When I was growing up, my mother regularly talked about how she hated Pomeranians — “little yappy things,” she called them — and how she hated dogs named Mitzi and would never own one, ever. She had a neighbor when she was young with a vicious little dog that matched this description.

One day when I was about fourteen, I was at a mall with my parents and my mother had gone into a fabric store. My father and I walked into a pet store to kill time, and while we were there, someone brought in a sweet-tempered little dog she wanted to sell.

My father started interacting with the dog and liked it.

Father: “What sort of dog is this?”

Owner: “She’s a Pomeranian.”

Father: “What’s her name?”

Owner: “Mitzi.”

My father lit up like a Christmas tree.

Father: “[My Name], go tell your mother I’m buying a Pomeranian named Mitzi.”

I thought it would be funny to tell her that, so I found her.

Me: “Dad’s buying a Pomeranian named Mitzi.”

I’d never seen my mother look so horrified in her life. She dropped her shopping and stormed off to the pet store. However, by the time we got back, my father had actually bought the dog. My mother stared daggers at him all the way home and said she wanted nothing to do with the dog. 

But within about three days, that dog had my mother totally smitten. She was gentle and mischievous and not at all happy — except when moose came into the yard. The only remainder of her previous insistence was that we were not allowed to call the dog Mitzi but instead called her Mits.

She ended up becoming my mother’s dog until the day she died while out chasing a moose — her favorite activity. My mother ended up with her favorite dog all because it was a breed and name she despised.

A lady I’ve served maybe once or twice arrives with some checks to deposit. They are all a little old but still within six months — except one. This is a money order for all of $20, dated from seven years ago. This particular brand of money order should be negotiated within a year of it being cut or monthly fees start racking up. This piece of paper is going to be swallowed by its own fees at best and rejected as a stale item at worst.

Me: “Uh, this is a little bit old, isn’t it?”

Customer: “Yeah, but it’s a money order, so it’ll be fine.”

No, it won’t, and I know it.

Me: “Let me see what we can do here.”

I rope my manager in, not because I expect her instincts to be any different to mine but more to make it look like I’m at least trying to do something. [Manager] looks at the date.

Manager: “Oh, wow, we really shouldn’t take this.”

Customer: “No, it’s a money order. It was paid for in full back when it was bought so it’s guaranteed.”

This goes on for maybe a minute; [Manager] first wants to refuse the money order and then deposit it on a seven-day hold, but the customer will have none of it. Bear in mind, if it gets rejected — which we both expect — that’s a $30 fee that the customer is going to have to pay.

Manager: “There’s a number to verify on there, right? Call that, and if it says the check is still good, then I guess we can deposit it.” 

I call the number and verify that the check hasn’t been cashed and it hasn’t had a stop put on it by the original purchaser. This is as good as we can do, so we go ahead and deposit it.

Me: “All done, but please bear in mind that this still could very well bounce because of how old it is.” 

Customer: “Yeah, sure.”

She left. I made sure to put an extensive note in her account explaining what had happened. A few days later, we got an email from our call centre; the customer was unhappy about a returned item fee that had put her account negative. Lo and behold, the money order had been rejected as a stale item. I made a point of not being the one to call her back because I had very little confidence in my ability to avoid saying, “I told you so,” in a less than polite way, though I did make sure the note I put in the account at the time got added to the email chain. I cannot fathom why she thought she knew better than me, a teller, how money orders work.

My husband’s mother doesn’t trust men. When my husband was eight he “broke up” with a classmate. His mother yelled at him, saying he was just like all men.

He had a girlfriend in high school for two years but they mutually broke up their junior year. When my husband and I got engaged, some friends, including his ex-girlfriend, threw me a bridal shower. At one point, I was in a small circle of women: me, my husband’s ex-girlfriend, his mom, his sister, and two friends. His mother turned to the ex.

Husband’s Mom: “[Ex-Girlfriend], this should be your bridal shower.”

I told my husband that night that when we got married, his mother could visit but her suitcases would never come through the front door. She also told us we couldn’t invite his dad to the wedding. I told her we already had and would let her know if he was coming so she could decide if she wanted to attend. If looks could kill…

In 2006, while deployed to Iraq, a Black Hawk helicopter went down and the people on board were killed in the crash. Every year since then, my dad and some of the people who were deployed with them have had dinner at the same restaurant in honor of them.

It’s 2020. The waitress has been working there for years and has served this group before. As she’s setting up a table, a man at the bar stops her and makes conversation.

Customer: “Hey, what’s going on?”

Waitress: “We have a large party coming. They’re regulars and come every year.”

Customer: “Oh, what’s the occasion?”

Waitress: “They all are or were a part of the army. They have this dinner to remember friends they lost in a deployment in a Black Hawk crash.”

Customer: “Oh, wow. Here. Take this and put it towards their tab.”

He handed her $100. The waitress told the group about what happened when they showed up and everyone pretty much had drinks for free!

This story is part of our Feel Good roundup for February 2021!

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Read the Feel Good roundup for February 2021!

At the doctor’s office where I work, one person schedules appointments in a handwritten paper schedule book, and I create and print off the day’s fee slips the morning of. Her handwriting is difficult to read, and she frequently misspells or abbreviates patient names, so I have gotten in the habit of trying to find a close match for possible names when I make the fee slips. Usually, new patients are noted on the paper schedule with “NP” in a circle.

Today, we had two patients I could not find names for in the computer, but I found a close match for one; think “Mel Brooks” on the schedule but “Melvin Booker” on the computer. Given how bad my coworker’s handwriting is, the fact that it’s not marked as “NP,” and her history of misspelling and abbreviating names, I was fairly certain that Melvin is the person we were scheduled to see.

Nope.

This afternoon, my coworker comes charging up to my desk and slaps a new patient chart with Melvin’s fee slip on it

Coworker: “Does this look like Mel’s name?”

She gets in my masked face with her unmasked face. (She believes the health crisis is a scam invented for political gain.)

Me: “Closest match in the system. He wasn’t marked as a new patient, and you sometimes abbrev—”

Coworker: *Snarls* “I never abbreviate! And you should never assume that I wrote it down wrong! He’s obviously a new patient!”

I sighed, remade a fee slip for “NP Mel Brooks,” and requested that she note new patients when she schedules them so I could avoid looking for them in the system.

She’s not the only reason I’m job hunting — our boss is much worse — but seriously!