One summer, I am working at a camping site where my grandparents used to live during the warmer months of the year. I’m the receptionist, so I take bookings via calls or face to face. A couple walks over to me one day. One of the customers says something in Dutch.

Me: *In English* “I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Dutch. Do you speak English?”

The second customer says something in German.

Me: *In English* “I’m sorry, I don’t speak German. Do you speak English?”

Still, they don’t understand. They try French and even Russian without success. I’ve taken both Japanese and Chinese in school, but the couple doesn’t know those languages. I took four years of Spanish before entering high school, though two years have already passed since then.

Me: *In broken Spanish* “Habla Español?”

[Customer #1] now excitedly starts talking in fluent Spanish. My coworker, who is still learning German, comes back from his break.

Me: *In Swedish* “GOOD GODS. HELP ME.”

Coworker: *In German* “How can I help you?”

Customer #2: *In English* “Finally, someone who understands! We’ve been trying to ask the lady if there’s a spot available.”

Me: *Under my breath* “What the f***?!”

Related:
Babel-ing On

When I get a Dachshund pup — a long-haired brindle — from the breeders my family’s gone to for at least ten years, Mom and I find out that a couple from our town is adopting another dog from the same litter. Mom gives the breeder our contact information for playdates, which never come about. 

A year later, I bring my dog for another round of standard obedience, and my boss — the trainer — mentions that another long-haired brindled Dachshund is also going to attend. I half-joke, “Wouldn’t it be funny if it was [Dog]’s brother?” only for my boss to tell me she believes the dog came from a different breeder. Bummer.

Before class begins, a lady comes in with the aforementioned Dachshund, and without giving us a chance to try properly introducing them, my dog and hers immediately rush toward each other and started playing. After making sure our boys won’t fight, exchanging our names and theirs, and mutually gushing over how cute they are, the lady asks me where I got mine.

Me: “[Business] in Wetmore.”

Lady: *Pauses* “What were his parents’ names?”

Me: “The sire’s name was Romeo Junior, and the dam’s name was… uh…” 

Lady: “Sunrise? Sunset?”

Me: “Yeah!”

Lady: “Those were my dog’s parents, too!”

She was one of the people Mom had tried to leave contact information for! It turned out the staff member overseeing the adoptions had forgotten to pass it on. But our dogs still somehow recognized each other, even after a year of separation. Of course, we scheduled regular playdates, and two years later, we’ve become good friends, while our dogs still get along like butter and popcorn. 

Thus far, meeting [Friend] and [Her Dog] has been the cutest coincidence I’ve ever experienced.

During the global health crisis, my mother is out of work due to school closures — she works for a school district — so she fills her idle time by making cloth masks for friends and family. She runs out of elastic for straps early on, and since most of the fabric and craft stores in our areas are closed, she places an order online for a roll of elastic. She’s given a tracking number and she waits for it to arrive.

And waits… and waits… and waits…

At first, we assume that the shipment is simply delayed due to the current global crisis; mail and shipments, in general, are slow at the moment. But when she checks the tracking information online a week after the order was supposed to arrive, she finds that the package has gone from the original shipper in Oklahoma to a town in Nevada… to California… then back to Nevada… then to Utah… and then back to Nevada.

Weeks pass, and soon checking the tracking information on this package has stopped being annoying and has become hilarious. Every evening, Mom checks the tracking number and goes “Where will my package end up tonight?” And for whatever reason, it keeps bouncing between random cities throughout the USA and this town in Nevada — a town whose name isn’t even remotely similar to the name of our hometown in Idaho.

Mom does finally contact the company, which gives her a full refund for the wayward package… and the package itself finally turns up on our doorstep over two months later, battered and dirty. I still think Mom got her money’s worth in entertainment just from tracking this package’s back-and-forth journey across the country.

Next to our hot island where we have hot food for customers to grab, we have a large sign advertising the sale price on rotisserie chickens. This week they’re on sale for $4.99 — the lowest they’ve been in a long time — while the regular price is $6.99.

A little old lady has been standing in front of the sign, looking at it with her glasses on, then off, then on again, then off again, for several minutes. Finally, she approaches me at the counter.

Old Lady: “Excuse me, how much are your whole chickens?”

Me: “They’re $4.99, ma’am.”

Old Lady: “The sign over there says they’re $4.99.”

Me: “That’s right.”

Old Lady: “They said they’re $4.99 on the radio.”

Me: “Yes.”

Old Lady: “So how much are they?”

I am starting to lose my patience.

Me: “Four. Ninety. Nine.”

Old Lady: “Well, I just don’t know.”

Me: “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

Old Lady: “I just can’t be sure how much they are.”

Me: “Well, if I’m telling you they’re $4.99, the sign is telling you they’re $4.99, and the radio is telling you they’re $4.99, then they’re probably $4.99.”

Old Lady: “Well, you just never know, the liberal media…”

She lets that phrase hang in the air as if I’m supposed to know what she means by that and agree with her.

Me: “Uh, we’re not the media, ma’am. We’re [Store].”

Old Lady: “Well, you just never know. The liberal media. It could be one of the Obama’s sneaky tricks.”

Me: “We’re not the media, ma’am. We’re [Store]. And Obama doesn’t work here.”

Old Lady: “Oh, you’ve heard of the Obama? I don’t rightly know what it is, but that nice news man says it’s trying to ruin everything.”

Me: “…”

Old Lady: “I just hope President Reagan can get rid of it soon. How much are your whole chickens?”

Me: “…$4.99.”

Old Lady: “Well, I just don’t know. The liberal media. I guess I’ll have to find someone else to ask.”

She continues muttering as she walks away.

Old Lady: “How can they be so much? They were $2.99 last week.”

My mom is the type of person who loves nature and believes in the healing powers of plants and things like that. I don’t really believe in that sort of stuff. She also loves to watch documentaries and takes a lot of what she hears in them to heart. 

Me: “Ugh, I have a headache.”

Mom: “I know what you need! The other day I was watching a documentary about how nosebleeds can relieve headaches. You just need to get a nosebleed and you’ll be fine.”

Me: “What? No, I think I’ll just take an Advil.”

Mom: “In the documentary, they mentioned that this plant can cause nosebleeds if you rub it on your nose. I have the plant here. Want to see if it works?”

Me: “I think I’d rather have a headache than a nosebleed.”

Mom: “Come on! I want to see if it works. Maybe we don’t even need to rub it on your nose. I think if we burn it…”

Me: “No, thanks. I really don’t want a nosebleed. I think I’ll just lie down.”

Mom: “Fine. I’ll burn it in the kitchen and breathe it in to see if it works.”

She did burn the plant, and no, neither of us got a nosebleed.