caja madrid

Today, for your reading delight, I bring to you the latest episode of C/ General Pardinas 28 (our aparment) vs. Caja Madrid.

As we normally do upon the return from our mind-stimulating and nerve-testing (due to a few, ahem, "characters") classes, we opened our little mailbox to see if anyone had sent us any goodies. As usual... there were no fun cards, letters, cookies, or tubs of Skippy (I feel like I'm starting up a Where's Waldo game... where in her blog does Betsey mention peanut butter..), but to our childish delight there WAS a menu for a Chinese restaurant along with an envelope from Caja Madrid (the bank with which we have an account to pay our landlord/bills/male prostitutes). We received our bank summary which said that X amount of Euros had been withdrawn for the gas and X amount for the electricity. Fine. Looks good. As expected. Successful month handling the bills = treating our proud and smiling selves to Frappuccinos at Starbucks. But then, as our eyes scrolled further down the page, there appeared a mysterious, miscellaneous charge of 40 euros. Hmm, we say. Curious, no? Turns out this month I WON'T be trying the caramel flavored Frappuccino, which looked oh so mouth-wateringly delicious on the poster...

We knew that another fun trip to Caja Madrid was inevitably in the near future... always an adventure. Just the knowledge that we'd have to make more than the single monthly visit to Caja Madrid put Joanne in funk-mode and needing chocolate. Why? Well, because it really is like pulling teeth. Generally, approximately 45 minutes of the early a.m. are spent waiting in line (and that's being 3rd in line) with antsy businessmen and bitter pregnant women... and clearly in a cloud of smoke, while the single woman at the desk goes about her things ever. so. painfully. sloowwwllyyyyyy. I mean... wow. Even Hannah walks faster than these bank people work. Despite the funk, Joanne, being the saintly martyr that she is and for which we are infinitely grateful, volunteered herself to go into battle. The battleplan was to 1) state that we'd never asked for or been notified of this random "insurance" from Mapfre (a company) and then 2) demand firmly, but ever so politely and grammatically correct, that they give us back our damned money. I mean hello? We're broke enough as it is. Believe me, my rotation of salad, grilled cheeses, and peanut butter sandwiches isn't as luxurious as it may sound. I don't think it's what Oprah's private chef prepares for her, put it that way...

Turns out this insurance is automatically tacked on to any given account when it is opened and we somehow had to know through our obviously clairvoyant ways to cancel said service in advance, or so explained the bank woman. And what, you may ask much as I did, does this insurance charge cover? It's DEATH insurance. To ensure that, should we meet an untimely end here in Espana, our ashes be delivered back to our native "land." Okay. There are a few things wrong with this scenario. 1) This automatic insurance charge that they tack on without telling us... NOT COOL. 2) Why this heightened worry of death? Is there something about this country that I don't know about? 3) We already have travel insurance which covers this 'death' possibility. And most importanly, 4) Who in the hell said I wanted to return to my "land" in ASH FORM. I would assume that should I be fatally struck by one of these crazed Spanish drivers or by falling pieces of our bathroom ceiling, they would at least notify my family before turning me into a pile of chimney grit and sticking me in an urn. Who said I was into being incinerated?? FYI Caja Madrid, I would prefer to remain intact.

So, dearest Caja Madrid, thank you for being not only our bank but for also taking care of my post-mortum affairs without my knowledge. Just your typical bank, really. I just cannot for the life of me understand why Bank of America doesn't jump on that bandwagon...


p.s. Happy Birthday Greg! :o)