(The opening self-checkout shift starts at 6:45AM, 15 minutes before the store is open. Usually, I work closing shifts on the self-checkout, so compared to some of the other workers when I open the self-checkout I’m a little slower. This morning, I came in to find the self-checkouts were malfunctioning, so I found other things to do until the tech came around to repair them. He finishes at around 10:25ish and I retrieve their money from the cash office. At the regular registers, a rush begins as I proceed to roll out a cart of a few thousand dollars in cash to begin my opening procedure. A customer walks up to me.)

Customer: “Are these open?”

Me: (stopping working so I can keep all the money within my sights while he’s near) “No sir. We’ve had some technical difficulties. I’m just working on that now.”

Customer: “How long will that take?”

Me: “I usually take around a half hour, sir.”

Customer: “Well, when will they be open?”

Me: “In about a half hour.”

Customer: “Well, how many do you have left?”

Me: “All of them, so it’s going to be a half hour.”

Customer: “Well, can I use them?”

Me: “No sir, not for another half hour.”

Customer: “Can I use them when you’re done?”

Me: “If you’re willing to wait for a half hour, but getting in line over at the cashiers will be quicker.”

Customer: “But how long will you take?”

Apparently there is this couple that frequently meet up at the hotel for some ‘quality’ time together.  I had never seen them before, but after checking one of them out, Brandy mentioned to me how much she dislikes them.  Apparently they make-out in the parking lot for a lengthily period before finally coming into the hotel.  They’ve even done it in the lobby.  Apparently their time at the hotel is no secret, as the woman’s children have visited on at least one occasion.  She lives in Parksville and her boyfriend lives in Nanaimo.
Anyway, so two Tuesdays ago, I was alone on the front desk.  I had picked up the phone to take a reservation, and this woman appeared.  I put the call on hold and asked how I could help her.  She said that she had stayed in room 233 a few days ago and left behind a plastic bag.  Could I check to see if we had it?  First, I checked the lost and found book to see if anything was recorded.  There was something recorded for 223, but not 233, and it was NOT the kind of thing that I wanted to present to her if it was the wrong room.  I went back to the front and told her that I just wanted to confirm which room she was in.  Yup.  She was in room 223.  The “Grown-Up “Toys”” were hers.  I didn’t want to just hand them to her (again, very embarrassed), so I managed to find another plastic bag so that I could double bag it, making the contents more obscure.  I came around from the back, handed her the bag, and then apologised, as I really needed to get back to the folks on hold.
Sadly, she did not leave while I took the reservation. She opened the bag and checked out the contents and then lingered at the desk.  I finished up the call and then went back to her.

It is late, and I am working alone at the front desk of a family hotel. The phone rang just as a regular guest appeared in the lobby. She and her partner’s weekly rendezvous were notorious among the staff, as they often made out in the parking lot, lobby and elevator before getting to their room, and then usually soiled the linens very badly during their stay. I answered the phone and asked the caller to hold for a moment.

Me: “Good evening. How can I help you?”
Regular guest: “Hi. I stayed in room 223 a few days ago and left behind a plastic bag. Could you see if it was turned into the lost and found?”
Me: “Sure. I’ll just check in the back.”

I start by checking the lost and found log book to see if anything had been recorded as found. Sure enough, there was an entry for room 223 from day she stayed with “Grown-Up Toys” listed as the items found. Because of the nature of the items, I double checked the computer to ensure that she had been the last guest in the room before the items were found. Once that was confirmed, I fished around in the lost and found bin, found a plastic bag containing the items, double bagged it to make it somewhat more obscure, came back to the desk and handed her the bag.

Me (embarrassed): “Looks like the housekeepers found something in your room. Here you go. Sorry, but I really need to get back to the call on hold.”

I reconnected with the caller. The regular checked the contents of the bag and then lingered at the desk while I made a reservation for the caller. Once I was finished the call, I came back to the regular.

Me: “So, is everything all right?”
Regular guest: “This is really embarrassing… I’m so embarrassed, but… was anything else left behind?”
Me: “Uh… I can check, but I don’t think so.  Maybe if you could tell me what is missing…”
Regular guest: “This is so embarrassing.  I left behind our ‘naughty bag’.  There are two vibrators missing.  They’re work about $300.”

I double checked the log bin, the housekeeping sheets and went through the entire lost and found bin for the month. No additional sex toys were to be found. I came back up front.

Me: “Well, it doesn’t look like they were found in the room.  I can check with the housekeeper that turned in these items to see if she remembers anything else.  There is a slim possibility that if they were in a plastic shopping bag, they may have been thrown out, but I doubt it. The girls are extra careful. Let me get your phone number so we can call you if anything turns up.”

After she left, I called the housekeepers and the manager. I would have double checked the guest room, too, just in case the housekeepers had missed the items, but it had already been rented for the night. After a thorough investigation, the regular guest got in touch with our manager at which point she accused the housekeepers of STEALING HER USED SEX TOYS. I’m guessing she must have eventually found them in her own stuff because within a few weeks, she and her partner were back again. They kept coming several times a month until the man’s wife figured it out and demanded to know what room her husband was in, as she could plainly see his car in the lot. The front desk agent on duty wisely refused to disclose the information, but the man left very quickly after his wife did, and we never saw him at the hotel again. I later ran into the regulars on the ferry one day and was not surprised to hear that they had married!

