My spouse and I get a call from our credit card company.

Representative #1: “We’ve had a security breach and, while your card wasn’t affected, we are going to cancel it and send you a new one, just to be safe.”

Me: “That’s fine, but we’re leaving tomorrow on a trip. Can it wait until we get back?”

The rep says yes, confirms our return date, and makes note of where we’re going so using our card won’t get flagged.

We drive north from California as planned and, at about the time we cross the border so we can spend two weeks with our friends in Canada, the credit card stops working. While we have enough money in our accounts, only a small bit of it is easily accessible from where we are. We’re fine for now — and our friends are fronting us funds best they can — but we can’t get home without a working credit card. So, we call the company.

Representative #2: “We needed to cancel your card, but the new one should be at your home by now.”

Me: “We’re not at home. We’re in Canada. The other rep said we could wait until we got back. Can you reactivate the card?”

Representative #2: “Sorry, I can’t do that, but I can send you a new card.”

We give the rep the address: [number, Street, and Town], British Columbia, Canada. A couple of days later…

Me: “We were supposed to get our new credit card at our friends’ house where we’re staying.”

Representative #3: “We can’t find the address. Are you in Columbia?”

Me: “What? No. We’re in Canada. In the province British Columbia.”

The rep promises to send it right out to the correct address. A couple of days later…

Me: “Where is our credit card?”

Representative #4: “We mailed it to your address in the British Virgin Islands.”

Me: “!!!”

Finally, they suggest getting a new card in person. As they’re an American company, there is only one bank in the area they’re affiliated with that can do it, a half-hour drive away. We make the trip and get the card, and it works.

When we got home, we looked through our pile of mail and found the first cards mailed to us at home, now cancelled. And we found a very interesting envelope, with another set of now-cancelled cards, forwarded to us from the British Virgin Islands.

I am at a nationwide coffee shop chain famous for its doughnuts, grabbing a quick breakfast before I have to catch a ferry for work. Going through the till is a smooth process – a bottle of apple juice, one of their new treats, and a breakfast sandwich — egg, cheese, and sausage on a croissant. I am asked my name, and I give it. It’s not a common one but not unheard of, either. A few minutes pass, and the person making the food calls out:

Worker: “Order for [My Name]!”

I go up and grab the items: a bottle of apple juice and a bag. The bag feels… off, whether it be weight or distribution, I couldn’t say. I look inside. Looking back at me are the aforementioned treat and a BLT on an everything bagel.

Me: “Excuse me?”

Worker: “It’s what you ordered!”

I’m a bit taken aback, as he is shouting. I’ve worked in similar coffee shops before and know that it can get loud behind the counter, but he’s at least twice as loud as anyone else.

Me: “Uhh… No, it isn’t.”

Worker: “Yes, it is!”

He’s still shouting, and he’s very firm on the fact that the items in my hands are correct. I’ve double-checked, and the sandwich has not magically changed. A bit frustrated, I raise my voice in turn.

Me: “No, I asked for a sausage breakfast sandwich on a croissant, and this is a BLT on a bagel!”

Worker: “That’s not what you ordered! Look!”

He turns around his order screen, and sure enough, there’s the order for [My Name]: apple juice, special treat, and a BLT on an everything bagel.

Me: “That may be what the screen says, but that’s not what I ordered. Could you just make me what I asked for?”

Worker: “No. You got what you ordered. No freebies.”

Customer Behind Me: “Excuse me? Is the order for [My Name] ready yet?”

The guy behind the counter and I look at each other and then to the other customer. What are the chances of two guys with somewhat uncommon names ordering almost identical orders mere minutes apart? The other [My Name] and I laugh as I hand him his order, while the worker makes a new one for me, grumbling just loud enough for me to hear.

Worker: “Pay more attention next time.”

I get that the world is in a weird place right now, and he may have been having a stressful day or something, but come on, man! Accidents happen! Or so I think until, after I get back to my truck and head off to the ferry, I look into my new bag and see… a BLT on a croissant.

