(I have just moved into an apartment in Orlando. It’s a converted fisherman’s village by a lake, and each small building has three tiny apartments. After I finish all the paperwork, I ask the company who owns the building this.)

Me: “By the way, do you know what company provides Internet access to these apartments?”

Employee: “I believe that would be [Telcom #1].”

Me: “Great, thanks.”

(Later on, I go to [Telcom #1]’s storefront. I talk to a salesperson there and we start getting me signed up.)

Employee: “What’s your address?”

Me: “[Address].”

Employee: “I’m not seeing that. Where is that?”

Me: “It’s just down the road from here, about a mile or less.”

Employee: “And what was that again?”

Me: “[Address].”

Employee: “Yeah… That’s not on our service map. We just don’t have the infrastructure there to get you connected. Sorry. We can’t give you Internet.”

Me: “Oh, bummer. Sorry for wasting your time.”

(I leave. Using public Wi-Fi, I do a search for my new zip code and Internet providers and am given a list. I call a second telcom.)

Me: “Hi. I’m checking to see if you guys provide Internet connections to my address?” *gives address*

Telcom #2: “Hmm… Mo, I’m sorry, we’re not showing that on our service map.”

(This repeats for every single Internet provider and telephone company that provides service in my zip code. I call, they check my address, and nothing comes up. One or two of them even recommend I try [Telcom #1]. After I run out of new companies to call, I call the leasing office again.)

Me: “Hi. I recently moved into [Property] and I was wondering if you guys had any information on who provides Internet there?”

Lease Office Employee: “Sorry, we don’t. You would have to do a search for your zip code and call the local companies.”

Me: “Uh… okay, great. Thank you.”

(By this point, I’ve gotten friendly with my neighbors and I stop by when they’re hanging out outside one evening.)

Me: “Hey, I have a question. You guys have Internet, right?”

Neighbor: “Yeah, of course.”

Me: “Who’s your provider?”

Neighbor: “[Telcom #1].”

Me: “Are you serious?”

Neighbor: “Yeah.”

(He reaches into his apartment and picks up a bill off of a little mail table by the door. He opens it up and shows me.)

Neighbor: “They’ve been providing me Internet since I moved in here.”

Me: *with barely contained frustration* “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

(The next day is my day off, so I call [Telcom #1].)

Me: “Hi. I’m looking to set up an Internet connection at my address.” *gives address*

Telcom #1: “Let me look that up… No, I’m sorry, we don’t provide Internet to that location.”

Me: “Okay, but my neighbor says you do and he has Internet from you.”

Telcom #1: “I don’t know what to tell you. I’m looking at my service map right now and we don’t provide service to that area. We don’t have any infrastructure.”

Me: “I literally saw the bill with my own eyes. You are billing my neighbor for Internet and he lives in a building like twelve feet from mine.”

Telcom #1: “I really don’t know why that would be. We absolutely do not provide Internet to your address or any address in your neighborhood.”

(There’s a long pause as I try to think of some way to make sense of this.)

Telcom #1: “We provide DSL Internet, though.”

Me: *pause* “Beg pardon?”

Telcom #1: “We don’t provide Internet, but we provide DSL Internet.”

Me: “So… you don’t provide Internet… but you provide DSL Internet.”

Telcom #1: “Yeah. Why? Is that something you would be interested in?”

Me: “Yes, it would.”

(Fortunately, they eventually connected me to the DSL Internet… which was extremely different from the Internet.)

(My husband is on a business trip and my car is not working, and I’m uncomfortable walking the six miles into town with my infant daughter, so I’ve been having our nonperishable groceries delivered to the house. It’s near the holidays and deliveries are running behind, even more than I have allowed for. I call the store and get a rush put on the most important item, and they assure me it will arrive the next morning. Sure enough, the next morning I hear a knock at the door and go to answer.)

Delivery Worker: “Okay, sign here. Rush order, huh? Last-minute Christmas shopping?”

Me: “Actually, it’s formula for my baby. Thank you so much for getting this here so quickly! We were almost out!”

Delivery Worker: “You feed your kid formula? What is wrong with you?”

Me: “Uh… right. Well, I’ll just take that…”

(I reach for the package, but she isn’t letting go. We struggle awkwardly for a minute before I yank the package from her hands and step back through the doorway into the house.)

Delivery Worker: “Hey! That’s rude!”

