I have the last appointment of the day with my optometrist. After the exam, I let her know I would like to get new glasses since it’s been a few years (I wear contacts most of the time).

Doctor: “Go ahead and start looking at frames. I just need to finish putting this information into the computer, and I’ll be out in a minute to help you pick some out. I know how much trouble you have finding frames you like.”

I leave the exam room and go to the reception room to start browsing frames. A couple, a man and a woman, are in front of the display cases, trying on various frames. I assume they were the previous patients, and they’re just taking a really long time to find frames (I can relate). The area is really small, so I just hang back, waiting for them to finish up, since there isn’t room for me to shove my way in there. The doctor comes out of the exam room and looks surprised to see me just standing there.

Doctor: “Did you already find frames? That was fast!”

Me: “Oh, no, I was just waiting.” *Gestures to couple.*

Doctor: *Does a double-take and walks over to them.* “Can I help you?”

Man: “Oh, no, we’re just browsing, thank you.”

Doctor: “You’ll need to make an appointment to get glasses. Would you like my receptionist to help you with checking your insurance and booking a time?”

Woman: “We already have prescriptions; we just wanted to see what kind of frames you offer.”

The doctor looks at me a bit helplessly, and I just half-shrug. I’m more amused than anything else. I’ve worn glasses for almost forty years at this point, and it never occurred to me that I could just wander into random optometry offices to browse frames.

Doctor: “You’ll still need an appointment for me to fit your frames.”

Woman: “I know. We just don’t even know if we want to buy our frames from you yet. That’s why we’re looking.”

My doctor unceremoniously shoves her way in between them and starts pulling out frames and handing them to me.

Doctor: “Here, try these on [My Name].”

I did find a pair I liked, and she was able to get everything she needed from me. When I left about half an hour later, the couple was still browsing. I have no idea why it was taking them so long, since she only stocks a few dozen frames. I really hope she was able to get them out so she could close on time!

Years ago, the greeting card store I worked at got a vandal. Thirty-something, thin, twitchy. He’d come in once a week and go down the aisles, tearing the top edges of apparently random cards. It took several weeks and hundreds of dollars in damaged stock to realize who was doing it. But even then, this was long before security cameras, so we couldn’t prove it. So, no point in calling the police.

My genius manager came up with a solution: whoever first saw him come in was assigned to stand at the end of whatever aisle he was in and silently stare at him.

The next week, here he came, and I got to be the watcher. He was so slick; it would look like he was just reading the cards, but when he put one back, somehow there was a little tear in the edge. But then he saw me. And fumbled. And got REAL nervous. And in just a few minutes, he left. Total damage, maybe three or four cards.

The next day, our manager got a phone call. Our vandal, it turned out, lived in a group home for mentally disabled vets, and he had reported us to his case manager for scaring him.

Our manager explained what he’d been doing and how much it had cost us, and in a moment, hung up laughing. The caseworker had said, “Oh. I guess he isn’t ready to go shopping by himself after all.”

I worked admissions for a popular tourist attraction in Hollywood. A guest hands me a coupon: $8 OFF PER TICKET.

Me: “Your total is $44.”

Guest: “You forgot to include the coupon.”

Me: “I included the coupon. Ticket is $30—” *I point to the sign next to me.* “—so for the two of you that’s sixty, minus eight, and minus eight again is $44.”

Guest: “Did you include the coupon?”

Me: “I included the coupon. $30 per ticket. Two tickets are sixty dollars, minus $8, and minus $8 is $44.”

Guest: “Sixteen.”

Me: “Right. I took sixteen off.”

Guest: “No, ticket price is sixteen dollars.”

Me: “No, it’s $22 with the coupon.”

Guest: “How much is the regular ticket price?”

Me: “$30.”

Guest: “Coupon is for how much?”

Me: “Eight dollars off.”

Guest: “Right. So that brings the price down to sixteen.”

Me: “Um… no, it doesn’t.”

Guest: “Thirty dollars minus eight dollars, right?”

Me: “Yes.”

Guest: “Sixteen.”

Me: “No. $22.”

Guest: “Forget it. What’s my total?”

Me: “$44.”

