This is way back in the 1980s when you could smoke in your office.

A coworker and I share an office, but she wanted my job (which was higher), so she began complaining vociferously to management that her health was being affected by sharing the office with me due to my smoking.

Since I knew that she lived with a boyfriend who smoked, I knew her complaint was bogus.

So, one weekend, I just up and quit smoking. I’m not saying it was easy, but my motivation for showing her up was stronger than my cravings.

When I entered the office on Monday, I had not been smoking for three days. I continued for the week, waiting to see when she would notice. She never did, and she continued complaining to management about my smoking.

After two weeks, my boss sat her down and told her that despite her statements, our office had been smoke-free for two weeks, and she never saw it. He suggested that perhaps she needed to find a job with a different officemate since she had pretty well poisoned her relationship with us.

I still don’t smoke, and it’s forty years this year, so I thank her for her deviousness!

In the early 2000s, I am getting ready to close up at my big box electronics store when a gentleman comes in looking for a CD. I do a bit of searching and find out the release date for the CD is actually the next day.

Me: “Sir, the CD is not released yet, but if you come back tomorrow, we will have it in stock and you can pick it up.”

Customer: “Well, I saw a commercial for it on TV.”

Me: “Yes, sir, they will still promote the CD before it comes out; however, we cannot sell the CD until tomorrow.”

Customer: “Then why is it on TV?”

Me: “To raise awareness for the CD, sir.”

Customer: “You need to have someone remove that commercial.”

He then just stands there, waiting. I ask him if there is anything else I can do for him.

Customer: “I’m still waiting for you to make the call to get the commercial taken off the air.”

I live in a university-granted apartment as the sole “stable” tenant, so I get to meet and see a lot of people on a semestral basis — some colorful, others less so. Sometimes, between the tenants, there is… quite a bit of friction. But never quite as much as in this story.

Meet [Danish Student] and [Polish Student]. The former studied Economics and basically came to Italy just to party while occasionally crunching a few numbers; the latter studied Political Science and was taking the whole “Erasmus (student exchange) is for studying experience” thing rather seriously. 

You’d think they would rarely interact with each other. In fact, you’d normally be right… but I ruined the peace.

How? 

As is tradition, I organized a “cultural cuisine weekend”, where each tenant cooked something they liked from their country. I started by cooking amatriciana (a traditional Italian pasta sauce) on Friday.

Danish Student: “Where is the spinach?”

Me: “Spinach doesn’t belong in amatriciana.”

Polish Student: “[My Name] obviously would know better than you would, [Danish Student].”

Danish Student: *Yelling* “Just because [My Name] lives in Italy, it doesn’t mean they know how to cook a good amatriciana! I’m more qualified than either of you; I took cooking classes in high school and you didn’t!”

[Polish Student] and I were taken aback but decided to let it slide to not ruin the vibes, and apparently, we all three enjoyed it.

The next day, it was [Danish Student]’s turn, and he decided to serve rye bread with cold cuts, which [Polish Student] didn’t like, and his reaction triggered an argument between the two.

Danish Student: “This is exactly how my mama makes it!”

Polish Student: “It’s just a matter of taste, and I don’t like it!”

It went on long enough that [Polish Student] stormed out, proclaiming:

Polish Student: “If that’s the standard, Danish cuisine is pigs’ food and penance diet!”

And he left to go pick something up at a nearby delicatessen.

I wanted to cancel the next day’s meal, but [Polish Student] insisted I let him have it. Dinner time came, and, sure enough, he had prepared bigos stew (a dish using cured meats and sauerkraut). It came out a little bit too salty, but [Danish Student] claimed:

Danish Student: “This is salt soup to accompany a tankard of vodka!”

Polish Student: “At least my stew has some flavour and consistency, unlike that rye bread. That was just peat that has been dried out in the sun and then mixed with kidney gravel!”

And it was at this point that, apparently, war was declared.

