Do I look stupid?

I don’t have a chip on my shoulder, really I don’t.  Well maybe a little one, when I encounter the stranger who, recognizing some of my physical disabilities and assuming cognitive deficits as well, speaks very LOUDLY and s-l-o-w-l-y to me.  OK, a big chip.  It doesn’t happen often, particularly when I’m perched atop Skeeter and perhaps my ability to run people over is a deterrent.  Being female and blond, I've always encountered the prejudice, but I don't brush it off as easily now. 

A little background.  When my father died, he left a CD to my children, Heidi and Jason.  I had thought the gift would go into his second wife’s estate and despite some legal efforts, I figured I had tried and that was that.  My father was no Warren Buffet–either in assets or business sense, but the children had families of their own and could always use some extra money.  So when the bank called me and said the CD funds could be claimed, I promptly made an appointment with the banker to do so.  The phone call should have tipped me off:

Banker:  “Tammy?  Could you come in with picture ID and sign some papers?  I would appreciate that so much, Tammy.”

http://www.explosm.net/comics/1892/

Tammy:  “Sure,”  I said, being so fond of obsequious men, but this sounded easy.  I hopped on Skeeter, scooted down to the bank and met a friend there.  The banker may have been inclined that way before, but when he saw an over-60 female on a mobility scooter in his bank and then heard my impaired speech, he kicked his "person with disabilities" shtick into high gear. It was one of my first encounters (of several) with the disability condescension and I handled it medium well.  At least I didn’t run over him and he’s not maimed or dead.

When I get down to the bank and meet my friend, it is 10:30 am and I'm confident that we have plenty of time before going out to lunch.  The banker is a middle-aged man (meaning no kid), can’t keyboard (even with Ataxia, I’m faster), can’t see his computer screen (but certain I don't notice), knows absolutely nothing about how to do his job, is globally clueless, and is obsequious!
But, being the selfless mother I am, I thought, “Just shut up, Tam.  Get the children’s minimal inheritance and the $1.87 in interest Dad earned and go out to lunch with Jackie.

Banker (very LOUDLY and s-l-o-w-l-y):  “Now Tammy, I’m prepared to offer you a credit card.”
Tammy:  “No thanks.”
Banker:  “We could open up accounts for your children.  The fund transfer would be much faster that way.”
Tammy:  “No thanks.”
Banker:  “Tammy, would you need extra checks for this account?”
Tammy:  “No thanks.”
Banker:  “Tammy, do you know what your children will be doing with these funds?”
Tammy:  “No.”
Banker:  “Tammy, are there additional assets that might be coming into this account?”
Tammy:  “No.”

By now, it’s 11:30 am and this appointment is taking longer than I had expected.  I’m trying very hard not to laugh at this poor, sweating guy who is just trying to do his job (my Pollyana side).  But, part of me also wants to reach across his desk, grab him by the lapels and shriek, “Just give me the freakin’ money!”  (my Wicked Witch of the West side)  Although I’m sitting on Skeeter, she’s starting to feel more like a broomstick.  

Since I won't even look at her, my friend can’t decide if I’m laughing or crying.  “Bless you,” she says helpfully to cover my snorts and hands me tissues to conceal my face.  The ultimate was having the banker show me how to sign on to his computer with instructions that were very LOUD and s-l-o-w.

Banker:  “Tammy, you’re doing so well.  Excellent!”

Cutting to the chase, by 12:30 pm, I had the funds, five checks for the children to get their money, and the banker’s business card (I’ll be sure and get in touch).
However, Heidi and Jason did have to:

– reimburse me for legal fees

– reimburse me for having to deal with the banker and not being able to rip him a new one.

– pay for lunch for Jackie and me with wine–lots of wine.

The lesson:  Some things just set me off, but I can be bought.