Guest: “Did you include the coupon this time?”

Me: “Yes.”

Guest: “How does it come to $44?”

Me: “Ticket price is $30. You gave me a coupon for eight dollars off, which brings the price down to twen—”

Guest: “—Sixteen.”

Me: “—TWENTY-TWO. There are two of you. Two tickets come to $44.”

Guest: “Did you include the coupon?”

Me: “Yes.”

Guest: “How much is the ticket?”

Me: “$30.”

Guest: “What about the coupon?”

Me: “Coupon brings it down to $22.”

Guest: “Not $16?”

Me: “Not $16.”

Guest: “Why not $16?”

Me: “Because that’s not what math is!”

Guest: “Are you sure?”

I pulled out a piece of paper and drew thirty little lines, crossed out eight, and asked him to count.

I had picked up a friend, and we were on our way to another friend’s house for a day of playing assorted board games. Neither of us had had lunch, so we decided to stop at a popular sandwich place that specializes in subs to grab something.

We get in, it’s a little crowded, no big. I let my friend go first, and then I order mine.

Me: “Foot long pastrami, easy on the mayo, extra mustard, and that’s it.”

Worker: “Just meat and condiments?”

Me: “Yup. Oh, toasted, please.”

So he is fixing my sandwich. He pulls it out of the toaster oven, then goes to put the condiments on.

Me: “Easy on the mayo, heavy on the mustard.”

Worker: “Sure thing—”

As he squeezes the mustard bottle, the cap pops off, and a bottle of mustard is now coating my sandwich. The two workers are staring at it in horror. My friend and the people in line behind me are staring. Then I start laughing.

Me: “Well, I said extra mustard, and it looked like the bottle wanted to oblige! That’s a little bit much, though. Can we scrape some off?”

Woman Behind Me: “Oh, thank God, I thought you were about to go nuclear.”

Me: “Nah, it was an accident. And it was a funny accident that they can fix easily, so it’s no big deal. I used to work in food service. It sucked. You get blamed for things that aren’t your fault. I’m not doing that over some spilled mustard.”

They fixed my sandwich and then gave me a free cookie for being so chill about the entire thing. So, a pastrami sandwich and a cookie! Win for me!

CORRECTION: A typo in the story title has been corrected.

I used to work for a winery in California back in 2004-2006. Our 800 number was very similar to both the State of Connecticut tax division and Dell Canada’s French tech support. We’d occasionally get people who misdialed asking about their tax forms or angry Quebec residents screaming in French, but it was really no big deal. We figured it out, laughed about it, found the right numbers, and would give them to people when they called. Most people would laugh, apologize, and that was that.

One year, we started getting a LOT of calls for the Connecticut tax division. I got concerned when one person said that they received a tax form, and our number was listed on the form. I looked, and sure enough, someone in the tax office had put our 800 on the form. We called the tax office, but they were basically “oh well,” so we just kept referring people to the right number. Again, most were cool… until the old man called.

I answered the phone:

Me: “Thank you for calling [Winery], how can I help you?”

Caller: “I need help filling out this tax form.”

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. You want the Connecticut tax office. You’ve called a winery in California.”

Caller: “Okay, so transfer me.”

Me: “Sir, I can’t transfer you. I’m at [Winery] in California.”

Caller: “I don’t care if you’re on vacation! Transfer me to someone else!”

Me: “No, sir, you called [Winery] in California, not the tax office.”

Caller: “Yeah.”

Me: “So, I can give you the right number.”

Caller: “Just transfer me.”

Me: “Sir, I can’t…”

Caller: “I’m tired of this! I want to talk to a supervisor!”

Me: “Sir, again, we are not the tax office! We are Our Winery in California! The tax office printed our number in error on their forms. I can give you their number, but no one here can help you because we are a winery, not the tax office.”

Caller: “Okay.”

Me: “Okay… so you’d like that number?”

Caller: “And then you’ll transfer me?”

It went on like that for five more minutes until he finally realized what I was saying. He did apologize for wasting my time, said he’d call us back to order wine, and hung up. The next year, Connecticut printed the right number on its tax forms, and we rarely got any calls after that.