My partner is a woman with a deep voice and a very feminine name. She is also slightly androgynous, but she’s just barely five feet tall.

We recently moved, and she’s calling a new bank to sort out account issues. It goes fairly well, and she passes all the security information and gets things finished. There’s only one problem, which she decides to address at the end.

It should also be noted that this is the first bank account she had to do all by herself. Her previous account, in a different bank, had two names: hers and her mother’s.

Partner: “Okay, can we get something sorted out?”

Employee #1: “Yes, sir?”

Partner: “Why are you calling me sir?”

Employee #1: “What do you mean?”

Partner: “Can you read the name on the account?”

Employee #1: “I have [Partner’s Feminine Name]. Is there an error, sir?”

Partner: “I’m a ma’am, not a sir.”

Employee #1: “Okay, ma’am. Are you saying you’re not the account holder?”

Partner: “Yes, I am the account holder. But I’m not a sir, I’m a ma’am.”

Employee #1: “…”

Partner: “Uh. Still there?”

Employee #1: “Okay, ma’am. Well, the gender listed for this account is male. Please visit your branch to get this sorted in person.”

So, my partner heads to the local branch.

Partner: “I have an issue with my new account. For some reason, my account has the wrong gender listed.”

Employee #2: “All right, let’s get that sorted for you, sir.”

Partner: “Yes, that’ll be perfect, as I’m not a sir.”

[Employee #2] takes my partner’s IDs and looks up her account information on the computer.

Employee #2: “Okay, sir. I’m not seeing the problem here? You’re listed as a male.”

Partner: “Because I’m not a man! Please look at my ID. What does it say for my gender?”

[Employee #2] stares at her ID and stares back at [Partner] multiple times.

Employee #2: “Uh… it says female.”

Partner: “Exactly. Can we get that fixed, please?”

Employee #2: “No problem.”

Did it end there?

The next time [Partner] heads into the bank for something and presents her ID…

Employee #3: “We’re going to have to confirm some account details, sir.”

Partner: “Sir?! I’m a ma’am. I thought we got this fixed. It should say female there.”

[Employee #3] looks at her ID and at the computer.

Employee #3: “You’re female?”

Partner: “Yes!”

Employee #3: “This account says male.”

Partner: *Pauses* “And my ID says female. I thought I fixed this last time.”

Employee #3: “So it does. We’ll get it fixed now.”

Seems fine, right? But no.

On her next bank visit, to a different branch than before but nearby…

Employee #4: “Okay, sir. This appears to not be your account. May I have your ID again, please?”

Partner: “…This again? I’m a ma’am, not sir.”

Employee #4: “Sir, this account belongs to a woman.”

Partner: “Because I am a woman!”

Employee #4: *Checks her ID* “Okay, please confirm these details.”

[Employee #4] goes into an extensive list of personal particulars and transaction details.

Employee #4: *With an odd look* “Well, then, ma’am. It appears to be your account, then.”

Hopefully, that will be the end of it.

Me: “Thank you for calling. How can I help you?”

Caller: “Can you hum the tune to that Taylor Swift song?”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Caller: “That Taylor Swift song! She says ‘hi’ and then how she’s a problem.”

Me: “You want me to sing that song?”

Caller: “No! Hum it. I forgot how it goes.”

Me: “Ma’am, you are calling [Bank].”

Caller: “Yes, but I need that tune! It’s bank-related, I swear.”

Against my better judgment, and quietly enough so that I don’t get strange looks from my coworkers, I hum the chorus tune to Taylor Swift’s song “Anti-Hero.”

Caller: *Singing along* “Five… it’s three, nine the problem, it’s three… Got it! Thanks!” *Click*

Did she just remember her PIN using a Taylor Swift song? And say it out loud to me? Looks like someone is going to get a forced PIN change in the mail…

I’m a retired investigator, and this happened over two decades ago.

I was called by dispatch to a bank robbery in which the subject threatened the teller with what he claimed was an explosive device and left a box at the teller’s window. Rather than wait for the automatic doors at the entrance to open, he smashed the glass and fled.

I arrived at about the same time that a couple of other detectives did, and the EOD [Explosive Ordnance Disposal] truck drove up a few minutes later. The patrol sergeant had set up two safe zones: one for the employees and customers and one for the investigative team. We went to one of the safe zones, which was right near the front entrance, far enough removed from the device with a wall between us. Some beat officers then replaced the crime scene tape over the door.

