(I work at the self-checkout at a grocery store. Customers always seem to have questions and complaints about the obvious. I’m talking to some of my coworkers when my handheld starts telling me one of the lanes has been idle for a while. I turn to look, as a customer is glaring angrily at me while also on her cell phone. I walk over to help.)

Me: “Hey, how are you today?”

Customer: “I’ve slid my credit card four times and nothing happens. I hate these machines. You should get rid of them. They never work and I’m in a big hurry.”

(I look at the PIN-pad and notice it says, “Please continue checking out.” Then, I look at the monitor.)

Me: “Oh, here’s your problem.”

(I push the “Pay Now” button and hear the usual, “Please select your method of payment,” and then push the credit/debit button.)

Me: “There you go. But if you don’t like using the self-checkout, we do have lanes open that may be faster than trying to figure out how to use these. Have a great day.”

Customer: *mumbles under her breath*

Related:
Check Yourself Before You Self-Checkout

(I am at a therapist’s office for my first appointment with her. She is not my first therapist, so I have a fairly good idea of what to look for. My name has a very common nickname — I’ll pretend it’s Katelyn and Kate — and people will often start using the nickname without thinking. I am called back to meet with her.)

Therapist: “So, Katelyn, do you prefer Katelyn or Kate?”

Me: “I don’t care; either is fine.”

Therapist: “But which one do you prefer?”

Me: “I mean, when I’m in a situation where there’s someone whose actual name is Kate, I prefer to use Katelyn so people don’t get confused. But other than that, I really don’t care.”

Therapist: “Your name is an important part of your self-identity. I want to respect that. Which name do you want me to use?”

Me: *quite frustrated by now* “I don’t care! Either one is fine! You can call me Kate, you can call me Katelyn, or you can switch back and forth; it doesn’t matter!”

(She still didn’t get it. Somehow I made it through the rest of the appointment, but I never went back there. As a therapist, listening is a hugely important part of your job. If you won’t listen to me about something as simple as my name, I’m not going to trust you to listen to me at all.)

(I am 19 years old and I’ve been experiencing intense pain and vomiting bile all night. I go to urgent care and am diagnosed with appendicitis and given pain meds before being transported to the hospital around 11:00 am.)

ER Nurse: “We need to give you an MRI. Take this pregnancy test, and then we can figure out what’s going on.”

Mom: “She has already been diagnosed with appendicitis at urgent care; they called and we are here for treatment.”

ER Nurse: “Well, they can only diagnose, not treat, so we need you to take the tests.”

Mom: “She will not take the tests again. You need to look in your files and find the test results they sent over.”

(I ended up going into surgery at almost 10:00 pm after being in even worse pain all day, with no meds because I wasn’t in a room but in the waiting room. I was released at 9:00 am the next day, went septic that night, and spent another three days in the hospital. We later learned that my appendix had ruptured while I was waiting and they still sent me home.)

I was taking in my two-week-old baby for her checkup. My husband and older son were with me since we had another errand to run before heading home. My clinic had recently moved to a bigger location a few blocks away from their old location and had new equipment recently unpacked.

I gently placed my baby, born 7 lbs and 12 oz, on the scale. She left the hospital weighing 7 lbs 6 oz, which is normal since their weight fluctuates after birth. The scale showed 7 lbs 3 oz. My husband and I were baffled, since the baby was practically breastfed every hour and if she wasn’t sleeping she was eating. She was also way heavier than at birth.

The doctor began setting me up for weigh-in appointments with a nurse, while I began to panic and doubt about my breastfeeding capabilities.

My husband is a “fixer.” He can’t help it and is constantly fixing things at home or improving them, so, of course, he began fiddling with the baby scale when the doctor briefly left the room which, in addition to my panicked state, started to annoy me. That’s when he pulled out two pieces of foam from under the scale that were clearly part of the packaging from when it was moved from the other clinic. The doctor came back and was stunned. We weighed the baby again and she was 8 lbs, 6 oz. The doctor had a stunned look in his eyes as he checked us out, and I can just imagine the panic as he thought back to how many babies had been weighed on a scale that hadn’t been properly set up.

During my junior year, I go on a trip to San Diego with one of the clubs from my school, which is in the Chicago area. After our flight lands and we arrive at our hotel, we decide to get lunch at a restaurant in Old Town then spend the afternoon sightseeing in the area.

The hotel offers a shuttle for guests but will need to make four trips due to the size of our group. I am in the second group, and we are dropped off at the intersection where the first group is waiting. There are some stands a few feet from the intersection that have interesting crafts for sale, so I decide to browse while we wait for the last two groups to get there.

I finish making a purchase – which takes me less time than a single round trip to the hotel, let alone two – only to turn around and discover that everyone is gone. Turns out the teachers found out that the shuttle could drop off directly at the restaurant, so the last two groups went there while the first two walked over, not realizing I wasn’t with them.

Thankfully, there are kiosks with maps nearby and I remember the name of the restaurant, so I quickly find my way there. As I am walking up to the front door, one of my teachers is walking out with her cell phone in hand and, seeing me, says, “I was just about to call you!” I don’t have a cell phone, which I tell her. “Then what’s this number?” I check her phone and, sure enough, it is my number – my home number.

And that’s how I narrowly avoided giving my parents a heart attack from 2000 miles away.