My grandmother is a little out of touch when it comes to technology. Sure, she has an iPad, but she barely uses it for anything other than looking at news websites and watching Netflix. She’s had her desktop computer for about twenty years now; it still runs XP without any problems.

I recently took some pictures of local wildlife — deer, bears, and a robin’s nest that was made right outside my window — and emailed them to her through my photography business’s Gmail account. After a few days without receiving a reply, I call her.

Me: “Hi, Grandma. I was calling to see if you received the pictures I emailed you?”

Grandma: “I did, but I didn’t open them. I don’t have a Gmail account because I don’t want Google to have all my information.”

Me: “I sent them to your regular email, the one you use to email me.”

Grandma: “Why don’t you go back to using the account you emailed me from before?”

Me: “Because I made that one when I was fifteen years old, and I closed it when I was twenty. I use Gmail now, Grandma, because it’s more professional.”

Grandma: “I still don’t want Google having all my information!”

I gave up and got my mom to email the pictures to her, instead.

My husband and I are just tucking into our supper one evening when the phone rings. The caller ID says it’s a government department, so I figure I had better answer it. The caller mumbles something about doing a survey regarding cannabis. I try to keep an open mind because various disabilities could cause someone to speak very slowly and slur their words, but she genuinely sounds like she’s stoned out of her gourd.

Caller: “Do you have ten minutes to answer our survey questions?”

Me: “I’m in the middle of my supper.”

Caller: “Can I call back in an hour?”

Me: “Sure.”

It was a very well-spoken young man who called back later, so I’m wondering if she really was impaired and, the calls being monitored, was pulled from the phones.

On a side note, one of the questions the young man asked was whether I had ever been a passenger in a vehicle operated by someone under the influence of cannabis. I told him that, as I had grown up in the 1970s, there was a very good chance of that.

I am currently apartment hunting, but it has been a long and time-consuming project trying to find something within my budget. I only have two requirements: it must allow my cat, and it must have a balcony I can grow food on. I don’t think that’s insane criteria, but in my city, it sometimes seems like it is.

I found one unit that was slightly above my budget. It was tiny and ugly, and it would mean almost an extra hour on the bus to visit my girlfriend or my doctors, and I knew the layout would make me want to scream within weeks. But it allowed cats, and the ad had several pictures of a balcony large enough to support enough of a garden to make gardening worth it, so I figured I could make it work. I fired off the email I had tailored to introduce myself and explain what I was looking for, and after a couple of days of chasing them down, I finally set up a time to view it.

The day arrives. From the outside, the building is in a nice quiet area, close to stores, and would even have something that could be considered a half-decent view. I’m starting to feel better about potentially living here — excited, even. I meet the landlady, and we head upstairs to the apartment.

She unlocks the door, and the first thing I notice is… there’s no balcony.

I stare at her.

Me: “There’s no balcony.”

Landlady: “That’s correct.”

Me: “I specifically told you I was looking for a balcony.”

Landlady: “Well, I never said there was a balcony!”

I turned around and walked out without another word. I still have no idea what the h*** she thought was going to happen.

I’m also baffled by the builder that would bother putting balconies on a building, but only for half the units.

My family’s rescue ranch is a very big attraction in the area, acting as a pseudo-theme park of sorts. We have just opened up after a three-week transition from our Halloween attraction to our Winter attraction, which boasts carnival rides, meet and greets with the jolly man himself, holiday shopping, a craft market, etc.

Usually, I am in charge of the carnival area, which is called the “Winter Wonderland”. This night, however, just happens to be my father’s birthday, and my brother and I have taken over for our parents while they enjoy a night off together.

I am dealing with a flooding issue in our “Main Street” area when I hear security calling for my brother or me to head to the pathway between the illuminated forest attraction and the carnival attraction. My brother responds that he will go, as I am dealing with flood issues and will be busy for a while.

All is well and quiet until I hear this over the radio.

Brother: “Attention team members working the Illuminated Trail and Winter Wonderland: be advised that we have a ‘Cousin Eddie’ at the rest area.”

Perplexed and finished with the flood issue, I hop on my ATV and head up to the rest area in question. It takes me some time, but when I get there, I see my brother hanging an “Out Of Order” sign on the washrooms.

Me: “Hey, [Brother], what exactly is going on?” *Leans in* “What the heck is a ‘Cousin Eddie’?”

Brother: “Well, when you think of Cousin Eddie, from that Christmas movie, what do you think?”

I blink before my eyes go wide.

Me: “No.”

Brother: “Yes.”

I still have no clue why, but I unlock the door and take a peek. It is the stench that hits me first — I still smell it now — before the sight makes my eyes water. Out of the three toilet stalls, two of them have been covered in feces. It is everywhere — toilet, wall, door, everywhere. The sinks are covered in poopy handprints, and that is all I see before I shut the door and lock it. I turn to my brother.

Me: “How about we just burn it down?”

Brother: “Mom and Dad will never know what a s***ty situation we got ourselves in tonight.”

It is 1991. I am working on Christmas Eve. There are eight of us, including the owners, and we are closing at 5:00 pm to have a little celebration.

At 4:55 pm, this lady comes through the door, upset and in disarray. Keep in mind, this being Christmas Eve, the counters are fairly bare, and this is a hardware store, after all.

Customer: “I need you to stay open late so that I can get Christmas presents for my kids!”

She looks around for ten minutes and has an absolute fit about us not having any child-friendly toys. Then, she exclaims:

Customer: “You’ve ruined it for me! I’ll have to go to a gas station!”

Owner: “Lady, did you not know that Christmas has been coming for the last year?”

She went red and slunk out of the store. I love the owner; he doesn’t put up with bulls***.