(I’m standing in line to buy a gift card from the ticket counter at a movie theater. There is only an older lady in front of me, while the cashier is serving another customer, as all the other patrons are using the ticket machines nearby. The lady, thinking to find a kindred soul, looks at me with a frown.)

Customer: “Ugh, machines. Nowadays everything has to be with machines!”

Me: “Well, they’re really practical for—”

Customer: “No! I don’t like using them!”

Me: “But they’re practical—”

Customer: “No!” *grumbles some more*

Me: “They’re practical for the people who can use them.”

(It’s her turn to the counter then, and I hear her grumble to the cashier. It takes some time, but eventually it’s my turn. While I wait for him to process the transaction, I comment on the old lady.)

Me: “It’s such a great thing that there are still people we can talk to!”

Cashier: “Yeah, I’ve been working in retail for a long time. I don’t question things anymore.”

Me: “I don’t think she realizes that she’d have to wait much longer if there weren’t machines.”

(My husband, daughters, and I are preparing to leave for our first trip to Disney World, so we’re all very excited. I have a somewhat unusual name. For clarity’s sake, let’s say that my full legal name is “Penelope Piggott-Montmorency,” but I always go by “Penny.” We’re Canadian, so we need passports to fly.)

Employee: *checking my boarding pass and passport* “Did you know that your boarding pass says, ‘Penny,’ but your passport says, ‘Penelope’?”

Me: “Oh, I always go by ‘Penny,’ so that’s what I put when I was booking our flights. Is that a problem?”

Employee: “Um, yes. Don’t you remember the airline website telling you that you have to use the same name as the one on your passport?”

Me: “Oh, boy, you’re right. I totally forgot.”

Employee: *continues to hang on to my documents* “I’m thinking seriously about not letting you get on the plane.”

Me: “What?!” *my kids start to cry* “But we’re going to Disney World! Is there anything I can do? I didn’t mean to use the wrong name! And you can see that the photo in the passport is definitely me.”

Employee: *smirks* “Rules are there for a reason, ma’am.”

(Just then, another airport employee joins us.)

Employee #2: “What’s the problem here?”

Employee: “She’s trying to board with a boarding pass that has a different name from her passport.”

Employee #2: *glances at documents* “You must be kidding. How many ‘Penny/Penelope Piggott-Montmorencys’ do you think the world has? Especially ones whose pictures match the woman standing in front of you? Let her and her family on the d*** plane.” *to me* “Enjoy your trip, ma’am. But next time, make sure you book your flight with the name ‘Penelope,’ just to avoid this kind of hassle again.” *glares at colleague*

(Ever since then, I’ve used my full legal name every time I fly, even when it’s domestic.)

(This takes place shortly after my 19th birthday. I want to get a tattoo, much to my parents’ dislike, but since I am an adult now, they relent and my father goes with me as I get it done. I get a Gallifreyan circle — from Doctor Who — on my left forearm. It comes out really nice and I love it. However, a few months later, when it is fully healed, I develop some little red bumps over the tattoo and the skin is very itchy. I think it’s a rash, but it doesn’t look serious. I go to my family doctor to check it out, since I rarely get rashes at all. For context, my doctor is originally from Germany, and she has a thick accent. She also doesn’t have any sense of humor and is really blunt, which makes it hard to talk to her sometimes. I go in for my appointment and show her my arm.)

Me: “I think I have a rash on my arm, but I don’t know how I got it. I don’t have allergies to anything, so I’m not sure what triggered it.”

Doctor: “When did you get the tattoo?”

Me: “In May, a few months ago.”

(It’s August now.)

Doctor: *cutting me off* “You’re allergic to tattoo ink. No more tattoos.”

Me: *thinking* “If I’m allergic to the ink, wouldn’t I have had a reaction immediately?” *out loud* “Are you sure? It’s been a good amount of time since I got it, and I didn’t have a reaction when it was healing.”

Doctor: “You’re allergic to tattoo ink. You can’t get any more tattoos. You’re lucky you came in now; it could have developed into something worse. “

Me: “If I got this rash right after getting the tattoo, I would agree with you. But it’s been about three months, and it’s fully healed. Is there any possibility it could be something else?”

Doctor: “You’re not listening to me. You. Are. Allergic. To. The. Ink. Do not get any more tattoos. And don’t get any more piercings, either.”

(I only have my ears and nose pierced, but I don’t know why that mattered since they also healed fine. I was skeptical, but didn’t push it further. She prescribed a rash cream and said to use it until it clears up, or come back to see her if it doesn’t. I decided to call the tattoo shop I went to to ask them about it, which I now know I should have done in the first place! They told me not to worry, since it was fully healed, and it wasn’t a typical allergic reaction, especially months later. I used the cream and the rash was completely gone about a week later. I now have four tattoos, and have never developed another rash. Allergic, indeed!)