(I am a cashier. Today is Wednesday. I have just finished ringing up an order for a customer when she asks me:)

Customer #1: “Why didn’t the $5-off-$50 work with using my online coupons?”

Me: “I’m sorry; was that going today?”

Customer #1: *snippily* “Yes!”

(As I’m searching through her redeemed/clipped coupons trying to find out if she clipped it, the customer next to her turns to her and said:)

Customer #2: “That doesn’t start until Friday.”

Customer #1: “Why did it send me an email now, then?!”

Customer #2: “Probably, to let us know what’s going on this weekend.”

Customer #1: “That’s ridiculous. They should send an email the day of!”

(Thursday, I am working the customer service desk when I get a phone call from a customer.)

Me: “Hi, [Store] service desk. How may I help you?”

Customer #3: “Hi, I spent a really long time in the checkout lanes today trying to redeem that $5-off-$50 with my online coupons.”

Me: “I’m sorry! That coupon doesn’t start until Friday.”

Customer #3: “Why didn’t the cashier tell me, then?!”

Me: *super politely* “I’m sorry, but even I didn’t know that that started on Friday until yesterday.”

Customer #3: “We have memos about that! Do you guys not have memos that let you know what’s going on?!”

Me: “We do not.”

Customer #3: “That is absolutely ridiculous. It’s no big deal, then.” *hangs up*

Me: *turns to coworker and explains what happened* “She’s not wrong in saying we need memos. I hate coming to work and not knowing anything about what’s on sale or what our online couponing service is having as a special, until later in the week, after we’ve already had tons of issues with it.”

(I have an unusual allergy that is very severe. I discovered in second grade that I was allergic to oil pastels, and have since realized that my allergy is airborne if people use the pastels around me. The unlikeliness of the allergy and the severity of it often lead people to believe it’s fake. However, this instance really takes the cake. Keep in mind that this person is a friend of mine that I have repeatedly talked to about my allergy.)

Me: “Man, I was really upset in physics today.”

Friend: “Why?”

Me: “Someone moved the pastel picture and set it on a counter next to my seat. I wish I knew who it was. I might have gotten some pastel on me!”

Friend: “Ha ha, yeah. That’d be pretty annoying.”

Me: “I mean, they might have just not known, but I’m still pretty frustrated. I would have put it back where it was, except, you know, I might have died.”

Friend: *pauses for a moment* “Oh, I get it! You mean like dying from being annoyed!”

Me: “No, I mean that, if left too long on my skin, my throat would close and I could die. Haven’t I told you this, like, three separate times?”

Friend: “Oh, yeah…”

(Boy, am I glad that he’s not in art class.)

(Shortly before we met, my husband left his job to start a new one, and his insurance lapsed for a month. During this month, he had to get an emergency appendectomy. A year and a half later, we’re down to the last $1,000 of the $10,000 he owes to the hospital. Due to my medical conditions, I’m a stay-at-home wife and mom to my step-kids, so we have had no choice but to stay with my parents during that time. We’re finally able to see the light out of the debt, and the same hospital calls me. This isn’t the first time they’ve called, but the first time I’ve answered.)

Me: “Hello?”

Caller: “Hello, is this [My Name]? I’m calling to discuss your account with [Hospital]. I see here that you owe $200 for a visit.”

Me: “Yes, I’m aware of that. I had a pretty bad bout with bronchitis, and it didn’t play well with my asthma. I fully intend to pay that $200. But since I’ve been paying you guys $10,000 for my husband’s life-saving operation, we were kind of waiting until that was paid off before paying mine.”

Caller: “Uh… I’m going to send out some financial help paperwork to you, and make a note of this. It was headed to collections, but it’ll put a hold on it for you.”

(I’m not sure if the shock in his voice was because I was intending to pay my debt, or because of how much we had already paid them, but it made me giggle. People can be surprisingly understanding if you explain the situation to them.)

(I am on my way home from college, flipping through the local radio stations. I stop on what turns out to be a pop station and listen as the host says, without a trace of irony:)

Host: “Up next, The Chainsmokers and their hit song Sick Boy. I think the chorus, ‘How many likes is my life worth?’ really says something about our society. Anyway, don’t forget to follow us on Twitter for all your music news!”

(I work in the dementia section of a senior living community. We have one resident who is known for her paranoid delusions and her visions of a religious nature. When dementia patients express beliefs that diverge from reality — e.g. that their long-dead spouse is waiting for them in the car, that they are the owner of the facility, etc. — it’s rarely helpful to correct their delusion, because it just makes them more agitated. We just try to keep them safe and calm, and redirect their attention if possible. Sometimes it’s not possible, though.)

Resident: “Did you see them?”

Me: “Did I see what, [Resident]?”

Resident: “The babies. They’re all dead. Satan killed them all, and they’re outside my window.”

Me: “No, I didn’t see them. But I wasn’t looking out the window. Say, [Resident], would you like to join the others in the rec room? We’re having a snack and a singalong.”

Resident: “Attack? Why would I attack you?”

Me: “No, a snack.”

Resident: “No snakes!”

Me: “Okay, how about the chapel? Should we go to the chapel? You could pray for the babies.”

Resident: “Yes, the chapel, that’s good. Let’s go to the chapel.”

(We go to the chapel, which has been known to have a calming effect on this resident in the past.)

Me: “Okay, let’s just have a seat and pray.”

Resident: “TOOL OF SATAN!”

(I turn, just in time to duck the three-foot-long, brass crucifix that is being swung towards my head. The resident, a small, frail lady, apparently snatched it from the altar, and is wielding it like a pick-axe, and her face is contorted in a red ball of rage.)

Resident: “Out! Out, you tool of Satan! You have no power here!”

Me: *knowing that saying, “I’m not a tool of Satan,” isn’t going to convince her of anything* “Oh, s***.”

(I turned and ran. My coworkers heard the commotion, and laughed heartily at the sight of a 6’2″, 250-pound man fleeing from a crucifix-wielding woman half my size. For the rest of my time there, one coworker refused to address me as anything but “Tool of Satan.”)