(I visit the [Coffee Shop] around the corner from my apartment every morning to get coffee before work. I am there so much the baristas have all learned my name and how to spell and pronounce it, and they sometimes even start making my drink the moment I walk in. This is to say, I’ve developed a rapport with them. One morning, I come in and there are two women in line in front of me. I don’t hear their order when they place it but I can tell from their demeanor that they are grumpy and in bad moods. After we both place our orders, we all move to where the drinks come out and this happens.)

Barista: “I have a frappuccino for [Customer]!” *places it on counter*

Customer: “Excuse me. I ordered a cappuccino. Who orders a frappuccino in this weather?! Are you serious?!”

Barista: “My apologies, ma’am. I will remake that right away.”

(The woman grumbles and turns to me.)

Customer: “Can you believe them? This is so ridiculous! What a stupid mistake, right?”

Me: “I’m going to stop you right there, ma’am. I come in here every day. They know me. I’m not going to say a single bad thing about them. Furthermore, cappuccino and frappuccino sound very much alike. Easy mistake to make.”

(She looked like she wanted to respond but instead stayed silent until her drink was remade. After she left, the barista mouthed “Thank you” to me.)

(My anatomy class tends to get off topic sometimes. We talk about everything from famous people to how our day was. Today is a little different, courtesy of a girl on the other side of the class. We have started talking about religion, sharing random facts about it. [Student #1] puts her two cents in.)

Student #1: “I’m Catholic, as you know by now. And if you have not, or do not go to church, you are devil worshipers.”

(She says this without any hesitation. The whole class just stares.)

Student #2: “That’s a bit harsh.”

Student #1: “I don’t mean like y’all are going to Hell. But that’s what the devil does. He doesn’t go to church. So you follow him. That’s why you don’t go to church.”

(Everyone in our cultural rainbow glory of peers just stared. Even the die-hard Catholics were sitting there with “WTF” looks. Each to their own opinion, but seriously.)

(One evening, I get the call every person with an elderly relative fears: my 90+ grandma has fallen down and can’t get up. Luckily, she ended up next to the phone; she actually tripped as she was walking over to it because it was ringing. Since everyone else in our small family is either on vacation, not on speaking terms with Grandma, or living in a nursing home on the other side of town and not in possession of a driving license — or their full mental faculties — I am the only one who can help her out. I race over, hoping it’s just a case of having to help her up because she is in an awkward position, but as soon as I walk in the door and see the unnatural angle of her leg, I know we have a fracture on our hands and have to go to the hospital. We end up in an examination room at the ER, waiting for either the x-ray nurse or the neurologist, whoever shows up first. The neurologist has been called because Grandma hit her head on the stone windowsill when she fell, which caused a small wound and a bit of blood. That wound is the cause of the following conversation with a very chipper ER doctor.)

Doctor: “Well, Mrs. [Grandma], I know you’re waiting for the x-ray nurse and the neurologist, but I’m neither; I’m just here to give you a little tetanus shot.”

(My grandma is neither stupid nor suffering from dementia, but she has never had more than an elementary-school education, and apparently, she never learned what a tetanus shot is, leading to this little gem:)

Grandma: “A tetanus shot? What is that for?”

Doctor: “Well, ma’am, that’s for what we call ‘street dirt’–“

Grandma: *interrupting indignantly* “Street dirt? I fell inside my own home!”

(She sounds like she thinks what the doctor said is the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard, and he and I simply couldn’t contain our laughter. The doctor gives a brief explanation of what a tetanus shot is for, but too brief, apparently, because as soon as he is out the door…)

Grandma: “[My Name], what was all that about? I don’t get it. My house is clean!”

(I gave her a much more expansive explanation of germs, and why even her nice clean house wasn’t free of them. She was pretty horrified, but finding out her femur was broken soon took precedence. She could laugh about it later, though, when I mimicked her indignant tone. She almost sounded insulted at being associated with any kind of dirt.)

I’m making drinks for orders. Since I’m not on the register, I don’t realize that two separate orders have come in under the same name. I make the first drink, which is a large, hot tea, and place it on the counter, then call out the customer’s name.

Immediately, a woman zooms up to the counter, picks up the drink, and takes a big gulp. I turn to grab the next cup, which is for a small, iced mocha, and notice that it has the same name on it as the prior order. Before I can start on that drink, I hear an “Excuse me,” and see two women standing at the counter; the one who took the tea, and another one who was waiting a little further back. They both look annoyed.

The woman who took the tea tells me that this isn’t her drink. The second woman nods and tells me that it’s hers. I ask them if their names are both the name on the separate orders, which they confirm. I explain what happened, apologize for the confusion, tell them both their drinks will be up in a moment, and then go back to remake the tea. The tea-stealer calls me back over, and says that she should get her drink first, since it’s my fault she took the wrong drink because I didn’t specify which drink it was.

Gee, lady, the fact that you ordered a small, iced drink and the one that came out was a large, hot one didn’t give you the slightest clue?

I remade the tea first.

My three-year-old daughter recently got a betta fish as a first pet, and one afternoon we go to the local pet store to buy a decoration for his tank. She picks out a yellow submarine and proudly walks it to the checkout counter.

As I’m paying, I feel something large and fuzzy bump into me, sending my daughter a few steps back, as well. A massive dog has jumped onto the counter and pulled the submarine down, breaking it. The dog is bigger than my daughter and she begins to cry because she can’t get to me. 

The woman holding the dog gives a token apology while doing little to rein the dog in. I have to move past the dog and pick up my daughter, who is starting to cry. The lady then proceeds to say there’s no reason to worry; her dog is fine — I wasn’t worried about the dog.

She then proceeds to talk to the clerk checking me out, demanding to know if another employee is working, all while he’s still trying to process my payment. 

The clerk discounts the damaged submarine and I head out, clutching my crying daughter, all while the woman with the dog that’s too big for her to control sits there, unsure why everyone is upset. I’ve always liked dogs, but now I know I don’t like dog people!