This story reminded me of why I used to drive fifteen miles past three other grocery stores to shop at my favorite one.

My son was five years old and not exactly the best at remembering anything. For example, he’d forget he was clutching one of his favorite toys, or he’d forget that we don’t live in the grocery store.

We were about to check out when he said:

Son: “I left Mr. Mouse on a shelf.”

Me: “Which shelf?”

He just shrugged. Terrific.

I asked at the customer service desk if anyone had turned in a palm-sized stuffed mouse with half of a plastic Easter Egg on its head. (What can I say? My child was creative.) No one had. I looked through the aisles where we’d gone, but the mouse never turned up.

As I was leaving, they asked me if I’d found it. They seemed genuinely concerned.

Well, they seemed genuinely concerned because they WERE genuinely concerned.

Whatever transpired next in the store must have involved an aisle-by-aisle search with walkie-talkies and storewide announcements, scouring the place from top to bottom, hunting for Mr. Mouse. By the time I got home, I had a message on my voicemail. Mr. Mouse was secured, orange helmet and all.

We put away the groceries and returned to the store. I made sure my son thanked everyone he could.

Related:
My Family, And Other Animals, Part 14

I was a fifty-five-year-old lady delivery driver. I had been doing it for four years or so at the time. This happened over ten years ago, so some of the particulars are a bit fuzzy, but I clearly remember that it was a horrible night — probably the worst night I had ever had.

The teenagers making pizzas were messing up. We were shorthanded. Addresses and phone numbers were wrong. I had to do a couple of redeliveries due to the wrong pizza toppings. The phone kept ringing, and no one was answering, so I had to delay delivering to answer the phone. It was busy, and they had trouble keeping up. It was just a truly bad night.

It was getting close to closing, and I had one delivery left. I was so looking forward to going home and chilling, and I was ready to forget that night.

There were three or four pizzas on the order, and it was going to an address I had never been to before. I hate new customers; you never know how nice or s***ty they might be. I got to the house in less than four minutes; thankfully, it was close to the shop. There were a bunch of cars in the driveway and parked in front of the house. Cool, party!

I went into the open garage since that’s where the party was. I put on my customer service smile, and then I heard:

Voice: “HEY! [MY NAME]! How you doing?”

OMFG! I recognized Mr. Favorite Regular, and he was waving me over with a beer in his hand.

Mr. Favorite Regular: “Hey, everyone, this is [My Name], the best driver from [Pizza Place]! -Here, have a beer!”

Now, this was not the first beer I had been offered when delivering, but it was the first beer I ever accepted. I got to meet Mr. Favorite Regular’s brother and all their friends and family, and all of them welcomed me like my butt was made of gold. I guzzled that beer like a man lost in the desert for three days guzzles water. There was joking, hugging, and backslapping, another beer appeared in my hand, and there was lots and lots of laughter.

It was absolutely FUN-DERFUL, but alas, I had to get back to the shop, and I was worried I might get stopped by our local officers with beer on my breath, so I said my goodbyes, hugged Mr. Favorite Regular and some of my new friends, and headed back to my car.

I had parked on the side of the street in front of the driveway, but my car was GONE! Oh, s***! I had left the keys in the car, and some suckface had stolen it!

Then, I looked back toward the party, and they were all standing in front of the garage laughing their a**es off!

Why? Someone had snuck out of the party and moved my car a block down the road. These f***ers thought they were hilarious.

And they were right! I laughed my golden a** off all the way to my car as I gave them the double bird they so richly deserved.

Best. Night. Ever!

CONTENT WARNING: Blood
 

After dialysis today, I go to our local grocery store to get something for my lunch and dinner.

Of course, it’s packed, and entitled behaviour is everywhere. An Audi R10 with no disabled badge parked across two disabled bays is just the start. There are kids running around screaming pushing into customers, etc.

Whatever. I limp round as fast as I can using the self-scan. I hate this thing, but I’m tired, hungry and hurting. I get my shopping, go to the self-service till, and scan to download my shopping. Of course, I get flagged for a basket check.

The poor girls on duty here are run off their feet, so I just wait while everyone queuing complains about how long it’s taking.

I suddenly get tapped on my shoulder, and I turn to see a pissed-off-looking woman around forty-five-ish.

Woman: “Move it! Your till has reset!”

Indeed, it has gone back to the start page due to the wait. She carries on grumbling at me to move. Then, she gets hold of my left arm and squeezes hard to try and force me to move. I yell in pain and a staff member runs over.

Staff Member: “Back up! He’s got to be basket-checked!”

The woman carries on whining, but then my screen is brought back up with my shopping on it.

I go to pay when she finishes, and blood trickles out my sleeve.

Me: “Oh, s***!”

Staff Member: “Go sit down on the bench there. I’ll call for a first aider.”

I’m already putting pressure on it as I know what’s happened. My left arm has a surgical fistula for dialysis. Basically, they join an artery and vein into one blood vessel. Bleeding from this can be potentially fatal if not dealt with.

