Before my parents met, my dad was in the army, and my mom was a civilian working at the same army base. Both were far from home. In my mom’s case, it was her first time living in an area with no family nearby.

My mom got involved in some of the women’s groups and other groups to get to know the community. One older woman in particular took my mom under her wing and repeatedly told her she wanted to introduce her to a lieutenant who worked under her husband. My mom was very open to meeting people, but the woman never really followed through.

Fast forward a bit. My parents met at a party on base, started dating, and got engaged a few months later. They had an engagement party.

At the engagement party, the woman who had wanted to set my mom up with that nice young lieutenant was there, and she came up to my mom.

Older Woman: “Congratulations on your engagement! I’m very happy for you. I’m just sorry I never got a chance to introduce you to that nice lieutenant; I really think you would have gotten along well. He’s here, though! I still want to introduce you.”

She flagged down the nice lieutenant.

Older Woman: “Here he is! [Lieutenant], I wanted to introduce you to [Mom].”

Mom: “Well, you were right that we’d get along well; this is my fiancé!”

The older woman was definitely right that they’d get along well! My parents have been married for forty-eight years.

After a serious head injury in an accident permanently put me out of commission as far as working was concerned, I had to go on disability. It covered my rent and expenses, but that was about it. For anything extra I needed, such as new clothes or repairs on my car, I was just out of luck.

I was then told about working “motor routes” for the local newspaper. The way it worked was that subscribers who wanted their paper delivered would put their cash payment in special envelopes and leave them in a dropbox at the main office. (Alternatively, they could pay it directly to the delivery person.) The money was given to the delivery person, who then delivered the paper regularly to all the addresses from which they were paid.

At the end of the month, the delivery person received a bill from the main office for all of the papers they took and delivered that month. They paid the bill using the money they received from the subscribers. In the end, their profits came to about $1.50 per customer every month. They were essentially their own boss, save a few “customer service” rules that must be respected such as prompt and regular delivery by 4:00 pm.

It sounded like something I could do, and I took over a few routes with a total of about 200 customers.

Most (if not all) of the subscribers were friendly, but there was one woman who was determined to be a persistent pain in my rear.

When I would go to pick up my stacks of papers from the office, I would constantly find a complaint notice attached to the stack, to the tune of:

Complaint: “[Customer] called and was angry because she wants her paper in the morning, not noon. We’re not obligated to do special requests, but could you just do it as a favor so she will stop harassing the administrative staff?”

Complaint: “[Customer] called. She was mad that you delivered it at 8:00 am. She wants it at 6:00. You don’t have to, but… please? As a favor for [Employee that I’d now become friendly with]?”

Since I wasn’t going to wake up at 5:00 in the morning to go deliver ONE paper, everyone started getting their papers by sunrise. Then…

Complaint: “[Customer] called. She was mad because you tracked mud footprints up the steps to her porch.”

Complaint: “[Customer] called. She didn’t like the way you rolled her newspaper up. We asked if it was damaged, but she said it just looked shoddy.”

Complaint: “[Customer] called and screamed at [Employee] because you delivered the paper at 7:00 rather than 6:00.”

Complaint: “[Customer] says to stop ‘baby talking’ to her dog when he runs up to you.”

Complaint: “[Customer] called. She said it was extremely rude of you not to greet her when she stepped out to get the paper you’d just delivered.”

Then, one month, I was given my stack of subscriber payments, and what do you know — [Customer] was not amongst them!

Cue Handel’s “Hallelujah” chorus.

That month was the quietest with next to zero complaints, save the occasional dork who’d think his paper was never delivered but couldn’t be bothered to take a few steps out on his porch to see it sitting in plain view.

Then came the following month. I was handed my stack of payment envelopes… and there it was: [Customer]. I squeezed my eyes shut and just stood there for a moment. When I opened the envelope, attached to her money was a note.

Customer’s Note: “Next time, I’ll stop my subscription for three months! I want my paper at 6:00 am sharp, neatly folded, and if we see each other, you will show some respect, come up to me, and greet me!”

Enough was enough. Not knowing how much trouble it would land me in, the following morning, I left her payment envelope taped to the inside of her screendoor with a note of my own.

My Note: “For your information, I receive $1.50 a month per customer. For the proxied abuse I’ve had to tolerate from you over a three-month period of time, I would say that your withholding of $1.50 as a ‘punishment’ is a negligible loss. You buy your paper from the vending machine on [Street #1] from now on, or pick one up from the [Convenience Store] on [Street #2].”

