(I am supposed to come into work at two pm, but I come a little early to get some paperwork done. No big deal. I come in, and immediately I’m hearing this woman yell profanity at her kids. As it turns out, she is really cheap. She is only looking at the clearance shoes. That’s understandable — kids grow out of shoes fast — but there’s plenty of shoes for like $19.99. But no, she wants the $5 to $10 ones. I walk in and my manager’s working. I say hi, and I go to the back to clock in and everything. Realizing I’m not going to be able to do paperwork, I head out to the sales floor. There is no one else in the store but this family. I say to myself, “Oh, boy.”)

Me: *to manager* “Hey. How’s it going?”

Manager: “Okay. I’m going to take my break after they leave.”

Me: “I do not blame you. How long have they—“

Manager: “At least twenty minutes now.”

Me: “Ouch. Okay. Maybe I can help.”

Manager: “No. I tried that a few times already. She’ll come up here if she has any complaints.”

(Ten minutes go by. This woman does NOT CARE ONE BIT what happens to her kids. Why? She’s on her phone. She has four kids with her who are tearing up the kid’s section, and she’s on her phone. After another five minutes, I notice something happening by the front door.)

Me & Manager: “MA’AM!”

Manager: “MISS, YOUR CHILD IS RUNNING OUT OF THE STORE!”

Customer: “Oh, d*** it!”

(Her toddler wearing diapers not only runs out of the store, but she makes it across to the parking lot. The toddler almost got hit by a car passing by, and then by another trying to back out of a spot. What does this woman do? You guessed it. She comes back into the shop, apologizes, and keeps shopping while talking on her phone. A SECOND ATTEMPT is made by the toddler, trying to leave, but her mom stops her that time, only a second after she has opened the front door again. My manager goes in the back to do some paperwork of her own. No one else has come in this whole time, so we both get kind of bored. I go up to the mom again and she asks me about a shoe. We walk up to the register, get everything rung up, and she leaves. Once she leaves, I tell my manager, and we clean up the whole store because the kids got in the women’s section, too. Shoe boxes and random thrown shoes are everywhere.)

Manager: “If she comes back, I’m telling her to get off her phone or leave.”

Me: “I’m just going to tell her to leave.”

(She did end up coming back a few hours later, because I had goofed, so that was fine. But once she started to shop, I literally followed right behind her until she saw what I was doing and left. I think she got the hint. I encourage mom’s everywhere: if you’re in a store with your kids, whether it’s a big store or small store, YOUR PHONE CALL CAN WAIT, NO MATTER WHAT IT IS!)

(I’m a manager at a storage facility. We get mostly mundane calls, but two in a row give me pause. First call, the caller ID doesn’t identify the caller as a current customer of our business.)

Me: “Good morning. [Storage Facility]; this is [My Name].”

Caller: *silence for two seconds* “I’m supposed to have a TV delivered.”

Me: “Sir, you’ve called a storage facility… Do you have a unit with us?”

(Sometimes, rarely, we’ll accept large parcel deliveries and hold them in the office if the person has a unit, or, important to this story, a mailbox.)

Caller: “You see, it’s supposed to be delivered on Wednesday.”

Me: “Sir, if you don’t have a unit with us, we don’t offer that kind of service.”

Caller: “Someone might not be home at the address in question. I just want to know if there’s a time the guy will be here.”

Me: “Sir, you’ve called a storage facility.”

Caller: “Do you know when my TV will be delivered? Can you tell me?”

Me: “Sir. I believe you have the wrong number. You’ve called a storage facility. We don’t deliver televisions.”

Caller: “You’re not Canada Post?”

Me: “No, sir, we are not.”

Caller: “But you’re under postal.”

Me: “Yes, sir, because we offer mailbox services. We are not affiliated with Canada Post.”

Caller: “Oh. You can’t tell me when my television will be delivered?”

Me: “No, sir, I’m sorry. I cannot.”

Caller: “But you’re listed under postal…”

(The caller hung up, still muttering about how we should be Canada Post if we’re listed under postal. I then got another call from a delivery company, asking how they could make an appointment to deliver something to one of my customers that I didn’t have a standing order to accept deliveries for. I couldn’t help him, either, except to direct him to call the customer and arrange for them to bring a key to their locker.)

(I’m coming back into my apartment building, juggling an over-exuberant puppy and some treats in one hand and a bag in the other, trying to get him inside. Note that we have a secure building, but the latch is broken.)

Man: “Hey, can you let us in?”

Me: “Yeah, it’s open, just go in.”

Man: “We just need to get in and check the square footage.”

Me: *opens the door* “Yeah, it’s open. See?”

Man: “Do you mind letting us in? We just need to go in and look.”

Me: *struggling with the puppy who wants to go say hi to the new people* “I mean, I can’t let you into the apartments.”

Man: “No, not in the apartments; we just need in the hall.”

Me: *opens the door again* “Yes, the door is open.”

Man: “So, can you let us in?”

(I’m a thirty-year-old woman who has always looked young for my age. I’ve recently moved to a small town and am enjoying the more personal, casual service at local businesses. I go to make a deposit at the bank and simply give them my name.)

Teller: “Sure thing. Will that be all today?”

Me: “Yep, thank you.” *turns to go*

Teller: *after I’ve taken three steps away* “By the way, do you want that to go in your parents’ account?”

Me: *deer-in-the-headlights look* “My… parents live overseas.”

(And that’s how I learned that I share a name with a local teenager. I always gave my account number after that.)

(We have had our cat, Fritz, since he was a tiny kitten, and he’s always seen the same vet. One day, when Fritz is around eight years old, he starts spraying urine against furniture instead of going in his box. Knowing that this could be a symptom of something serious – besides being annoying and gross – I promptly make an appointment for him to see his vet.)

Vet: “Well, we’ve examined his urine for crystals, and he doesn’t have any. That can mean only one thing.” *stares at me accusingly*

Me: *after an expectant pause* “Yes?”

Vet: “You need to get him neutered. Honestly, I don’t know why you haven’t done so yet. He’s eight years old; he should have been neutered years ago.”

Me: “But–”

Vet: “No, I’m serious. This sort of spraying activity is very common in an unneutered male, and–”

Me: “But he is neutered.”

Vet: “What?”

Me: “In fact, you’re the one who did it. We had it done right after we got him from the Humane Society. It should be in his file.”

Vet: *looks at the start of the file* “Oh.”

Me: “So, something else must be causing this behaviour, right?”

Vet: *still processing the fact that he was wrong about Fritz not being fixed* “Well… are there any new cats in the neighbourhood?”

Me: “Come to think of it, yes. Our neighbour across the back lane just got a new cat. Fritz sometimes sees him through the window and hisses at him.”

Vet: “Well, there you go.” *looks at me triumphantly*

Me: “Um, what do you mean?”

Vet: “Fritz is antagonized by that new cat. He’s spraying to assert his dominance in his own home.”

Me: “Okay, so… What do I do?”

Vet: “Do? There’s nothing you can do. Apart from moving, that is!” *laughs*

(Very helpful. I started looking for a new vet after that.)