I take my hoodie off with help while the woman continues to whine as security won’t let her leave.

The staff member sees my arm; it’s very swollen in sections from the treatment. When the woman squeezed, she ripped the scab open. Pressure stops it, but it takes time.

Then, I hear a familiar voice; my best friend has just come in to do some shopping.

Best Friend: “You okay, [My Name]?”

Me: “I need a dressing kit. There’s one in my car.”

He nodded, took my keys, and asked where I was parked. He returned a few minutes later with the pack, and with his and the staff member’s help, I stopped the bleeding fully and then cleaned and redressed the needle wounds.

By this time, cops had turned up, and yes, I agreed to press charges.

I felt like crap all afternoon because of her, and I used up some Kaltostat (a special dressing that causes blood clotting to stop bleeding rapidly). This stuff is expensive, like £60 for a box of ten dressings. Thank God I get that on prescription, but now I’ve used an extra day’s supply.

She will be charged by CPS, but it could be a month or so before trial at best, possibly longer.

The fistula kept oozing blood. Then, it bled heavily the following day — to the point where we called 999 and I was taken to hospital by ambulance.

The wound got infected, so I was put on IV antibiotics and an emergency neck line for dialysis. I had surgery to repair the fistula, but I ended up losing it; it was just too old, battered, and damaged to keep using regardless of the woman hurting it. The surgeon said she accelerated it by about six months.

All because someone was impatient.

My friend who was there for part of it phoned me to say he gave a statement today about what he saw (which was mostly me trying to stop the bleeding).

I’m in pain, scared, and just want to punch someone.

At our project kickoff meeting, I ask a client what method of communication he prefers.

Client: “Email is the best way to reach me and ensure that I get your message.”

I send him a project update via email two days later. After getting no response after two days, I query him again via email. He replies, also via email.

Client: “I get too many emails, so just call me here at the office.”

I call him the following week to get his approval on a design, and the receptionist screens my call. I try three more times over the next week, making sure to email with each call. 

On Friday:

Client: “Where are my proofs? We’re on a deadline.”

Me: “I called numerous times, but your receptionist wouldn’t let me speak to you.”

Client: “Yeah, I told her to screen my calls. Just call me on my mobile.”

I call his mobile three times the next week, leaving a message on his (generic) voicemail.

Once again, this brings us to Friday:

Client: “I just ignore my phone’s voicemail. Call my office or email me.”

I begin to do all three, in rotation, over the next week. After failing to reach him, I send him a certified letter to have him sign off on the final product.

He calls me three days later.

Client: “Why are you sending me a letter? It’s 2013, for God’s sake! There are better ways to get a hold of me.”

My late grandfather was a dentist, and he told me about a particularly difficult patient he had back in the 1970s.

[Kid] was ten years old, and the entire practice dreaded his visits. When he appeared for an appointment to have some cavities filled, he entered the room with a look of defiance on his face, and my grandfather decided he just was not in the mood.

Dentist: “Get in the chair. I’m not going to play with you today.”

Kid: “No! And you can’t make me!”

Dentist: “Now!”

Kid: “I’m gonna take off all my clothes!”

Dentist: “Yeah, go right ahead.”

[Kid] stripped down to his underwear and folded his arms.

Dentist: “Now get in the chair!”

[Kid] grabbed the waistband of his underwear in a silent threat to pull them down.

Dentist: “I double-dare you!”

[Kid] stripped completely naked.

Dentist: “Now get in the chair!”

The kid quietly got in the chair and cooperated throughout the entire procedure. However, while [Dentist] was working on him, he quietly instructed his dental assistant to take the clothes elsewhere.

When it was over:

Kid: “Hey, where are my clothes?”

Dentist: “You can pick them up tomorrow. Goodbye.”

Kid: “YOU CAN’T—”

[Dentist] marched the kid out of the room and into the hallway and locked the door behind him.

Ten minutes later, he predictably got a phone call summoning him up to the front desk. He was met by [Kid]’s mother who was standing surprisingly calm and almost smug, despite the fact that she’d just witnessed the door opening and her son walking butt naked into a waiting room full of people.

Mom: “He blackmailed you with his clothes, didn’t he?”

Dentist: “Yep, and I called his bluff.”

Mom: “He’s been doing that to me forever. Any time we’re in public and I tell him no, he’ll threaten to strip naked in front of everyone, and I always find myself giving in. Thanks so much.” *To [Kid]* “LET’S GO!”

And [Kid]’s mom marched him right out, through the medical clinic full of people, through the elevators, and into the parking lot.

[Kid]’s mom came by the next day to pick up his clothes and told my grandfather that when they got home, she didn’t allow that brat to get dressed there, either, and made him spend the entire day at home walking around butt naked and enduring teasing and jeers from his siblings.

My grandfather never had a problem with him from then on, and according to his mom, it was the last time he ever blackmailed her with his clothes again.