Bank at Home

I am obsessing over my retirement account - not that I have much in there. It goes up and then it comes down. I must have chosen my stocks poorly. Or I simply lack long-term vision, as the phone-assisted investment analyst tells me. I worry even more about the little amount of money my parents put into an account for me in Turkey. I don't get quarterly updates, although I was promised personalized emails. I keep asking my mom if she has gotten anything in the mail. She says, "Don't worry, we'll figure it out at the end of the year." Everybody trusts their business to God in Turkey, but I am used to the American way: A detailed breakdown please. I want to see a plus sign somewhere and a fat booklet in gibberish about why the analyst team worked so hard to bring my .0001 cents to .0002, managing that fund.

I don't get anything in the mail, so as any well-trained daughter would do, I nag my mom. She has access or she can get it, that I am sure.

"By the way, have you gotten anything from the bank?"
"No, I told you,"
"Still, I wanted to ask. Maybe something changed since last week. Never mind... I am pulling my money out!! Out! That's it!!"
"Your principal is too small to report. That's what I think is happening..."
"Ma, don't be ridiculous. Bank doesn't care how much I have. It doesn't have feelings or a strike of politeness to spare me the embarrassment of seeing my account details..."
"Offf, tamam, tamam...ok ok..." she says.
"We'll sort it out when you visit here," she brushes me off.

Following week, I get good news. The bank representative has agreed to share information. She heard through the grapevine that my mom is still recovering. She doesn't want my mom to get tired so she will come over to my parents' and go over everything, in-person, in our living room! I am sure Mom will offer her coffee and she will insist that the rep stays just a bit more and have a tiny bite of something.

That beats my online banking, I say.