I’ve been a store manager at this store for a year. It’s a small town. I was a cashier at this store for four years during university before being promoted/hired as the store manager, so I know a lot of the faces and what they’re like. One customer has always been rude to employees, especially if they “don’t seem to know what they’re doing”.

One day, I get called over the radio to come to cash for a customer complaint. The cashier who called is still in her training phase. There are only four cashes in the store, so the other cashiers are close by if she needs help.

As I’m walking up, I notice that it’s the customer I previously mentioned, and he already looks quite unimpressed. He’s purchasing an item that requires a special ID. He has done this plenty of times as he is the one in town who does the training for this special ID, and we are one of only two businesses that sell this product. Both the employee who gets the item out of the locked showcase and the cashier check the ID.

Me: “Good afternoon. Someone needed a manager?” 

Customer: “Yes, all your employees are useless. She didn’t know I needed my ID checked again and had to ask another cashier how to do that.”

Me: “Ah, yes, I’m sorry to hear that. She is still training and asks a more senior cashier if she isn’t sure.”

Customer: “Why do you always have new people training? Why can’t I ever get someone who knows what they’re doing?”

Me: “Well, it’s hard to find people who are willing to deal with customers like you who stress them out so much over something so trivial. Most don’t last after learning that you aren’t going away.”

When I became a store manager, I made sure that my staff wasn’t treated the same way I was when I was a cashier. At that, I walked away from him while he tried to figure out a response.

He demanded the senior cashier give him the number for corporate. Corporate called me a few hours later asking for my side of the story. Once they got it all, they asked me if I wanted to ban the customer. I told them to scare him a bit by saying I had the ability to, but I’m not that heartless since there aren’t many choices in our small town. The next time he came in, he was much more appreciative of the staff.

My partner and I lived in Alberta for quite a long time. In 2020, he decided to move some of his belongings to Nova Scotia. (We planned to retire there together, so we wanted to take belongings there over time.) He got to the Nova Scotia border at the end of April 2020, right when the border slammed shut.

Fast forward two years. We only saw each other three times in that time period, even though we talked on the phone every day. In July, I flew to spend two and a half weeks with him. My dad was also driving across the country to meet us there to spend time with me, my partner, and his family. 

At the end of the first week, my partner and I went camping for five days, trailering our motorbikes there. (It was too far for me to drive that entire way.) The first day, there was no problem driving my bike; we spent hours all over the place. The second day, the morning was fine, although I laid the bike down a couple of times. We came up to a T intersection, I waited for traffic, and then I started around the corner. My handlebars jerked to the left, I lost my balance, and I fell with my left arm outstretched. Instant pain. I could wiggle my fingers and move my wrist. I thought it was sprained.

My partner got the bike up and yelled at me to get up, which took me a few minutes to do. He kept telling me, “It’s just a bruise, it’s just a bruise,” so I got back on that bike, lifted my left hand to the clutch, and rode the bike for a half hour back to the campsite.

Some of the other campers came over to see what had happened and got me kitted out with a sling. We stayed there until the last day of our reservation and then drove back to [Partner]’s mom’s place where he was living. [Partner]’s mom took one look at me and told me that I was going to the hospital; my arm had swollen right down to my fingertips, and my upper arm was blueish-black.

We eventually got to the metropolitan hospital, and after a few hours, they were able to see me. After TEN X-rays, I figured it was worse than a sprain. The doctor came in.

Doctor: “The good news is that you need a CT scan. The bad news is that you need a CT scan because your shoulder is broken in three places.”

We got home at about 10:00 in the morning, and Dad arrived at noon. He was NOT expecting to hear that his daughter had a broken shoulder!

They were able to get me into surgery two days after that — a full seven days after I broke it! I had a plate and screws put in, and then I had six weeks of physiotherapy. I was planning to go to my dad’s at that point, so I was happy when I went in for my surgical follow-up. I was NOT so happy when they told me that it hadn’t healed at all. In fact, the bone had slid, and screws were up in the joint space. I ended up having an emergent shoulder replacement (titanium) and a lot more physio after that.  

The total time that I spent in Nova Scotia was three and a half months — way longer than the two and a half weeks I’d planned! After that, I did go to my dad’s, and I have been there since. I was off work for thirteen months, and I went back to work for the same company with restrictions. (They were so patient; it was unreal.) It’s been a bitter pill to swallow that I’ll likely never be able to lift properly above my head or make certain other movements.

On the other hand, my physiotherapist has been a godsend, as has as my auto insurance!

