(My husband and I work near each other and carpool to work. He is dropping me off at my office.)
Me: “I really don’t feel like doing [work task] today.”
Husband: *in a suggestive tone* “Well, I can think of an alternative to doing [work task].”
Me: “Yeah, but I don’t get paid for that.”
(I’m twenty-four and I’ve liked The Beatles since I was sixteen. A new documentary about them has been released to the theatres, so I decide to check it out. Most of the conversation happens in Finnish, but the documentary was released under its English name, “Eight Days a Week.”)
Me: “Hi! I’d like these.” *points to the soda bottle and the chocolate bar that I set on the counter* “And a student ticket to Eight Days a Week.”
Employee: “What?” *says something incoherent*
Me: *assuming I said the middle part too quickly* “A student ticket?”
Employee: “But which movie?”
Me: “Eight Days a Week.” *short silence* “The Beatles film…”
Employee: “A Monster Calls?”
(This film also goes by its English name in Finland.)
Me: “No, Eight Days a Week. Beatles.”
Employee: “A Monster Calls, at what time?”
Me: “No. Eight Days a Week, The Beatles, at [time].”
Employee: *brings up the seating chart for A Monster Calls* “This one?”
Me: “No.”
Employee: *finally brings up the seating chart for Eight Days a Week* “This one?”
Me: “Yes…”
(I wonder how horribly I mangled English to make “Eight Days a Week” sound like “A Monster Calls.” Or maybe I was just too young to be buying tickets to the Beatles documentary.)
This story is part of our Beatles roundup!
(I am having an arthroscopy on my knee. Instead of being put to sleep during the operation, they simply give me epidural anesthesia so that I’ll stay awake during the operation. A curtain is placed between my upper and lower body, so I can’t actually see what’s happening down there. I am extremely afraid of needles and point this out to the doctor. They give me a painkiller and put some pain-reducing gel on my hand before inserting the cannula.)
Doctor: “All right, now it’s time for the anesthesia.”
Me: “Please, doctor. I’m deathly afraid of needles.”
Doctor: “Not to worry; you are not the only one. We’ll just give you a dose of what we call ‘Who-Cares Medicine.'”
(They put something through the cannula. Ten minutes later:)
Doctor: “It’s time for your anesthesia now:”
Me: “But doctor, I’m still not feeling too comfortable with this.”
Doctor: “Well, another dose of ‘Who-Cares Medicine’ for you, then.”
(Another ten minutes later:)
Doctor: “We’d really like to inject you now.”
Me: “Go ahead!”
(A minute or so passes:)
Nurse: “Do you feel any pain?”
Me: “I don’t feel a thing. Will you inject already?”
Nurse: “Most of the sedative is already in there.”
Me: “What?” *laughs* “This was easier than I thought.”
Nurse: *shows me the gigantic needle* “It was, indeed. See? It was this big.”
Me: *giggling* “That’s gigantic! How on earth did I not feel that?!”
(The operation commences. They are digging through my knee, and I’m engaged in a deep discussion with one of the nurses.)
Nurse: “You like urban exploration then? Did you visit the old abattoir in town before it was demolished?”
Me: “Not after it was abandoned, no. But I did as a kid, as a family member of mine was working there.”
Nurse: “I actually heard about a book that takes place there.”
Me: “Really, what was it called?”
Nurse: “I can’t remember, but I’ll Google it for you. One minute.”
Me: “What? There’s Internet in here?”
Nurse: “Sure thing. Now, let me see…”
Me: “After finding the book, could you check another thing for me? I heard rumours that the coach of [Local Football Team] has been sacked. Could you check their website?”
Nurse: “Just one minute… It says here that the coach has resigned and his assistant has taken over.”
Me: *trying to actually sit up* “WHAT?”
Doctor: “And more ‘Who-Cares Medicine’ for the young man, please.”
(They inject yet more medicine, and after that I’m very, very erratic. The staff are trying to hold their laughter.)
Me: “Hey, who’s sitting on my leg?”
Nurse: “He wants to know who’s sitting on his leg.”
Doctor: “Ask him what he thinks.”
Me: “It must be you or that other guy.”
(The doctors then change the position of my leg so that I actually can see my toes from behind the curtain.)
Me: “Hey, whose foot is that?”
(They couldn’t hold their laughter anymore. I was asking stupid question after stupid question, and they were just laughing and laughing, and trying their best to answer. I must have been a horrible patient. But the operation was as successful as it could be in the end.)
