Finance Gets Personal

If you come in with a wad of one dollar bills, I assume you’re either a waitress or a stripper. As soon as you leave, I’m washing my hands.

I know you think you’re smarter than me. Yes, I know how to spell “mortgage,” but maybe I should spell it wrong on your cashier’s check just to piss you off.

I’m sure you’re a nice person, but I really hate you, Avon Lady. First, you bring in 50 different checks to deposit whenever you come in. Your deposit slip never matches the actual total. And then you have the nerve to expect me to buy makeup from you!

I’m getting a contact high from you despite the bullet-proof glass. Nothing wrong with smoking a joint in the car on the way to the bank. But could you maybe roll down the windows next time?

I’ll be cleaning your kid’s sticky fingerprints off the glass tonight after we close. And your toddler pretending to be a blow fish - not cute.

Young attractive guy who comes in every Friday: I’m making a note of your account number so I can dig a little deeper into your finances later. DOB? Check. No overdrafts? Check. Joint account holder? Just your mom from when you opened the account in 6th grade - Check.

It’s getting close to impossible to cash your entire paycheck using only the “old” twenty dollar bills. Yes, I know that you think the government has implanted tracking devices in all the new twenty dollar bills. But they are also phasing out the old ones!

I wish you would teach your children not to put paperclips and Chuck E Cheese coins in their piggy bank. Once I finally shake everything out of your ceramic pig’s tiny, tiny hole, something gets stuck in the coin machine and I’m back there for twenty minutes while your kid slobbers on my teller window.

Creepy old man: I know the only reason you come to the bank everyday is to stalk my coworker. She is currently hiding in the bathroom and sent me out to help you. She’s “out to lunch,” and no, I have no idea when she’ll be back.

To the old lady who threw her driver’s license at me: I’m pretty sure you’ll be in hell soon. Maybe I can help you get there a little more quickly. But again, I do apologize. I’m only trying to protect your money from any effing stranger that walks through the door.

I don’t think you’re anything special if you have a lot of money. You see, I’m a bank teller. I see people with money every day. And typically, the more money someone has, the more of a prick they are to me.

Looking at your account is as awkward for me as it is for you, my friendly acquaintance. So, Mrs. Templeton, I’m dating your son. How’s that IRA rollover working out for you?

I still think “Hello” is a perfectly acceptable greeting, no matter the time of day. But thank you for informing me that “Good Morning” is the only polite greeting prior to 11 a.m.

I’ve never rolled a bag of pennies without finding a pube or two. How on earth do they always end up in the coin machine’s penny collector? Are people rolling around naked in piles of pennies? Or are there just some extremely poorly paid and poorly groomed strippers coming to this bank?

For the past week, I’ve been getting daily messages on my answering machine for Shawn Connely. Now, I don’t know who Shawn Connely is, but he hasn’t had this phone number for at least two and a half years.

My husband was off work Friday, and answered the phone. The woman asked for Shawn, and my husband’s name is John. So, John thought it was for him for a minute, and then realized they wanted Shawn. So he politely told them they had the wrong number.

Well, I took off work on Monday, and my stepson answered the phone. He told them that John wasn’t here, could he take a message? Well, my stepson is not the best at message taking, and I didn’t see why whoever it was couldn’t talk to me, so I made him give me the phone. The woman asked to speak to Shawn Connely (my stepson had misheard the name). I told her she has the wrong number, and she’s like, “So there’s no one named Shawn Connely at this residence?” No, lady! Then, she has the nerve to ask me if I know Shawn. At this point, I started getting snippy with her and asked if this was a debt collector. Of course, they aren’t allowed to say. She just said that this was (insert generic corporate-sounding company name here).

This is not the first experience I’ve had with debt collectors calling for someone who used to have our phone number, but these people obviously think we’re lying because we keep thinking they’re asking for John. I’m off work again today, and if they call me, I am going to go off on them!