(I’m interviewing for a position as a dishwasher in a local diner, and the manager seems nice.)

Manager: “Would you like to be a cook?”

Me: “Um, no. I don’t know how to cook.”

Manager: “Who doesn’t know how to cook?”

Me: “Me.”

(He kept insisting that I be a cook, even though I told him I would rather wash dishes. He seemed very disappointed and never called me back. I found another job elsewhere. I don’t know why they would advertise for a dishwasher and need a cook. Very weird.)

This story is part of the second Job Interview roundup!

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(A pink and grey galah [cockatoo] turns up at my dad’s work site. He is obviously a pet, as he is tame and has clipped wings, so he can’t fly. He is very hungry, so he must have been lost for a while. We check everywhere we can to see if his previous owners are looking for him, and find nothing. So, we decide to keep him; we name him Wally and buy him a large cage. He has recently moulted, so my parents take him to the unusual pet vet to get his wings clipped, so he doesn’t hurt himself. When they arrive home, I ask them how it went:)

Mum: “Wally was good, even though the vets said that he was a bit naughty when they took him! But, we did meet a very strange woman. She was there with her 40-year-old galah called Lulu.”

Dad: “She was certainly what you could call a ‘crazy bird lady.’ Apparently, she had another galah at home, too. At dinner, they all sit together, with their own seats and plates. They even drink out of her cup!”

Mum: “She told us that when she eats things like yoghurt, she has a spoonful, then gives each of the birds a spoonful, too! And they’re free flying, so she’s secured half of her back garden off for them.”

(Though it seems like a weird relationship, I’m sure the galahs enjoy their life of luxury!)

(I work front desk at a hotel and I get a call from an in-house guest.)

Customer: “Yeah, I’m in 417 and all my light bulbs are burnt out. I have no light in here and I’ve got work to do. Can you send someone up here to fix them, please?”

Me: “Absolutely, ma’am. I’ll be right up.”

(I highly doubt that all of her bulbs are burnt out, so I grab only two spare lights and head upstairs to see what the problem is. I get to her room and knock.)

Me: “Hi! So, which lights are not working?”

Customer: “None of them! They won’t turn on; I’ve tried everything.”

(I walk over to the first lamp, turn the switch, and the light comes on.)

Customer: “Oh…”

(I go to the other lamps on either side of the bed, turn the switches on each of them, and they both turn on. I repeat this with each light in the room, turning knobs and flipping switches; they all work.)

Customer: “Well, I feel stupid now.”

(In my mind I’m thinking, “Well, that’s because you ARE stupid,” but of course, I don’t actually say that.)

Me: “Oh, no worries; those lights can be pretty tricky sometimes. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Customer: “Yes, actually, can you close that window for me? I had trouble getting it to open all the way, and now I can’t close it.”

(I go to close it and notice right away that the window is open ABOVE the little plastic piece that normally keeps the window from opening more than seven inches.)

Me: “Well, this is odd.”

Customer: “Yeah, I had to force it open; I hope I didn’t break it.”

Me: “Yeah, I’m going to go grab a screwdriver to try to fix this. I’ll be back in a moment, okay?”

Customer: “Sure, no problem. I really hope I didn’t break it.”

(I go put away the two unused light bulbs, grab a screwdriver, and head back upstairs. As soon as I try to fix it, I see exactly what the problem is.)

Me: “Well, it looks like someone forced this window to open above the plastic guard. See that plastic bit that the window was resting on? That is supposed to stop the window from opening any further. Somebody forced the window up past it, and now the mechanism is broken. See here?” *I point to a large, cracked piece of plastic on the window itself* “It’s cracked and broken, and the little mechanism inside is stuck. I won’t be able to close it. I think you did, in fact, break it when you forced it open, so most likely you will be billed for the damage.”

Customer: “Oh, but I never forced anything! It was already like that when I checked in; the window was already open!”

