(I am working as a server at an all-day grill.)

Customer: “Excuse me? What’s a grilled cheese sandwich?”

Me: *trying to remain in server mode* “It’s a sandwich… with cheese… which is grilled.” *unable to keep up the server routine* “Seriously, dude. It’s the most descriptive name a food has ever been given.”

(I later bring out the food.)

Customer: “Are these hashbrowns?”

Me: “Yes…?”

Customer: “They look like potatoes!”

Me: “Um… Sometimes things look like what they’re made out of?”

(I’m shopping for a dress shirt for graduation. We buy a shirt, but when we open up the package at home, we find out that the sleeves are ridiculously long on me, so we go to return it. We are greeted by the same employee who helped us in purchasing it.)

Employee #1: “Is something wrong?”

Mom: “It doesn’t fit.”

Employee #1: *perplexed look* “What do you mean?”

Mom: “The sleeves are way too long.”

(The employee measures the length of my arms, which are the same as what the package says.)

Employee #1: “It should be right. Why don’t you try it on?”

(I put the shirt on, and the sleeves are way too long.)

Employee #1: *really confused* “Oh, no, that’s definitely not right.”

(He takes the shirt to another employee and measure the sleeves on it, which are a good six inches longer than labelled, and they take the shirt to the back.)

Employee #1: “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Employee #2: “Me, neither!”

Employee #1: “Hey, [Employee #3]! Check out the shirt [Employee #2] has! It’s a 39-inch arm length! It was labelled as 33 inches.”

Employee #3: “Really?!”

Employee #1: “Yeah! I didn’t even know we carried those.”

Employee #3: “We don’t!”

(The staff’s interest and confusion with this shirt were quite entertaining!)

(My husband and I are on the bus today, heading home from the nearby train station. I have a mobility issue and use a cane, so we sit in the two front handicapped seats. Our driver is clearly training, so there is a supervisor with her. As we approach a stop, we see another bus pulled off to the side, with three police cars and the passengers standing at the side of the road. Our bus stops, the supervisor gets off, and passengers pile on. It’s a small bus, so it fills right up. No big deal. The supervisor is talking to the police officers and the driver is waiting for him. Then, from behind me I hear a woman.)

Passenger: “Let’s gooooo! Why aren’t we mooooving?!”

Driver: *very nicely* “We have to wait for the other staff member to get back on. He’s just talking to the police.”

(My husband and I start chatting with the driver. I tell her the route is normally “very tame” and this stuff never happens. This is her first time driving this route. Less than one minute later, the same woman starts again:)

Passenger: “It’s taken an hour to come from [Street]! I have an appointment! YOU JUST CAN’T TRUST TRANSIT!” 

(We’re actually ON the Avenue she’s talking about, so I don’t entirely understand what she’s saying, but I say nothing. I’m already peeved, thinking I’m going to have to listen to this entitled woman for however long we sit here, but I say nothing. Sixty seconds later she starts again:)

Passenger: “Why can’t we leave him here with the cops and go! I HAVE AN APPOINTMENT!”

(And this is when I get… testy.)

Me: “We can’t go because we’re waiting for the supervisor to get back on the bus! That’s why we can’t leave!”

Passenger: “Well, there’s no need to be snippy about it! I have to—”

Me: “We’re all in the same position as you so there’s no point in complaining about something that’s completely beyond your control.”

(The mouthy woman shuts up and we sit in silence. Less than one minute later, the supervisor comes back on the bus. It turns out that another passenger on the stopped bus punched a woman sitting in the front — handicapped — seat and the supervisor was a witness and had to talk to the officers. The offending passenger was arrested. There are sounds of surprise from the people on the bus as the supervisor explains.)

Passenger: “Well, I didn’t know!” 

Me: “You were on that bus! Maybe if you’d shut your mouth you’d know.” 

(I’m standing in line behind a small girl and her parents. I’m Caucasian while they are of a much darker ethnicity, but this isn’t uncommon as my city is quite diverse.)

Little Girl: *looks over at me shocked* “What’s wrong with your hair?!”

Me: *panicked* “Wh-what’s wrong with it?”

Little Girl: “Why’s it such a weird colour?”

(I’m blonde, and this isn’t weird for my area at all, but I laugh realizing this little girl might not have a lot of exposure to blonde hair as some ethnic groups keep to themselves. The parents are flustered at their outspoken child.)

Me: *laughing* “It’s okay. I was born with it like this.”

Little Girl: “Oh…” *pauses, thinking for a moment, then tugs at me to whisper* “I like your hair. It’s really pretty!”

Me: *heart melting, whispers back* “I like yours, too! You’re awesome!”

(Kids are awesome.)

Caller: “I need copies of my statements! I need them right away. How do I access them?”

Me: “Are you set up to receive your statements electronically, sir?”

Caller: “Yes, I am. Since November of 2015, I think it was.”

Me: “Then you’re already receiving your statements by email as a PDF attachment.”

Caller: “I get my statements, I look at them, and then I move them to the trash folder. Then, my trash folder empties. I need the statements for my taxes!”

Me: “…”