I love where I bank. It’s a branch inside a big supermarket. I can make a modest withdrawal and then go and blow every last penny in the cookie aisle.
The tellers at the window appreciate me. They know about my obsession with round numbers and understand that when I write a check to myself for $103.16, it’s simply to ensure that I have left an even amount in my account.
The tellers also fill out the deposit slips for me because I keep confusing the account number with the routing number. And when I have to deposit more than two checks, I never add correctly, so they do it for me. More importantly, they occasionally laugh at my jokes. And they know exactly how much I have in my savings, so they can’t be doing it for the money.