(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.)

(I live a couple minutes away from a locally-owned fast food joint. They’re somewhat renowned for subpar service, but the food is pretty good, so my husband and I put up with it. Since we’re both picky eaters, I’m obsessive about double-checking our order. I pull up to the drive-thru and order our usual.)

Me: “Hi. I’d like a number one, plain, with cheese, and a chocolate malt. And another number one, pickles only, no cheese, and a [soda].”

(The employee reads the order back perfectly, mirroring the correct order I see on the screen. I pull up to the window, pay, and check the order on the receipt. Everything is definitely correct. I get our food and drive home. We open our burgers, and neither is correct. His has cheese but tons of veggies — easy enough to fix. Mine, however, is dripping with even more mayo and ketchup than they typically use on burgers. I take mine back and run inside the restaurant, since the drive-thru is now packed.)

Me: *presents the burger and receipt* “Hi! I just went through the drive-thru, and when I got home I realized neither burger matched the receipt. One was salvageable, but I need this one replaced. Can I get a plain number one burger with pickles only?”

Employee: *starts punching buttons on register* “Okay, so just one burger with pickles…”

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m not going to pay for a new burger. I just need you to give me the burger I paid for in the first place.”

(The employee looks panicked, then runs over and whispers to a manager, who I recognize as the one who handed me my order at the drive-thru.)

Manager: “So, you want us to give you a free burger? You couldn’t eat this one?” *opens burger wrapper and waves the soggy burger at me*

Me: “I’m really sorry; I just can’t eat a burger dripping with sauces I hate. Can I just get the burger that’s listed here on the receipt?”

(The manager snatches the receipt out of my hand, and stomps back to kitchen. She returns a couple minutes later, and smirks at me as she hands me a bag.)

Manager: “There, one plain burger with pickles.”

(She literally ran back into the kitchen as I tried to thank her. I was really worried that someone had spit on my burger, but being pregnant, starving, and grateful that my burger was indeed completely covered in pickles, I decided it was a risk worth taking!)

(My mother had gestational diabetes when she was pregnant with me and my older brother. It is basically a form of diabetes that only affects pregnant women if their bodies cannot produce enough insulin due to the pregnancy. She needed to use insulin and a meter to manage her blood sugar. While she is getting used to the meter and insulin, an old friend wants to go out for lunch together to catch up. By this point in her pregnancy she is visibly pregnant, and this is the first time my mother needs to take her insulin with her in public. They go to a local family-owned diner and catch up. My mother checks her blood sugar while her friend steps out to go to the bathroom. She decides she needs insulin and takes the needle out of her purse, when suddenly:)

Waitress: *snatches needle and throws it on the floor* “What do you think you’re doing?! YOU. ARE. A. MOTHER. Don’t you care about your child? Don’t you have any shame, you junkie piece of s***?”

(My mother is speechless. Some other patrons notice the commotion and start watching.)

Mom: “I’m not an addict; this is my insulin. I’m diabetic, and I need it because—”

(Suddenly a man appears. He seems to be a manager.)

Manager: “[Waitress], don’t bother. She’s diabetic. So she isn’t pregnant, she’s just obese.”

(By this point my mom was panicking. She needed her insulin, everyone was staring, and the waitress and manager were hurling insults at her. Fortunately, her friend came out of the bathroom and saw my mother crying. After shooting the waitress and manager a dirty look, she went over to the table, took my mother’s hand, and led her out of the restaurant. My mother’s friend refused to pay the restaurant anything and helped my mother prepare another shot in the car before they went home. My mother was so embarrassed that she didn’t want to talk about what happened to anyone. She didn’t even tell my dad until years later. My family moved to a different town after my brother was born, so we don’t know if anything happened to the diner or its staff.)

(I’ve recently joined a book club, and last month a book I needed was checked out of the library, so I had to purchase it. As soon as I find out the book for this month, I use the library’s website to place a hold on the book so I can pick it up before someone else checks it out. I get to the library two days later — the hold is still valid — and don’t see my book on the shelf with the other held items. I go and talk to a library aide.)

Me: “Excuse me. I placed a hold on a book, and I don’t see it on the hold shelves.”

Aide: “Oh, the book might not be here yet.”

Me: “I don’t understand; I checked the library website and it said you had one in stock.”

Aide: “We might, but that might not be the one the computer is using for the hold.”

Me: “I’m not understanding.”

Aide: “When a hold is requested, the computer picks a random library for the book to come from. It might not be from this library.” *checks the computer* “Yeah, it looks like your book is coming from [town 45 minutes away].”

Me: “But you have the book here.”

Aide: “Yes, but your book is coming from the other library.”

Me: “Okay… Can I just check out the one you have here, then, and cancel my other hold?”

(Luckily, I was able to do that. It seems like a really poor system for a library group.)

As a young assistant, I had many jobs within a recording studio. One was cleaning the bathroom. Our bathroom was in the back of the studio, down the stairs in the dingy basement.

One morning I arrived to the screaming of the mixer, demanding I go downstairs and scrub the bathroom. Good assistant that I am, I ran to the store and bought every cleaning supply that I could carry, and proceeded to clean the bathroom: Comet in the sinks, Pine Sol on the floors, bleach in the toilet.

I was scrubbing and rinsing and mopping, and I heard through the studio speakers that I was needed in the control room. I left the half-finished job to align a tape machine, and then I was requested to do a messenger run.  

It was about midday by then and I returned to the office. Everyone was looking at me like I was a dead man walking. Finally, someone got enough nerve to tell me that the mixer was looking for me and that they’d never heard him this angry. I ran to the studio, and as I walked in, he was standing in front of the console crying, and screamed, “IF I COULD RUN, I WOULD KILL YOU WITH MY OWN TWO HANDS!”

Well, I had never finished cleaning the bathroom. This engineer decided to take a toilet break, sat on the toilet, and opened his newspaper. As he urinated, smoke started rising from inside the toilet and through his legs. I never flushed the bleach in the toilet; ammonia and bleach create chlorine gas, which burned his skin from the top of his bum to just above the back of his knees. He couldn’t sit for two weeks, which is tough for a recording engineer.

I somehow held onto my job. I guess the chief engineer thought it was funny.