...As a bag of wet mice. My bank won't answer any question online, not the simplest of "is there a tax penalty when one transfers funds from a type X acount to type Z account?"
Nope, they want to have a meeting, or at least a phone call. Their phone tree is of such complexity that you cannot reach anyone by name, and by-department is iffy at best. The people with desks do have direct numbers -- but if that number is off-hook, the system often sends you to the entry point of the phone tree. But say you're lucky; say you do get to leave voicemail for the subassistant vice-undermanager in charge of pipsqueak accounts: does he call back? Oh, no, hell no he does not. His assistant or maybe someone from the steno pool calls back, to "set a meeting."
If I had free time to go have a meeting at the bank, I would have simply gone to the bank, and sat there in the bank's pretty glass-walled waiting room in my art-bedecked T-shirt and hoodie, Carhartt dungarees and hiking shoes like a sow hog in a church pew, until they had shown me to an office and an Important Fellow in an Important Suit just get my horrible declasse self out of their nice, clean bank.
I have been lucky enough -- once -- to get a requested call back from someone at the bank who wasn't pushing me to refinance my house. I had a straightforward question about IRAs. She promptly try to upsell me on a CD!
All banks suck. Smalltime customers like me really are just a waste of their time, but they're kind of obliged to deal with us almost as though we were an important client, and to attempt to wring as much value from the interaction as they can. My bank seems to be sucking especially badly these days and perhaps, after thirty years (and at least three different names on the bank), it's time for me to move on.
BUILDING A 1:1 BALUN
6 months ago