About ten minutes later, a dude came sauntering up to the entrance, wormed his way through the tape like Spider-Man, crunched over the shattered glass, and walked up to us. We just watched as it was so surreal that someone would do that. He appeared to be on a mind-altering substance, wobbly with red eyes. He handed us a check.

Dude: *In a sleepy voice* “Hey, dudes, I need you to cash my check.”

Now, mind you, we were wearing vests and had badge necklaces. Plus, the EOD guy was in his marshmallow suit nearby, prepping his gear.

One detective shook his head.

Detective: “Bro, did you not see the crime scene tape and the broken glass?”

Another detective pointed to our vests and badges. The man shook his head as if waking up.

Dude: “Ohhh. I didn’t know what that was.”

I just chuckled and escorted him back to the entrance.

Me: “It’s not safe for you in here, so why don’t you go home and sleep it off? Come back in a couple of hours. I’m sure the bank will be open again by then.”

A big grin lit up his face.

Dude: “Great idea, dude!”

With that, he got back in his car and left.

Nothing fancy. It was just amusing.

Aftermath: the device turned out to be a box of batteries stuffed with wires. We got fingerprints on the batteries, ID’d the mope, and put it out on the news. His mom dimed out his location and he surrendered peacefully. Also, the patrolman who was supposed to be watching the door got a talking-to.

I’m a woman, and my husband and I are in front of a loan officer looking to get a mortgage for our first house.

Loan Officer: *To my husband.* “Where do you work and how much do you make?”

Husband: “I’m a student, and currently unemployed.”

Loan Officer: *Confused.* “Do you have any trust funds or other sources of income?”

Husband: *Smiling broadly.* “No.”

Finally, the loan officer turns to me.

Loan Officer: “Do you have any income?”

Me: “I’m a professional software developer making [a decent salary] a year. I also take contract work which recently paid me [another decent amount]. Oh, and let’s not forget I was also recently published in a professional magazine and that earned me an additional [another decent amount].”

The loan officer looked sour, my husband looked smug, and I beamed. 

We were approved for the loan.

I moved countries — UK to Ireland — and then moved again, and I needed to change the address with my bank, so I rang them up. They refused to change my address because I didn’t have a telephone banking number, and they helpfully suggested I pop into my nearest branch — which was in Wales, across the Irish Sea.

To get around this, I had to apply for telephone banking and get it sent to my (now old) Irish address, so it could be forwarded by the mail service to my new address, so I would have it in my hand to quote the number they demanded to be able to change my address by phone.

I complained about how time-consuming and stupid this was, but they simply replied that as I had found the solution to the problem they had created, there was no longer a problem, so the matter was closed satisfactorily.

That’s still better than my mortgage company. I moved addresses and sent them a change of address letter, but I forgot to sign it, so they failed to change my address. I realised a while later, at my new address, that I’d not had anything from them for a while, so I rang them up to ask what had happened. They explained that to “protect my data,” they needed a signed letter. So, I was forced to again send them a letter; this time it was signed, but this time, it also never arrived (they claimed).

More time later, still nothing from the bank, only by now I should have received the annual mortgage statement, so I rang them again. They said again that I needed to send a signed letter to change my address to “protect my data”. No, they had not received the letter I’d sent. So, having notified them twice that I was changing address, they decided to ignore it — to call them, I had to give around ten points of personal data in a call! — and send the mortgage statement to my old address, in order to “protect my data”? For f***’s sake.

I sent them yet another letter, complaining about all of this, and asking them to verify the change of address had been done. Silence. I rang them up and asked why they had ignored my request. “We didn’t think we had to” was the attitude. But they said they would. And they promptly sent me my mortgage statement (which they had already sent to someone else), only this time they included the mortgage statements of eight other customers.

Protecting their other customers’ data by sending it to me? Cue yet another complaint, this time to their data protection people.

If anyone wonders why [Bank] is a complete and utter mess — and why I’m happy to see the back of its subsidiary, [Mortgage Bank] — look no further than the many stupidities they forced me to deal with — along with [Bank #2], for whose staff the fires of Hell cannot possibly burn hot enough given the runaround I got from them after my wife died.