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.

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My Family, And Other Animals, Part 14

Years ago when I worked as a museum educator, I was running a drop-in gallery program. A small girl around five years old confidently approached me and leaned on my table like she was about to smoothly order a drink at a bar. 

Little Girl: “I like this museum, and I would like to work here.”

I was about to play along and ask her if she knew a lot about history when a woman, presumably her mom, appeared behind her

Woman: “No, honey! You can’t work at the museum! Remember…?”

And this little girl sighed, eye-rolled, and said:

Little Girl: “I know, I know! Child labor laws!”

I sensed that they’d had that discussion before. I think that kid is going places!

I had to travel from New York to Boston during one of “those” storms — like the one in this story. I could see that the weather was likely to cancel flights, so I booked a train. My flight was (as expected) cancelled. My train was cancelled. I got on another, which sat for four hours (without heat) in New Haven waiting for a replacement engine.

The [Rideshare] from the station to the hotel, which should have taken five minutes, took twenty-five minutes because streets were blocked due to flooding and snow drifts. I had to walk through a metre (three feet) of snow to get to the [Rideshare].

When I checked into the hotel:

Staff: “We apologise, but there is no room service right now. The kitchen is closed as the staff didn’t make it in today. In fact, out of about thirty bookings for tonight, you’re the only one who has actually made it to the hotel today! There’s probably only one bar that might have an open kitchen within walking distance; you could try that for food and drink.”

I was secretly pretty pleased that my plans to get to Boston worked. Even though it took nearly ten hours, it was better than being stuck in New York at the airport trying to get on a flight. The airport didn’t really open for two more days!

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All I Want For Christmas Is A Little Perspective And Humility

I work in a tax office. In early January, before most people even get their W2s, a client came in with a 1099-NEC and some random bank statements that were not annotated. I asked her if she was still working her W2 job from prior years, and she said she was. I entered the 1099-NEC into the system, put everything in a folder, and told her to bring her missing W2 and we’d finish it then.

Over the course of the month, she kept scheduling appointments with us and not showing up for them. This was frustrating because it took up a time slot that a client could actually use. Every time we tried to call her phone, we got an answering service.

After four of these, I left a message letting her know that she was not a client of ours anymore and asking her to please pick up her documents. Any future appointments would be canceled.

About two weeks later, the client came in and complained that it “took too long” for us to do her taxes and she wanted to do them elsewhere. She wanted her W2 back. 

We didn’t have her W2. We’d never had her W2. 

She took home the rest of her documents. (I wasn’t present for this; this is what we learned in the after-event inquest.)

A week after that, the client came in again demanding her documents. Now, her documents were not present. Flummoxed, we turned over the whole office looking for them. Finally, we told her that they were missing, presumed shredded. (I still wasn’t present for this; this was also learned in the post-event inquest.)

She flipped out, saying it was “illegal” to shred her documents and that she was going to call the police on us. That should have gotten her barred and instructed to only talk to our legal department, but somehow, she was given an appointment with me, and even though I canceled it because she’s not supposed to have appointments with me, she knew I was working at that time, came in, and was allowed into the back to approach me and yell at me. A lot. She wambling about the police and “it’s illegal!” and stuff.

I’m autistic, I don’t deal with loud noises well, and this left me overstimulated and curled up in a ball sobbing.

Then, we had a whole inquest to figure out how a disabled employee (me) wound up in that state, where the failures had happened, and how to fix them in the future. It was determined that the return of the client’s documents should have been noted in her file, that she should not have been permitted to make an appointment with me after she was already agitated, and that the notes saying she had never given us her W2 should have been ACTUALLY READ.

I wish I trusted that my coworkers would actually follow the recommendations of the inquest.

Several decades ago, I helped a friend clean out a family member’s home, and in exchange, I got to keep several items, including multiple potted plants. I’m pretty good with gardening, and all the plants were thriving — except for one. I didn’t over- or under-water it, but it wouldn’t grow, and the leaves were starting to brown along the edges.

Fortunately, my mom was coming to visit me, and she really has the green thumb in the family. After she arrived and got the tour of the place, we sat on the porch while I watered my plants. She, of course, went to check them out. When she came to the dying one, she closely examined it for about ten seconds before turning to me with an expression half-amused and half-concerned for my well-being.

Mom: “[My Name].”

Me: “Do you know what’s wrong with it?”

Mom: “Tell me. Why are you watering a fake plant?”

That’s right. I’m great with living plants. Not so great at caring for the plastic ones.