I’m a big fan of “RuPaul’s Drag Race.” My mom is a child of the sixties, and I figure she would get a kick out of seeing the challenge where the drag queens perform in a musical where they have to sing and dance as Cher at different stages of her career.

We’re watching together and she seems amused, but it’s sort of like she doesn’t quite get what’s going on. Then, eventually, it clicks…

Mom: “Oh! They’re all men!“

Me: “More or less. Why did you think they were all dressed up as Cher? She’s been a gay icon for fifty years.”

Mom: “Well, I don’t know, honey. Your generation does all kinds of strange things. I’ve just learned to smile and nod and let you do whatever makes you happy.”

When “Canada’s Drag Race” became a thing, Mom particularly enjoyed the episode where the queens had to dress up as Celine Dion.

I’m taking a class with a professor who LOVES his subject and is clearly delighted to have people to talk to about it. I’m not sure he even brings lecture notes; he just tells us to read something, and then in the next class, he comes in and talks about it for an hour and a half, barely pausing for breath. Since the subject is a bit esoteric and the professor is so disorganized, it’s hard to tell when something he says is important and when it’s tangential, so everybody takes reams of notes, frantically scribbling to keep up with him. As a result, people don’t speak up much. 

One day, I raise my hand, and the professor’s face lights up.

Professor: “Oh, a question! Wonderful! Yes?”

He looks so excited at this sign of engagement that I actually feel bad about what I have to say next.

Me: “Uh, well… it’s ten o’clock, and I have to go to my next class.”

Professor: “Oh. Yes, so it is. Class dismissed.”

He seemed slightly crushed, so I vowed to actually ask a real question next time.

I have a luggage rack on my bike which has encountered a problem. I take it into the shop where I bought it, where they offer a lifetime guarantee.

Me: “I’ve got this issue with my pannier rack which you guys sold me.”

Cashier: “Do you have a receipt?”

Me: “Yes.”

I hand the receipt over.

Me: “So the problem is—”

Cashier: “No worries; we can fix that for you. It’ll be about twenty minutes or so.”

Me: “I mean, that’s great, but the problem is—”

Cashier: “Cool, cool.”

He doesn’t even look at the bike; he just starts wheeling it away.

Me: “Right, but—”

Cashier: “Look. The rack broke, yeah? We’ll take it off and replace it.”

He disappears into the back.

Me: “Oooookay.”

I go out and drink a leisurely coffee. Forty minutes later, I haven’t heard anything, so I go back to the shop and ring the bell on the counter. A different person, I assume the bike mech, emerges from the back, wiping her hands on a rag.

Me: “Uh, hi. I’m here to pick up my bike. It’s a blue Kona?”

Her eyebrows go up.

Mech: “Oh, that was you, huh?”

Me: “Um. Yes. Trouble?”

Mech: “Well, we’re having a little more difficulty than we’d first thought.”

She shoots a look towards the back, where I assume the cashier is hiding.

Mech: “Can I ask, how did you shear off the screws holding the rack to the frame?”

Me: “I swear, I don’t know. I was waiting for a ferry and I just heard a ‘ping!’ sound and the screw heads had come clean off. If it was something I could fix myself, I would have just exchanged the rack and reinstalled it, but I don’t have the tools to get the broken screws out of the holes. I tried to tell the guy, but he wouldn’t listen and said you folks could replace it in twenty minutes.”

The mech pinches the bridge of her nose and lets out a long sigh.

Me: “I don’t want to be a pain, but how much longer is this going to take? I can come back tomorrow…”

Mech: “That’d probably be best. Sorry about [Cashier]; he’s the owner’s son and thinks he knows everything. I hate to say this, but if you’ve got a boyfriend or a brother or something, if they bring it in, they’ll have better luck getting him to actually pay attention.”

Me: “My husband hasn’t ridden a bike since he was twelve years old. He wouldn’t have to first clue what to say without a script.”

The mech heaved another sigh, scribbled something down on a piece of paper, and slid it over to me. It was a note that said, “My girlfriend works here; they’re much better,” with the address of another shop. I’ve gone there ever since and never encountered any problems.

This story is part of our Best Of November 2020 roundup!

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