — heavy with eye-liner.
Her name was “Kristin,” and her name was announced as a “teller” on her name-plaque.
“Job-titles have come full-circle,” I thought to myself.
When I was cut loose from banking, back about 1970, banking was on the verge of retitling their tellers “CSRs” (Customer-Service-Representative).
The retitling was supposed to elevate the tellers; no increase in pay, of course. (Rah-rah-rah; Siss-boom-bah!)
Transit, in its infinite wisdom, tried to do that. Tried to retitle us “bus-drivers” as “operators.”
Actually it was an attempt to downgrade our position, so I protested mightily.
“Elevators are controlled by ‘operators,’” I said. “Dial ‘O’ on a telephone, and you get the ‘operator.’”
“Yet our passengers still think of us as ‘bus-drivers;’ the Captain-of-the-Ship. .....Swashbuckling slayers of dragons, and rescuers of damsels-in-distress.”
“Brave and forthright, we have to stop nine tons of hurtling steel on a dime when Granny pulls out of the mall parking-lot (‘Oh look, Dora; a bus. Pull out! Pull out!’).”
Their intent to change us to “operators” crashed mightily in flames. The mindless-management-minions at Transit might call us “operators,” but the passengers still called us “bus-drivers.”
So now the lowly bank-tellers are back to being called “tellers” yet again.
I can imagine some self-absorbed middle-management type at the bank congratulating himself in the mirror that he had the shining wisdom to rename the tellers what they were long ago.
Sounds like the bank is run by REPUBLICANS. No matter what you rename it, a shovel is still a shovel.
I didn’t say anything to strawberry-blonde. I knew doing so would go over like a lead balloon.
But Linda got it. I bet Marcy does too. (playtime-at-hazmat.blogspot.com/)
The East Bloomfield School District apparently has an arrangement with the bank to accept school-tax payments.
Theoretically we could have done it online — we have CNB Bill-Pay, and I’m sure they could credit the school-district.
But it would have come out of our CNB checking-account, and I’d rather pay the school-taxes with the line-of-credit my brother in Boston noisily insists I close, so I could pay more interest, and jump through hoops, should I want to use a line-of-credit in the future, like to buy a car. (I bet if I closed that line-of-credit, and had to open another at a higher rate, he’d start bellowing about “poor judgment;” A BROKEN RECORD!)
As soon as we walked in the door we were greeted by an invisible voice from behind the counter: “What can I do for ya (schnap)?”
I walked toward invisible voice and found a bouncy young strawberry-blonde with freckles — heavy with eye-liner.
Her name was “Kristin,” and her name was announced as a “teller” on her name-plaque.
“Job-titles have come full-circle,” I thought to myself.
When I was cut loose from banking, back about 1970, banking was on the verge of retitling their tellers “CSRs” (Customer-Service-Representative).
The retitling was supposed to elevate the tellers; no increase in pay, of course. (Rah-rah-rah; Siss-boom-bah!)
Transit, in its infinite wisdom, tried to do that. Tried to retitle us “bus-drivers” as “operators.”
Actually it was an attempt to downgrade our position, so I protested mightily.
“Elevators are controlled by ‘operators,’” I said. “Dial ‘O’ on a telephone, and you get the ‘operator.’”
“Yet our passengers still think of us as ‘bus-drivers;’ the Captain-of-the-Ship. .....Swashbuckling slayers of dragons, and rescuers of damsels-in-distress.”
“Brave and forthright, we have to stop nine tons of hurtling steel on a dime when Granny pulls out of the mall parking-lot (‘Oh look, Dora; a bus. Pull out! Pull out!’).”
Their intent to change us to “operators” crashed mightily in flames. The mindless-management-minions at Transit might call us “operators,” but the passengers still called us “bus-drivers.”
So now the lowly bank-tellers are back to being called “tellers” yet again.
I can imagine some self-absorbed middle-management type at the bank congratulating himself in the mirror that he had the shining wisdom to rename the tellers what they were long ago.
Sounds like the bank is run by REPUBLICANS. No matter what you rename it, a shovel is still a shovel.
I didn’t say anything to strawberry-blonde. I knew doing so would go over like a lead balloon.
But Linda got it. I bet Marcy does too. (playtime-at-hazmat.blogspot.com/)
posted by BobbaLew at 9:47 AM
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