When my dad was about eighteen, he worked for a gardening center in Chicago. Every night, my dad’s job was to close up and walk the money from the registers to the owner’s house.

One night, right before closing, a guy came in and pulled a gun out, demanding all the money in the register. Dad was the only one there, so with a gun in his face, he opened the register and gave the guy like $60. The dude obviously took the cash and ran off, and Dad, being the calm guy he is, just shook it off and locked up.

He still had to go to the owner’s house, so he did, and he explained to the owner that they had been robbed.

Owner: *Worried* “How much money did we lose?”

Dad: “It was about $60.”

The owner was pretty relieved because, obviously, he expected to have had more money stolen.

Owner: “That’s all we made today?”

Dad: “No! Here’s your $3,000.”

Since Dad’s job was to walk the money to the owner’s house every night, he had already cleared out most of the register and put the money in his jacket pocket, only leaving some extra cash in the register in case someone came in last minute and he needed change. So, Dad stood there with a gun pointed at him and $3,000 hidden in his pocket and gave the guy with the gun $60 because he asked for the money in the register.

My apartment has a very old, creaky elevator with a telephone inside. One day, I’m coming home with a load of groceries when, unexpectedly, the telephone begins to ring. Mystified, I answer it.

It’s a telemarketer. He would like to know if I’m satisfied with my current telephone service provider.

Me: “I, uh… How did you get this number?”

Telemarketer: “That’s not important right now. Are you satisfied with your current telephone provider?”

Me: “I just… I think you might have the wrong number.”

Telemarketer: “Why?”

Me: “…This is an emergency telephone. In an elevator. I think, if you wanted to talk to anyone, it’d be the landlord.”

Telemarketer: “It’s a… what?”

Me: “An emergency telephone. In an elevator.”

Telemarketer: “Oh.”

Me: “Yes.”

Telemarketer: “…”

Me: “…”

Telemarketer: “…Are you sure?”

Me: “…Yes.”

Telemarketer: “Oh.”

Me: “…”

Telemarketer: “…”

The slow elevator finally reached my floor, and the bell dinged.

Me: “Uh, this is my floor, so I’ve got to go.”

Telemarketer: “Oh.”

Me: “…”

Telemarketer: “…”

Me: “Uh… bye.”

And I hung up the phone and left because, well, as fascinating as it was listening to a telemarketer quietly hyperventilate, it was my floor, and I needed to get my groceries home.

We bought an entire set of cabinets (kitchen, three bathrooms, and family room) from a big box home improvement store. At every step of the way, they messed it up. The kitchen measurements were wrong, but I caught that before the order. The boxes all arrived, and their inspector just peeked in but didn’t really open the boxes. At that point, we gave the okay to our guy to do the demolition.

A week later, the carpenters came in, installed a few cabinets (not the ones needed to put sinks back), and discovered that five were broken. They got offended and left, even though I begged them to install the unbroken ones.

We had to wait three more weeks for new ones. All that time, there were no sinks anywhere, so my family was staying in a hotel.

I was pretty steamed, but I documented everything with diagrams, dates, and photos, and went into the store. I calmly explained to the top manager what had happened. I said it had been rough and was unnecessary. If the inspector had found the broken ones, we could have reordered them before the demolition.

I asked what could he do for us, and he took $7,000 (this is in the US, back in 2006) off the price — almost the entire price.

And that is how you complain.

I work at a mechanic’s shop attached to a gas station. The gas station part is tiny: a cashier’s counter with some snacks and candy bars under it, and a single drinks cooler. I’m getting ready to go to lunch when I see a young woman come in, scan the bottom shelf where car supplies would usually be, and then go back out to her car with the hood popped. I don’t have anything going on right now, so I decide to see if she needs a hand.

Me: “What were you looking for?”

Driver: “Huh? Oh, coolant. I’m not too low, but I was hoping to pick some up so I could top it off. It’s fine; I’ll make it to the next gas station.”

I check her coolant tank, and her assessment’s correct. It’s pretty close to the “low” line but not worrying yet. No reason to let it get there, though.

Me: “I think I have an open jug that’ll work for this model. Let me check.”

Driver: “Are you sure? That’s not necessary; I can wait.”

Me: “You probably could, but no reason to. I’ll be right back.”

Driver: “I— Are you sure? Thank you!”

I find the right type of coolant and top off her tank. As I finish, she’s rummaging in the back seat, and she pulls out a plate of gorgeous-looking cookies and sweets.

Driver: “Can I offer you a few cookies as a thank-you, at least?”

Me: “That, I’ll happily accept! What would you recommend?”

At her recommendation, I picked out a couple made with cherries and almonds and one with chestnuts and rum. My hands were still covered in coolant and engine grease, so she wrapped them in a paper towel for me, and we both happily went on our way. The cookies made an awesome addition to lunch. 

Related:
And That’s How The Kindness Cookie Crumbles
And That’s How The CEO Cookie Crumbles
And That’s How The Stolen Cookie Crumbles
And That’s How The Ninth Cookie Crumbles
And That’s How The Cookie Infuriatingly Crumbles

My partner is mildly allergic to cats, and both of us travel too frequently to have a dog. I get it, but I miss having pets, so when one of my friends says in the shared group chat that she’s found a stray kitten who needs a permanent home, and my partner says he’s willing to meet the kitten, I’m delighted. I don’t go with him to the first meeting because I don’t want to push him into a pet he doesn’t want, but I shouldn’t have worried; he’s swept away by kitten cuteness, and even better, the kitten turns out to be at least partially a low-allergy breed, so my partner doesn’t get more than a slightly stuffy nose.

I’m so delighted to be getting a cat that I’m more than happy to let my partner pick out a name. He could name the little furball Beef-And-Cheese-Combo, and I’d still just be excited to be getting a pet! Being my partner, however, he spends a solid week picking out a deeply symbolic name in archaic Sanskrit, meaning “Zen” and “the root of all wisdom”. It’s a bit big a name for a very small kitten, but who cares? We’re getting a cat!

We’re a few months into blissfully being owned by a (now very pampered) cat when we go over to my cousin’s for dinner one night. My cousin mentioned that he and his wife had recently gotten a cat, too, and we very quickly meet her: a beautiful long-haired princess who comes to greet us at the door.

Partner: *Happily petting her* “Awww, what a sweet girl! She’s getting along okay with your dog, then?”

Cousin: “Yep, they’re friends. I think he scared her a little at first, but one hiss, and he backed off, and they’ve been getting along great since then.”

Partner: “What’s her name?”

Cousin’s Wife: “Garby.”

Me: “Like Greta Garbo, with that thick fur coat?”

Cousin: “Nope, short for Garbage. We found her living in the dumpster, so we named her Garbage.”

Noticing my incredulous expression, his wife explains further.

Cousin’s Wife: “We tried coming up with something a little classier, but we couldn’t find anything we both agreed on. And by then, she was already responding to ‘Garbage Kitten’, so we just went with Garby.”

Partner: “…”

I had to chuckle, while my partner laughingly explained how much thought he’d put into naming our fluffy little hellion. Both strays found their forever homes — but with two very different approaches to pet naming! Neither cat seems to mind, as long as we keep the treats coming.