As much as I begged the housing service to just separate the two, they never intervened, so I was stuck tolerating day after day of one going into the other’s pantry to bin everything that didn’t fit their standards, the other retaliating in kind, and both of them shouting at each other about being either a “little provincial worm” or “a creaky piss-haired snob” and other such insults, giving each other passive-aggressive “tips” when even remotely close to the kitchen. 

Their feud apparently extended to campus, because other international students avoided them like the plague — but they still gossiped about them often enough.  the language exchange cafè’s personnel tried to keep them as separate as possible!

Peace was had only when [Danish Student] took his exam and then caught his flight out the day afterward, way before [Polish Student] was done. Suddenly, [Polish Student] became a whole new person and tried to be more cordial with me, but at that point, I was entirely burnt out on him and the other guy.

I guess in terms of tidiness, I’ve seen worse, but this was the most emotionally tiring experience of all!

The year is 2004, and I am a Resident Assistant in a residence hall. I have been informed that our hall has a new arrival, from New England or thereabouts. I go to introduce myself.

Me: *With exaggerated Britishness* “Ah, you must be the American chap.”

New Student: *Amused* “Yes, I’m the ‘American chap’.”

We exchange actual introductions.

Me: “How are you settling in? Is everything going all right?”

New Student: “Yes, everything’s fine. Actually, the only thing I’m finding strange here is all the different accents and the rivalries. In the US, we don’t have your thing of insulting people from different cities all the time.”

Me: “What about Pittsburgh?”

New Student: “Oh… yes. I’d forgotten about that.”

This was when I worked in a real estate office. We had a window display with brochures of all the properties listed for sale; it was one of those open-plan offices with a false wall behind reception so you couldn’t see where the agents’ desks are. I was one of two receptionists. The other receptionist and I would get pretty bored and just muck around when it was quiet.

On this particular day, we had pretty much nothing to do but fold brochures and letters for the Sales Agents’ open homes. We were doing this when we noticed this middle-aged couple outside looking at the window display. They were tapping at the glass looking concerned and generally making us feel like goldfish.

Sales Agent: “What do you think their problem is?”

Me: “H*** if I know.”

Finally, after a few minutes of this, they stormed into the reception area but didn’t approach the desk. Instead, they just kind of stood near the door looking at us. We both stood to greet them as we were supposed to do. The middle-aged couple pretty much yelled at us from across the room.

Sales Agent: “Welcome to [Realty Office]. How can I help you today?”

Couple: “You have bombs in your window! Did you know?”

Sales Agent: “Excuse me?”

Couple: “Bombs! In your window!”

Sales Agent: “I’m sorry, what do you mean by bombs?”

Couple: “I mean bombs. B. O. M. B. S!”

Sales Agent: “I’m sorry, I don’t actually understand what you are referring to. Are they sitting in the window, or are they in a picture on one of the brochures?”

Couple: “I don’t know! There are bombs in your window. What does this mean?!”

Sales Agent: *Still clueless as to what they were talking about* “Could you perhaps show me where they are?”

Couple: “Don’t you dare talk to me like that! There are bombs in your window; what does this mean?!”

Eventually, I glanced down at one of the brochures on our desk and notice that if you were a complete moron, you might think that the symbol we use to indicate that a property has a study (a book) could kind of look like a grenade. I pick it up and point.

Me: “Is this what you are referring to?”

Couple: “Yes. Why do some properties have bombs, and some don’t? What does this meeeeaaaaan?!“

Me: “I’m sorry to tell you this, but it’s actually a book and is the symbol for a study. Some of the properties have studies or home offices and others do not.”

Couple: “Well, that looks like a bomb to me, love.”

…and then they left, looking bright red with embarrassment.

This has provided months of entertainment for my coworker and me. We now both work in different offices and environments, but every now and then, I get a text from her: “Excuse me but you have BOMBS in your window?” Fits of giggles follow.