It’s a regular day in the gas station. I have a bit of a line and I quickly greet a customer who sort of scoots around the line to look at the flavors of “tobacco” wraps we carry. After a minute or so, he walks away and goes to the door, propping it open and YELLING at the top of his lungs:

Customer: “WHAT KIND DID YOU WANT?!”

I look to where he’s yelling and see a kid no older than sixteen sitting in the passenger seat of his car. The kid yells back his flavor and the guy comes back to the counter.

Customer: “Can I get a pack of the grape [Brand]?”

My coworker and I are staring at him open-mouthed. We’ve had people try to buy for teens before but never so blatantly. I finally pick my jaw up off the floor.

Me: “Um… no?”

Customer: “Why not?”

Me: “Because you are very clearly buying for the kid out there!”

Customer: “No, they’re for me.”

My jaw hits the floor again. He isn’t serious, right? I pick it up again and try to maintain what little professionalism I have left.

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, both company policy and federal law dictate that I cannot make a sale if I believe it’s for someone underage. If your… friend… wants to come and show me his ID so I can verify he’s eighteen, I will gladly allow you to pay for his products. If he cannot produce an ID, I have to call the police and report this.”

I wouldn’t have; they would’ve taken forever to come over something like this and the guys would’ve been long gone. But this seemed to light a fire up under his behind and he took off like a bullet, tires screeching as he sped out of the lot.

I work as a faculty assistant. In early 2020, one of my professors ordered a set of nesting tables for her office. When the tables arrived, we discovered that they were both the same height. The company asked only for a picture to prove this and said they’d send the correct (shorter) replacement out. About a week later, states began going into lockdown due to the health crisis, and the company reached out to say that the delivery would obviously be delayed.

Fast forward eighteen months. Since neither of us has been in the office all that time, my professor and I have both forgotten the incident entirely until I get an email from the company asking if I’ll be available on a specific day to accept delivery. As it happens, I won’t be — we’re on a hybrid schedule and it’s my remote day — but I make arrangements with a colleague to let them into the office. That evening, I get an email from her.

Colleague: “I left [Professor]’s key on your desk. I think you’ll have to contact [Company]; they brought the wrong table again, identical to the one she already has. The delivery guy and I walked into the room, he unwrapped the furniture, and we both just stared at it, dumbfounded. He went, ‘Umm… let me go make a phone call.’ He came back moments later, rolled his eyes, took the table, and said he would be back in touch, with apologies.”

I haven’t heard from them yet about rearranging the redelivery. Hopefully, it’s not another year and a half.

Daylight Saving Time always confuses my dad’s thirteen-year-old beagle, Baby. Baby gets up from her nap in the sun and goes to sit by her bowl. She lets out a very big, very dramatic yawn and stares at my dad.

Dad: “Not yet, Baby.”

Baby grumbles.

Dad: “Don’t you take that tone with me. It’s not time—”

Baby lets out a soft whine.

Dad: “Baby, it is not 5:30.” *Points at the clock on the wall* “It’s 4:30.”

Mom: “You didn’t change that clock, [Dad].”

Dad: “What?”

He looks at the clock and sees that it does say 5:30.

Dad: “Oh.”

Mom: “It’s 5:30 to her.”

Baby looks back and forth between Mom and Dad, her tail slowly picking up speed.

Dad: “Okay, Baby. Now look—”

Baby breaks into a full-body wiggle and starts howling. Dad tries to talk over Baby’s victory noises.

Dad: “Tomorrow, it will be 5:30 for real!”

He puts food down in front of her and she gobbles up every last piece before going back to her nap spot.

The next week, I am back again and 4:30 rolls around. Again, Baby wakes up from her nap and goes to her bowl. Dad sighs and gets up.

Me: “I thought you told her 5:30?”

Dad: *Sighs* “I did. She made some very loud arguments at 4:30 in the morning. I had to relent.”

Mom: “She’s a good girl. Let her eat when she wants.”

Baby gets to eat at 4:30 now, twice a day. My dad gets up early to feed her breakfast and then goes back to bed. Baby, of course, has no issues with this new plan.

I’m in the ENT (Ear, Nose, and Throat)  department in the local hospital, waiting for an appointment with many other people. A woman’s name is called; she’s an older woman in a wheelchair, accompanied by her two daughters, who checked in just before me.

A woman with a cane follows them out of the waiting room, which seems odd because I haven’t seen her with them at all.

The nurse asks the woman with the cane if she’s with the patient whose name was called.

Woman: “No, I need insulin. Can you give me insulin?”

Nurse: “No, I’m sorry. We don’t have insulin here. You’d have to go to the ER.”

Woman: “I don’t want to; I’m here. I just need insulin.”

Nurse: “This is the ENT clinic. We don’t have insulin here. You need to go to the ER if you need insulin right now.”

Woman: “It’s too far!”

It’s in another wing of the hospital. If you use a cane, maybe it’s too far.

Woman: “I have an appointment here. I just need insulin.”

Nurse: “We really don’t have any insulin.”

Woman: “If I have to go to the ER to get it, it’ll be your fault I’m late for my appointment!”

Nurse: “Appointment?”

Woman: “Yes, I have an appointment with [Ear Doctor] in twenty minutes!”

She did end up leaving, I assume to go elsewhere for insulin. She wasn’t back by the time my name was called! I’m not sure if she thought the ear doctor is a one-stop-shop for all your medical needs?

I have really thick hair; at least four different stylists have told me I have the thickest hair they’ve ever cut. I usually wear it short, but one year, I decided to grow it out for a change and only got the occasional maintenance trim. I was in college a few hours away from my hometown (and my usual hairdresser), so I visited a discount salon that several of my friends had visited and had really good experiences with.

Hairdresser: “What are you looking for today?”

Me: “I’m growing my hair out, so I just want to neaten the ends a bit and get my hair thinned.”

Hairdresser: “Sure, I can add some layers.”

Me: “No, thanks, I’m keeping the style pretty simple for now. I just want it thinned.”

Hairdresser: “Most people, when they say they want their hair ‘thinned,’ they’re thinking of layers.”

Me: “No, I want it thinned, like with those scissors that have a comb on one side?”

Hairdresser: “That takes a lot of body out of your hair. A lot of people are disappointed when they asked for their hair thinned and I do that.”

Me: “I’ve literally never had a haircut in my life where I didn’t get it thinned. My hair is starting to poof out into this awkward triangle, and it looks bad on top of feeling heavy and uncomfortable. Trust me. I know what it will look like, and that’s what I want.”

Hairdresser: “Okay.”

She gave me layers. I was fed up at that point, so I paid and left. Within a month, my hair looked and felt so ridiculous that I decided I needed to get it cut again. I went to a salon that was accepting walk-ins. I made sure the hairdresser and I were on the same page before I would agree to an appointment, and I told her the story of the other salon. She was immediately indignant.

Hairdresser #2: “These layers are making your hair thicker. What was she even thinking?!”