Don’t be like me: when you’re hurt, get it checked out!

About a decade ago, I was working as an extra on a film set. I’m a woman, and I was in my mid-thirties at the time. I was working with a couple of men who were friends of mine (and they still are). They’re really good folks; I’ve never seen them be anything but kind and respectful.

We were waiting to go on set, having a snack between scenes. I was eating a banana, and my friends and I were laughing about something — who knows what.

The costume lady came over and gestured for me to follow her. I went, thinking there was an issue with my costume. Nope. She wanted to talk to me privately. She whispered that she was concerned about me, and she warned me about the way I was eating my banana. I can’t remember exactly what she said, but I remember she said something about me “getting the other extras too excited”.

Even though I wasn’t all that young, I was a little insecure, and I was quite worried about offending. Also, this happened before #MeToo. Being a woman on a film set could be pretty precarious. I ducked into the washroom to finish my banana quietly and then went back to holding.

It never occurred to me that she was being ridiculous and that eating a banana was a perfectly normal, non-provocative thing to do. I just felt really embarrassed and a bit ashamed all day long.

To this day, I can’t eat a banana without feeling self-conscious if anyone else is around.

Ever since one day at the picnic park in a remote area of Cape Breton, I have had a fear of outhouses and port-a-potties. I was alone in the park. I stopped at dusk for a bathroom break, entered the primitive facilities, and closed the door behind me like normal.

But something went wrong. The door jammed.

In a moment of panic, I jiggled the door handle to no avail. Finally, I had to kick it open. In my extreme panic, I kicked the door so hard that it actually came off its hinges. Come on, now, admit it; you’d have done the same thing in that situation!

I called the park the next day to inform them of my mishap and to let them know one of their outhouses needed some repairs. I was lucky that time. In seconds, I was free and back in the fresh air.

Now, you would think that this is something that would only happen to someone once in a lifetime. I imagine being locked in an outhouse is not a very common thing… unless you’re me. I have plenty of luck if you only count the bad kind.

It was a lovely morning, many years after the incident with the outhouse in the picnic park. I packed the car and left for my first road trip of the season to the Cape Breton Highlands National Park.

Along the way, I stopped at the picnic park for a rest and to use the restroom. A picnic park in a remote area. With an outhouse for a restroom. With no one else around.

I see it now. I didn’t see it then. Déjà vu.

I entered the tiny building and closed the door behind me. The lock was a primitive one that pushed down to lock and pulled up to unlock. Something went wrong on the other side of the door. The lock jammed. And there I was, once again, locked in a dark, smelly outhouse in the middle of nowhere… alone.

All I was thinking was, “This can’t be for real,” as I jiggled the lock. It didn’t take long for panic to set in, and jiggling the lock turned into banging on the door. When that didn’t work, I tried kicking the door down. It had worked before. It didn’t work that time. Tears started streaming down my face and my heart started racing. I started screaming even though I knew no one was out there.

It felt like I had been in there for an eternity when I heard it: a car, and it was getting closer. It stopped. I heard a car door close. I heard the gravel being disturbed. Footsteps. I screamed while simultaneously kicking and banging on the door

Me: “Help! Please help me! I’m locked in the bathroom!”

I heard a voice — a soft but inquisitive voice.

Voice: “Hello?”

Tears were streaming down my face, and I was shaking so badly I could barely utter the words.

Me: “Please get help! Get me out of here!”

I heard the handle jiggle for what seemed like an eternity, but it was probably only a few seconds before it swung open to reveal an older woman with a look on her face that I can only describe as shock and trying to hold back laughter.

I must have been quite the sight. After all, I was crying like a baby and probably looked like I’d just experienced the most terrifying ordeal of my life. I’d just spent longer than the average human can tolerate in such conditions. I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had burst out laughing at my misfortune! I wouldn’t have been able to hold it in as well as she did.

Fortunately, I can laugh about it now… at least until the next time I find myself in such a situation. They say bad things happen in threes. I’m about due for my next outhouse adventure any day now!

I don’t feel like cooking this morning, so I decide to order breakfast at a popular Canadian franchise as a treat. This particular sandwich is a BLT with egg.

Me: “Hey! Could I please get a bagel BELT?”

Cashier: “Which one?”

Me: “…which one what?”

Cashier: “Bacon or sausage?”

Me: “Does the B not stand for ‘bacon’?”

Cashier: “No, it stands for ‘bagel’.”

Me: *Looking up at the menu* “So… it’s a bagel, bagel, egg, lettuce, tomato?!”

I haven’t ordered the sandwich since.