(A customer calls about a delivery.)

Me: “Ma’am, we can’t guarantee your delivery by any certain time. If you look at the order you’ll see it says estimated delivery date.”

Caller: “I don’t care what it says. All I know is that it says today’s date between 8 am and 5 pm.”

Me: “Ma’am, that was just the estimated date. Your order will be at your house on Monday.”

Caller: “Are you stupid? It has today’s date on it.”

Me: “Is there anyone else in your home that I can speak to about this?”

Caller: “My husband, hang on.”

(She puts her husband on the phone.)

Me: “Sir, could you please explain to your wife that the delivery is not guaranteed today? The date on the order is an estimate and it will be there on Monday.”

Caller’s Husband: *yelling at wife* “God d*** can’t you f****** read! It says estimated date right there. It will be here Monday! Tell the guy you’re sorry for being a dumba**.”

(He puts his wife back on the phone.)

Caller: “I’m sorry I didn’t see that. Have a nice night.” *click*

(I have been sick for 5 days after power went out at 1 a.m. and took the heat with it on a -2 degree Fahrenheit night. Wednesday, I had a death-rattle breathing and productive cough. Thursday, I got frostnip. Friday, I was running a fever. Saturday and Sunday, I got mild food poisoning. Monday, I’m finally able to get a doctor’s appointment. However, I am ready to snap because I’ve been awake 26 hours by this point and sleep in half-hour increments because I stop breathing while I’m asleep. So, I go to fill out the paperwork.)

Receptionist:  “Here you go, [my name]. Just make sure to fill out the top two sheets and give them to the nurse. It’s standard for OB.”

Me: “I’m not here for an OB appointment.”

Receptionist: “Uh-huh. Just fill that out.”

(I obediently look over the paperwork where I need to talk about the baby daddy’s medical history and other information unrelated to me. I go back.)

Me: “I’m not an OB patient.”

Receptionist: “You have to fill out the paperwork for your appointment. Here’s a new copy if you couldn’t work out the first one. Go do that! We’ll be with you some time soon.”

Me: “Okay.”

(I go back with the new paperwork. Again, I’m staring at whether the father of the baby has ever had hepatitis. I go back.)

Me: “I’m. Not. An. OB patient.”

Receptionist: “You have to fill out the paperwork for—”

Me: “I’m not married. I’m not sexually active. I swear by all that’s holy I’m NOT PREGNANT.”

Receptionist: “Uh-huh. And your name is Kathleen [last name]?”

Me: “No, it’s Kathryn [last name].”

(The receptionist stares at her computer for a few moments.)

Receptionist: “…Oh, with the COUGH.”

Me: “Yeah. I can’t breathe. Can you PLEASE give me paperwork for someone who IS NOT PREGNANT?”

Receptionist: “Yeah… well, it’s like you have the same name.”

Me: “No, we don’t.”

(My friend, who has come in with me and is in the waiting room 5 feet away from the desk, speaks up.)

My Friend: “Notalwaysworking.com?”

Me: “Yeah.”

(We’ve had a man call several times trying to engage in sexual conversation.)

Man: “Do you carry massagers? Like personal massagers? The kind for female pleasure?”

Me: “Yes.”

Man: “Could you suggest one?”

Me: “I can not.”

Man: “Oh! Are you a virgin?”

Me: “No, I’m asexual.”

Man: “A… sexual?”

Me: “Yes, it means I get no pleasure from sexual stimulation, or even from talking to perverted men on the phone.”

Man: “Oh…” *click*

(He hasn’t called back.)

(My friend is asexual. We are discussing the idea of a nightclub catering mostly to asexual people.)

Friend: “Woah!”

Me: “What?”

Friend: “It could have strippers who go on stage and get dressed!”

Me: “Woah…”

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Me: “Three items? Here’s your fitting room, let me know if you need a hand.”

(The customer goes in, stands there for five minutes and searches the fitting room.)

Customer: “There’s no mirror.”

Me: “Nope, but as you can see there’s a mirror right outside.”

Customer: “That won’t do. Can I have the handicap room, please?”

(The handicap room is a larger room with a bench and mirrors.)

Me: “I’m sorry… that’s reserved for customers with wheelchairs and strollers.”

Customer: “But I want it.”

Me: “Sorry, it’s a store policy… Obviously, someone with a stroller or a wheelchair can’t fit in a normal fitting room, so we have to keep that one free.”

(The customer lifts one arm, laden with jeans and shopping bags. She waves it around, and points to it with her other arm.)

Customer: “…but, my arm is broken!”

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