In the Catholic church, before a child can receive the first communion, they are expected to take part in the “Sacrament of Penance”, aka confession. My sister, being a precocious and bookish child, naturally did her homework first, and when she arrived at the confessional she was ready.

Sister: “Bless me, oh, father, for I have sinned. I have committed adultery, coveted my neighbor’s ox, taken the Lord’s name in vain, and—”

She heard an angry voice from the other side of the confessional screen.

Voice: “What? Whose child are you?”

Sister: “Oh, I’m [Other Girl in her catechism class]”

She never, ever confessed to the lie, even though the blameless accused was spanked for disrespecting the confessional. The eighth circle of Hell is the one that is reserved for liars and frauds.

Back at a fairly new MSP (Managed Service Provider — basically IT) that I used to work for, we had a client who was a church. This church was a really good client; they were always reasonable with expectations, always paid their bill on time, and were overall pleasant to deal with.

We did some work for them and sent them an invoice. Later on, we got a call from them.

Me: “[MSP]; this is [My Name]. How can I help you?”

Church Employee: “I want to talk about the invoice for [service].”

I let the owner of the MSP take the call.

Owner: “Hi. What’s the issue with your invoice?”

The owner assumed they thought they’d been overcharged, double-billed, or something like that.

Church Employee: “The problem is the number on the invoice. It’s invoice #666. We’re not comfortable paying an invoice with that number. Could you cancel this invoice and reissue a new one for the same amount?”

We did that, and they paid it straight away. They stayed a client for as long as I was with that MSP.

I used to work at a regional fast food restaurant at the intersection of a very busy road and a side street with a church that couldn’t be seen from the busy road.

The church started to put up signs on our restaurant’s lot to try to direct people to them. When they did, the manager would have someone run out and throw the sign away. A few days later, the church would put up another sign advertising themselves, and again, the manager would have it taken down.

This happened a few more times, with the church’s signs getting bigger, until one day when we got a call.

Manager: “Hello, this is [Restaurant], [Manager] speaking.”

Pause.

Manager: “Oh, those signs? I threw them away.”

Pause.

Manager: “No. that belongs to [Restaurant]; it’s not public property.”

Pause.

Manager: “No, I talked with the owner. He did not give permission for those signs to be there. He told us to get rid of them if they appear.”

Pause.

Manager: “That’s your problem. You’ll have to find another way to attract people because the owner does not want any religious advertising on the property, and he does not want anyone to put signs there without going through him first.”

After that, the place no longer had any issues with unwanted signage.

This incident is especially funny because I am exactly the kind of person who is always mistaken for an employee. I guess I have that walk or whatever it is that people cue off of.

I’m an office manager at a church. I’m sitting at my desk doing my thing when a guy from our pest control company comes in.

Employee: “Hi, I’m [Employee] with [Pest Control Company]. I usually talk with… I can’t remember her name… the older woman who works in this office?”

Me: “Hi, [Employee]. I’m [My Name], the office manager. You probably spoke with me, actually—”

Employee: “No, it was a few months ago. The office lady was much older. She let me into the kitchen.”

Me: “Well, I can let you into the kitchen. That’s no problem. Here’s my card.”

I hand him my Office Manager business card.

Employee: “Gosh, I just can’t seem to remember her name. She works here in the office.”

Me: “Well, I work here in the office, so you’ll be stuck with me from now on!” *Fake midwestern laugh*

Employee: “I always deal with the office lady. Will she be in today?”

Me: “I’m in charge of the office, so I can take care of whatever—”

Employee: “No, I need to talk to the office lady, the one who works here.”

He points at my desk.

Me: “There’s no other office lady. The only other woman who works here is the minister.”

Employee: “But I always talk to the office lady — the older woman.”

Me: “I’m… Just leave your paperwork here. I’ll make sure it gets to the right place.”

Employee: “I’m supposed to leave it with staff.”

Me: “They pay me. I’m staff.”

Employee: “Oh, they pay volunteers?”

Me: “I… They… I’ll make sure the paperwork gets to the right place.”

Employee: “Is she your mom or something? Is that why you’re helping out?”

I… Guys, I swear it was me. I’ve been here for years. It’s my office. I’m the only one who works here. I’m the one who deals with vendors. I AM the “older woman” he talked to. But by the end of this, he honestly had me doubting it.

Eventually, he gave up and agreed to give me the paperwork “to give to her when she comes in” and went to spray for bugs.

I guess I’m officially an “old woman” but can pass as a younger version of myself with my mask on.

Back when I was almost fresh out of high school, I took part in an exchange program in the USA. My English was of the British variety, and in school, we didn’t learn slang, of course, so when it came to vulgar language, I was completely innocent.

The exchange program consisted of work and lots of church get-togethers. One late afternoon, a lady from church picked me up for an outing, but first, we went to get a drink at her place. I had already had a long day — I had worked on a farm and milking started at 5:30 am — so I was tired and my brain kept switching from Dutch to English.

Back in those days, fizzy drinks — sodas — were called “priklimonade” in Dutch, or “prik” for short. So, when that very proper church lady asked me what I wanted to drink, my fuzzy mind actually asked for…  a glass of “prik”.

It was about eight years later that I finally learned what that word meant in America.