Me: “But you just told me you hoped you didn’t break it because—”

Customer: “No, I never said I had trouble opening the window, or that I forced it. I never told you those things earlier. So… Can I get a new room?”

Me: *sigh* “Yes, ma’am, I will get you a new room.”

(We only had one other room of that kind available, but the customer didn’t like it because there was no desk in it. She insisted on a room with a desk, so I ended up upgrading her and increased the price accordingly. She fought with the manager the next morning, and eventually my boss gave the upgrade for free and decided not to bill her for the damage. His logic was that the guest would be happy and come back. She ended up leaving a very negative and false review of our hotel, and she never came back. She was a one-shot guest who caused more trouble than she was worth.)

(I’m currently between jobs, so I stop into a coffee shop to browse job postings on my laptop and send out my resume. While doing so, I have headphones in so I can listen to music. After being there for about ten minutes, I see a middle-aged woman about two tables away waving frantically to get my attention.)

Me: *takes out headphones* “Um, can I help you?”

Customer: “What are you doing?”

Me: “Drinking coffee, I guess.”

Customer: *sigh* “No! What are you doing on your computer?” *moves over to the table next to mine, bringing two duffel bags with her*

Me: “I’m job-hunting online.”

Customer: “What kind of work do you do?”

Me: “I manage fundraising for nonprofits and political causes.”

Customer: “Politics, huh?” *looks over at the restroom and sees a handicapped sign* “Well, Mr. Politics, what’s your opinion on the handicapped?”

Me: “What about the handicapped?”

Customer: “What is your opinion on them?”

Me: *pauses* “I’m in favor of them.”

Customer: “Well, it doesn’t seem like you know all that much about politics, after all; that’s probably why you are unemployed.”

Me: “Ma’am, was there something you needed?”

Customer: “Jeez, I’m just trying to make friendly conversation.”

Me: “I’m not interested in that, thank you.”

(I put my headphones back in and stare at my screen but don’t put any music back on so I can eavesdrop on this woman.)

Customer: “How rude! I bet you’re probably one of those serial killers. Probably looking at p*rn on that computer!”

(I continue acting like I can’t hear her, and I avoid making eye contact again while she keeps waving and trying to get my attention. She eventually moves to the table behind me and begins bugging the people there, telling them that I am looking at p*rn in the coffee shop — even though this table has a full view of my computer screen — and about how I am probably a serial killer. The couple behind me doesn’t last as long as I did and quickly gets up to leave. She turns her attention back to me and screams.)

Customer: “HEY!”

Me: “What?”

Customer: “I need you to watch my bags; I’m going to go buy cigarettes.”

Me: “No.”

Customer: “Well, why not?”

Me: “Because your bags are not my responsibility.”

Customer: “WELL, I NEED TO GO, SO YOU NEED TO WATCH MY BAGS!”

(Before I can say anything else she storms out. I go to the counter to let the barista know what happened.)

Barista: “I’m really sorry about that. She comes in here every couple of weeks, and after the last time we kicked her out she called corporate to file a complaint about us. Now, we can’t kick her out unless someone actually complains. We were kind of wondering how long it would take you to speak to us.”

Me: “Does she still need to be here for me to complain? I’d rather leave before she gets back.”

Barista: “No, man, feel free to get out of here. I’m just glad we can kick her out now when she gets back.”

(I left after that, but felt bad for the barista who had to deal with her when she returned.)

(A customer is ordering her drink. From her accent, I assume she is native English.)

Customer: “Can you tell me where the Cenotaph is, please?”

Me: *gives directions*

Customer: “And is the President there?”

Me: *assuming she means Prime Minister* “No. There’s a ceremony held every Remembrance Sunday. She will be in attendance.”

Customer: “When is that?”

Me: “It’s held every second Sunday in November.”

Customer: “And when is that?”

Me: “Next Sunday.”

Customer: “And you’re sure the President will be there?”

Me: “Yes. The Prime Minister will be there.”

(She gets her drink and walks away.)

Customer: *to her friend* “What the f*** is a Prime Minister?”