(I work as a cashier in a supermarket. Sometimes we get parents who come to the register to pay for the groceries and hand cashiers some empty wrapping papers, juice boxes, etc. because their kids have consumed the items in question during their shopping. Technically, it’s not all right to do this, since the groceries should obviously be paid before consuming them, but I guess in the name of good customer service we usually don’t do much about it. A lady approaches my register with her toddler. She hands me an empty juice box, empty croissant paper from our deli, and a wrapping paper of an ice cream.)

Mother: “Could you please scan these items, too? Sorry, I had to give these to him to eat because he was misbehaving so much!”

Me: *thinking* “So, you decided to reward him because of that?”

(I mean, seriously… I have seen this happen quite often: “Oh, my child was screaming and throwing a tantrum in the supermarket, so I, like, had NO CHOICE but to give him an ice cream so he would keep quiet during the shopping.” If I threw a tantrum in a supermarket when I was a child, my parents CARRIED me out of the store and wouldn’t take me back in before I calmed down. And if I didn’t, they usually took me to our car to wait with either of my parents while the other one did the shopping without us two. I DEFINITELY did not get any snacks as a reward for my tantrum.)

(I work in a supermarket in Finland that also sells some clothes. Our children’s clothing section is not divided by gender, only organised by age, brand, use, and colour, mostly in that order. I’m stocking the section for toddlers when an angry-looking woman approaches me holding a onesie meant for babies. She doesn’t speak Finnish very well, and it is not considered polite to speak English if the other person tries to speak Finnish, so I have trouble understanding her. That would not be a problem, but the customer is also clearly annoyed, and her tone is short and somewhat rude from the beginning.)

Customer: “YOU!”

Me: “Yes, how can I help you?”

Customer: *snappily* “THIS!” *waves the onesie in front of me* “This cloth… Who fits it?”

Me: “Do you mean what age is it meant for? Let me see.” *takes the onesie and reads the label* “It says here that it is 68 cm, which usually means that it for children who are between about four and six months. But children are all different, so if you are not sure, it is always better to buy a bit too large than too small since babies grow so fast.”

Customer: “NO! NO! WHO! Who it fits?!”

Me: *thinking she might not have understood me* “Usually children between four and six months, madam.”

Customer: “NO!” *snatches the clothing back from my hands and proceeds to wave it in front of me again* “WHO IT FITS?!”

Me: “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

Customer: *in English* “BOY OR GIRL?”

Me: *also changing languages* “Oh, I’m sorry, madam. I did not understand. The cuts on baby clothing generally fit all the babies, regardless of sex. The size is the only thing that matters in how the clothing fits.”

Customer: “NO! BOY OR GIRL?!”

Me: “Both? You can decide yourself, madam. They are unisex.”

(This was clearly the wrong thing to say. The customer sort of screeched and shouted, “NO UNISEX,” threw the onesie into my stocking cart, and stomped away. What was the sexless, offending onesie like? It was light beige with little yellow ducklings. I still have no idea for which sex baby ducks are reserved.)

One day I was running some errands in the morning and, after completing them, I decided to get some early take-away lunch for my boyfriend and me, go to my boyfriend’s place, and eat together with him.

When I arrived at the building where my boyfriend lives, there were some maintenance guys in the stairway. My boyfriend had told me the previous day that the maintenance guys were going to come and check every tenant’s bathroom facilities in case there were any repairs that should be done or something. Apparently, they had just come from my boyfriend’s apartment when I arrived.

I politely greeted them, took my keys — I have my boyfriend’s spare keys — and was about to open the apartment door when one of the maintenance guys shouted, like he was trying to warn me, “Hey, there’s some man in there!” I was very confused, and responded, “Um, yeah, he lives here?” and then I just went inside.

But I’m still confused to this day. What the heck was that? I don’t even live in the building and the apartment belongs to my boyfriend! I mean, sure, they couldn’t have known that, but was it really that weird of a concept for him to think that people might live together or just visit each other?

In Finland, it’s also very common to live together with your boyfriend or girlfriend even if you aren’t married, so I don’t think it was about that, either. Also, my boyfriend and I are both adults — around 26 — so it wasn’t like I was a tiny schoolgirl who was entering some shady old man’s apartment. Even after three years, this situation confuses me.

(We are in cooking class. We have eaten the main dish we made that day, and one of us is bringing the pie in to the table. I turn my head a little to look at it, and my teacher loses her s***.)

Teacher: “Just like you, always hawking for the first slice. You know what? This time you won’t have any!”

(Usually everybody takes one or three pieces and the rest is given to the teachers, but this time our teacher made the other students eat the entire pie while preventing me from getting any or leaving. This teacher also stopped making us cook any actually good food after our class became 100% girls; all we got was “healthy” BS, like salads and soups, and the emphasis was on how it looked and the decoration. When there were boys in our class, we often made pancakes, pizza, and the like, but the teachers stopped it when the boys got their own class. Just to be clear, in Finland the housekeeping classes are compulsory to everybody.)

CONTENT WARNING: This story contains content of a medical nature. It is not intended as medical advice.

(I am working in an ER doing office duties, including admitting walk-ins. A phone rings.)

Me: “This is [Hospital] with [My Name] speaking. How can I help you?”

Caller: *absolute silence*

Me: “Sir or ma’am, are you unable to speak? Do you have a medical emergency?”

Caller: *still absolute silence*

(After about 60 seconds of silence, the caller hangs up. A few minutes later the phone rings again. The same thing happens again. I am getting really worried that this might be a bad emergency, like a stroke, that can leave a person without speak. I start wondering if I could communicate with the person using the phone’s dial tones and how to do it. But again, the person hangs up before I figure out a way to do it. The phone rings a third time. This time it’s the husband of a nurse, both of whom I know very well.)

Husband: “Hi, [My Name]. [Nurse] has really bad laryngitis. She can’t speak and can’t come to work today.”

Me: “Thank God. I was trying to figure out how to communicate with a person who can’t speak.”