Me: “Not as rude as taking food from a baby!” *slams door*

(My family and I all go out to a pub and have a meal there. This pub was recommended to us by a lady who lives nearby so we decided to check it out. I order a salmon dish and the rest of my family has meat or vegetarian options. When I cut into my salmon it is raw.)

Me: *politely* “Excuse me? Could you cook my salmon some more, please? I like it quite well done.”

Worker: “No.”

Me: “Why not? I can’t eat this.”

Worker: “That’s how we serve our salmon.”

Me: “Yes, I can appreciate that, but I would like mine more well-done. So, could you possibly just grill it for a minute longer?”

Worker: “No. That’s how we serve our salmon.” 

Me: “Yes. I got that, thank you. Can you maybe take it back and cook it more?”

Worker: “No.”

Me: “Why not? I’m literally just asking you to put it on a grill for two minutes.”

Worker: “That will ruin the salmon and you’ll get food poisoning.”

Me: “Oh. Well, can you make me another salmon? I haven’t eaten anything else on the plate so maybe just tip it off and put a new one on.”

Worker: “Our customers like their salmon like this.”

Me: “What, raw?”

Worker: “Yes.”

Me: “Okay, well, I don’t. So, can I have another dish?”

Worker: “Oh, you want a new plate?”

Me: “No. Another salmon. That’s cooked.”

Worker: “No, that’s raw. I feel like you’re not understanding me.”

Me: “Can I speak to the manager?”

Worker: “Why?”

Me: “TO GET A NEW SALMON!”

Worker: “Why didn’t you say you want a new salmon? I can get you another one.”

Me: “And cook it? Properly?”

Worker: “Yes. Honestly, you should have said earlier. Everything else will be cold now.”

(I’m looking for a plumbing fixture to go on the end of a pipe I’ve brought with me.)

Me: “I’m not sure if this is the right size.”

Clerk: “You can open the bag if you need to.”

(I open the bag. It fits.)

Me: “Great, exactly what I need.”

Clerk: “Do you want to get one that’s not already open?”

Me: “Nope, I’m going to take it right home and use it.”

Clerk: “Would you like me to tape up the bag?”

Me: “No, really, I’m going to open it again in ten minutes.”

(A variation on the “customer opens the bag and then won’t buy an open product” theme.)

(I attend an expensive private high school on a scholarship. My family could absolutely not afford the tuition without the scholarship, meaning I’m on a much lower socioeconomic level than my classmates. Every fall, the school holds a walkathon where students are supposed to get people from the community to pledge money to the school based on how many miles the student walks. No one in the community ever wants to donate to the rich, private school when the local public school is critically underfunded, so everyone just gets their parents to write a check. If a student fails to meet the $100 donation threshold, they’re not allowed to participate in the walkathon. However, they’re still required to come to school that day. So, instead of taking a hike through the woods with their classmates and then spending the rest of the day having fun in the park, they have to spend the whole day sitting quietly in a classroom alone. It’s basically day-long detention for being poor. Every year so far, my family has scraped together enough money for me to attend walkathon, but in my senior year — twelfth grade — money is too tight. I’ve resigned myself to a day of boredom. A few days before the walkathon, I’m turning in some paperwork to one of the school’s secretaries. She’s worked with me before concerning my scholarship, and she knows that I otherwise couldn’t afford to attend the school.)

Secretary: *adding the paperwork to my file* “Well, looks like that’s in order. Oh, wait! I don’t see your walkathon form in here.”

Me: “Oh. I’m not going this year.”

Secretary: *looks at me and then shuffles through some more papers* “I also see you haven’t used all your college visit days.”

(Every senior gets a certain number of excused absences to visit colleges, so long as they arrange it with the office first and bring proof of the visit afterward. I’ve already been accepted to my first-choice college.)

Me: “I already got into [College]. I didn’t need them all.”

Secretary: “It’s always good to know all your options. Why don’t you take another college tour? It can be on any school day. Any day at all that you’re required to be in school.”

Me: “Ooooh, I see. Can I have a copy of the college visit form? Actually, can I have two?”

(After leaving the office with the forms, I immediately went to find my friend, who also wasn’t looking forward to the walkathon since the hiking trail wasn’t suitable for her disability. Every year, she had to attend the walkathon anyway and just sit at a picnic table with a teacher all day. She also hadn’t used all her college visit days, so we both signed up for a tour of a local college on the day of the walkathon. That day, we slept in, went on the college tour just long enough to get proof that we went, and goofed off the rest of the day. We brought the secretary a fancy cupcake from a little bakery near the college as thanks.)