She did call and complain, but she was told that the business has the right to refuse service to abusive customers — which had been extensively documented.

My husband and I had a hard year a while back. We lost our house in a flood and then had a car wreck ten days later. The wreck almost killed my husband. He had multiple surgeries and blood transfusions and stayed in a hospital for months.

When my husband finally got out of the hospital and got his wound vac taken off, he was able to drive again as long as his arm was wrapped up.

The new car we had purchased ended up with a broken window after a few months, so we went to the dealership to try and price the window replacement.

A car salesman saw my husband’s arm wrapped up and asked us our story. Once he heard everything, he offered my husband a deal: come to his church that Sunday with him and he would pay for the window replacement. My husband tried to say no. but the man insisted. claiming he was doing God’s work.

That Sunday, we got our baby ready and headed to the church. When the man saw us, he wasn’t happy. He spoke with my husband and wrote down some stuff on a slip of paper.

He told us to bring the car to the dealership the next Tuesday and he would make sure our car would be fixed. That Tuesday, we did as he said and took the car to the dealership.

Once we got there, the dealership informed us that the man had quit just the day before. They didn’t know why and they couldn’t help us.

So much for doing the Lord’s work, I guess.

One night after working late, I decided to stop by a fast food place that serves burgers. Being too lazy to go inside, I went through the drive-thru and ordered my food. Unfortunately, I waited until after leaving the window to check my food, at which point I realized there was no meat on my burger. I pulled over and went inside to get it corrected.

When I first entered, there was no one at the counter, so I waited until a woman finally appeared from the back. I was barely able to mumble out my concern before she started yelling at me.

Keep in mind that it was two hours before the whole restaurant closed and one hour before the inside closed. This was also pre-health crisis.

Me: “My burger has no meat on—”

Employee: “HOW DID YOU GET INSIDE HERE?”

Me: “I opened the door.”

Employee: “We’re closed! You need to leave right now.”

Me: “Your sign said you’re open. I just went through the drive-thru. I just want my burger fixed.”

Employee: “No! We’re closed and you need to leave.”

A manager appeared from the back and asked what was going on, so I started to tell her my problem. Before I could, however, the employee started again.

Employee: “We’re closed. She can’t be in here.”

Manager: *Sighing* “[Employee], we don’t close inside for another hour. Now, fix her food.”

The manager walked off, leaving the employee stuttering. She had my sandwich fixed and practically threw it at me.

At least my sandwich was correct.

Last year, my doctor’s office was bought out by a larger corporation. It really didn’t change much for me except that I had to fill out all new paperwork with the name of the new country-wide company name at the top.

A few months ago, my sister (who lives in a completely different state) started a new job in health insurance. We are both on our parents’ cell phone plan, and our phone numbers are the same except for the last digit; mine ends in five, hers in six.

About a week ago, I got a text message with my sister’s first name, asking me to leave a review for my OBGYN. I thought it was a weird coincidence and sent a screenshot of it to her for a laugh, figuring someone forgot to clear the name field before sending the text.

Then, I went to go check in at my appointment today.

Receptionist: “Hello! Name, please?”

Me: “[My Name].”

Receptionist: “I don’t see you in our system. Do you have an appointment today?”

Me: “Yes, I just scheduled it last week.”

Receptionist: “Okay, can you spell your last name? Maybe I got it wrong.”

I spell my last name, and the receptionist is silent.

Me: “Something wrong?”

Receptionist: “I don’t have anyone with that name. Are you a new patient?”

Me: “No, I’ve been coming to you for ten years. Your office has delivered both my children!”

Receptionist: “Okay, let me try searching by your phone number. Maybe it’s just not recognizing your name for some reason.”

I give my number, which ends in five.

Receptionist: “Okay, that phone number shows up, but it is for a different name. A [Sister]?”

Me: “I got a text from you with that name, but I thought it was just a fluke!”

Receptionist: “Okay, do you live at [address]?”

Me: “Sure do!”

Receptionist: “Okay, that address and phone number are connected to a [Sister] with the last name as [Our Last Name, mispronounced].”

Me: “That’s my sister! She shouldn’t be anywhere on my paperwork! She lives in a completely different state!”

The receptionist gets a deer-in-the-headlights look.

Receptionist: “I don’t know how this happened! I am so sorry!”

She immediately changed the name in my chart back to the right one, and I texted my sister to let her know to check with her office about her information, but seriously, what are the odds?