(The age limit to buy alcohol in Finland is 18. If a customer buying alcohol looks under 30 years old, we are instructed to ask for an ID. The “younger than 30 years rule” is a nationwide rule and it’s in effect pretty much everywhere. You can only use a passport, a driver’s license, or an official ID card to prove your age since these are the official Finnish IDs issued by the state. I’m a student working part-time in a supermarket as a cashier. In my store there is a sign at each register stating the alcohol law and listing the valid IDs. It’s about 8:45 pm on a very quiet summer evening and we are about 15 minutes from closing. A young man, maybe in his late teens or early 20s, comes to my register with a shopping basket full of beer.)
Me: “May I see some ID, please?”
Customer: *pats his pockets* “S***, I forgot my passport at home.”
Me: “I’m sorry, but legally I can’t sell you these without an ID.”
Customer: “Come on, I don’t look that young. I’m 22! I’m obviously over 18! Can’t you just make an exception this once since there is no-one else here?”
Me: “Sorry, but you have to have an ID. That’s the law.” *I point at the sign at the register*
Customer: “H***, I need this beer for a party and it’s too late to go home to get my ID and come back before nine!”
(In Finland it is illegal for retailers [grocery stores, etc.] to sell alcohol after nine pm [and before nine am]. After nine pm you can only buy alcohol from bars, clubs, restaurants, etc.)
Customer: “But look!” *pulls up his shirt* “I have a tattoo! That means I’m over 18!”
Me: “I’m sorry, but, first of all, you don’t need to be 18 to get a tattoo, and more importantly, a tattoo is not a valid ID. You need to have either a passport, a driver’s license, or an official ID card.”
Customer: “S***! Wait! I have my car keys with me. Look!”
Me: “Yeah, I can see them. Unfortunately they are not a valid ID either. You need either a passport, a driver’s license, or an official ID card.”
(Customers hands me his beers and starts to leave.)
Customer: “This sucks. We ran out of beer and it was already 30 minutes to nine. I was in such a hurry to get here I just grabbed my keys, credit card, and license from my bag and forgot the passport.”
Me: “…your license? Your DRIVER’S license?”
Customer: “Yeah.”
Me: “You do realise you can use your driver’s license as an ID, right?”
(The customer left very happy with his beers. I was left playing my favourite guessing game: on drugs or just very slow?)
(I work in a call center for a large bus company. I’m known for having an extremely friendly attitude, but even I struggle with this customer, who sounds downright mean and condescending through the entire exchange.)
Me: “Hello, this is [My Name] at [Bus Company]. How may I help you?
Customer: “I need to find out how to get from [Small Town] to [Large City].”
Me: “Sure thing! What date and time are you interested in traveling?”
Customer: “None of your business.”
Me: “Ma’am? We have quite a few buses running daily between those places. I don’t need the exact time, but do you have an estimate? Say Wednesday afternoons in April?”
Customer: “Listen up! I don’t call here to have you pry into my personal life! Why should I be required to tell you what I’m doing and when? Just tell me how I can get to where I’m going!”
Me: “Ma’am, I would, but the schedule depends on the weekday and month. I just want to make sure I’m giving you the right times; that’s all!”
Customer: “I don’t care! You’re just a little sneak! This is the worst customer service ever! Can’t even answer a simple question! I wonder how you managed to get this job, seeing as you’re horrible at it…”
(At this point I really have to make an effort to sound friendly, and I just want to get rid of her.)
Me: “Would you like me to pick a month and then read aloud the whole schedule? I have to warn you, there are over twenty per day.”
Customer: “Well, are you going to start or not?”
Me: “Well, if you were to travel next week, on Monda- ”
Customer: “No! Not next week; the one after that!”
Me: “Okay. So on that week, the first bus leaves on Monday morning at four am; the- ”
(The customer snorts.)
Customer: “Seriously? Are you stupid? Why are you giving me all this useless information? I would never travel that early. Tell me the afternoon schedules.”
(She then lets me go through the list without further interruption.)
Customer: “Thank you. Oh, by the way, you’re not really bad at customer service. It’s just that I do customer service myself and got shouted at by a customer today. I felt really bad about it and wanted to take it out on someone, you know? Thankfully, I had you. Well, bye!”
Me: “Have a nice day…?”
(I quit shortly after.)
