CONTENT WARNING: Feces

This story reminds me of one of my own.

Customer: “Hello, I would like to order the peppermint latte with soy milk.”

Me: “Unfortunately, sir, we ran out of soy milk earlier today and won’t have more until tomorrow.”

The time is a bit after 6 PM. We close at 8 PM.

Customer: “But I’m lactose intolerant.”

Me: “We still have oat milk and almond milk.”

Customer: “No. I hate those.”

Me: “Well, we don’t have soy milk, so what can you do?”

Customer: “Fine. I want a peppermint latte, and give me whole milk… whole milk has the most lactose, doesn’t it?”

Me: “Sir?”

Customer: “I know what I said. Whole-fat peppermint latte.”

Me: “Okay, sir…”

So, idiot that I am, I let him pay for it, I made it for him, and I served it to him. He chugged it while maintaining an uncomfortable degree of eye contact, then he sat down at a table and pulled out a book.

Me: “Just so you know, sir, we close in about an hour and a half.”

Customer: “That’s fine.”

Me: “Okay?”

So, half an hour before close, the customer’s body starts emitting distressing gurgles. He runs into the bathroom. He takes about fifty-five minutes s***ting in the bathroom before he emerges, red-faced, panting, and with a nasty smirk.

Over his shoulder, while leaving, the customer shouted:

Customer: “AND THAT WAS FOR RUNNING OUT OF SOY MILK!”

Nervously, I opened the bathroom door.

The smell alone made me start crying. He hadn’t smeared s*** on the walls or anything like that, but the toilet was clogged with foul, muddy, half-liquid s***.

Why do people think they have the right to do these sorts of things to minimum-wage workers who just want to go home at the end of the day?

There’s been a change to tax law this year, due to the “One Big Beautiful Bill”. For new cars where the final assembly was in America, the interest on the loan can be taken off as a deduction on your taxes. 

I’m explaining this to all my clients. One of my clients lights up like a Christmas tree display in excitement. He’s bouncing in his chair like a small child, repeating:

Client: “My car was assembled in California! I’m so excited! I have a Californian car!”

He is so innocently excited and happy it makes me smile too, so I decided to excite him a little further.

Me: “You’re going to be my first client ever to actually take this deduction.”

Now he’s repeating:

Client: “My car was assembled in California, and I’m going to be the first!”

Part of the process to take this credit is looking up the VIN to see where the car was assembled. We both eagerly look up the VIN together. The car was manufactured in… 

Baja California, Mexico. 

My client’s face just drops. He isn’t angry, just super disappointed. 

I feel bad for him. I have a stock of candy in my desk so I can reward myself after doing difficult stuff. I hand him a Deutsch chocolate bar as an apology.

He lights up a bit again, albeit not quite so brightly.

You might remember me from this story. It happened again. 

Just for some background, we’ve moved since the last time this happened: We’re no longer located in the mall, rather we’re located in a strip mall kitty corner to the mall we were originally located in. We moved the year before last year, and it caused a lot of chaos when clients couldn’t find us, even though our old location was visible from the new one.

Unlike last time, this client was actually cognizant enough to be capable of advocating for himself. That didn’t help much. The day was a Tuesday, and we’d had a bout of freezing rain in the morning. 

The client arrives around 1 PM, well after the freezing rain stopped. We did his taxes, his pickup was scheduled for 2 PM, and he went up front to wait. And he waited, and waited, and waited.

Eventually, he called Metro Mobility, and they said that they were ten minutes away. He waited fifteen minutes, called, and was told that they were five minutes away. He waited again for eight minutes, then called and was told that the bus was one minute away.

So, he went outside to wait and called after three minutes and was told the bus was right there. It wasn’t. 

He waited a while, then came back in. He called Metro Mobility again, and they didn’t even have an excuse for the bus not showing up. They didn’t say “The bus arrived and didn’t find you,” they didn’t say “Maybe the bus is in the wrong place,” they said:

Metro: “We don’t see your pickup in the system.”

So, he got them to agree to send ANOTHER bus. It was now 3 PM.

3:45 PM, he’s getting nervous, so he calls in again. Once more, no record in the system. So, he agrees to wait again while they get a bus out there. No time frame.

So, we wait until 4:30 PM. Still no bus, and we close in three hours. He tries to call Metro Mobility, but the call center is closed. Deja. Vu.

Me: “Last time this happened, we resolved it by calling the police.”

Client: “I’ll keep that in mind, but also f*** the police.”

Fortunately, the bus finally arrived at 4:45 PM. The driver complained that he couldn’t find the place. That might have flown last year when you couldn’t find us on Google Maps, but we got that fixed, and the Google Maps pin shows exactly where we are.

The client leveled his most unimpressed glare at the Metro Mobility driver and said, exhausted:

Client: “I don’t particularly care about your excuses. Please, just take me home.”

Related:
Someone Needs To Be Held Accountable

Just recently had another stupid interaction with my dad, I’m the same OP from these stories.

So, spring in Minnesota isn’t consistent, temperature-wise. Some days are very cold. Some days are very hot. Very few days are a nice, comfortable middle-of-the-road temperature.

The last couple of days were very hot, in the mid-80s and low 90s. Today is very cool, in the high 40s and mid 50s.

My dad comes to visit somewhat unexpectedly. He calls ahead of course, but… I only get maybe a day or two’s warning.

My initial plan assumes a warm day. We’re both fairly outdoorsy people, so I make a plan for us to hike together in a nearby state park. Unfortunately, as mentioned previously, the weather changes. On the day of, it’s chill and damp.

Now, over the phone, I’d discussed my preliminary plans to go hiking with Dad. Now he’s here in front of me. We’ve just finished breakfast together.

Me: “It’s going to be a little chilly all day, so I no longer recommend hiking. Would you like to go to the zoo? Or maybe a museum?”

He’s not as ‘into’ these activities as hiking, but they’re things both of us enjoy.

Dad: “I’ll be fine. You talked about hiking over the phone, so I’d like to go do that.”

Me: “It’s going to be cold. Do you have a jacket?”

Dad: “I’ll be fine. That park you told me about sounds fun. Besides, you said it was about an hour and a half drive. The day should warm up by then.”

Me: “The day’s not going to warm up. It’s going to be chilly. There’ll be damp all day. Please make sure you have a jacket.”

Dad: “I’ll be fine. Let’s go hiking together like we used to when you were a kid.”

I thought to myself, “This is going to be more like when I was a child than you’ll expect”. In the past, I’d been uncomfortable all day from bad hiking clothing choices before I’d learned how to dress appropriately. I guess it’s Dad’s turn.

I get dressed in my jacket, which is waterproof, and a hat with ear covers, as my ears often get very cold.

Dad: “Do you have to wear that hat? I’ll be embarrassed to be seen with you! It’s overkill.”

He always says this when I wear something that covers my ears.

Me: “My ears get very cold even in weather you think is warm, and you don’t get to police my clothing choices anymore.”

I always respond with this.

Dad: “Oh.”

This is the standard ending to the conversation about my ears.

This isn’t the sort of weather that an umbrella helps with; the water’s not going to be falling from the sky, just generally floating in on the wind, so I don’t pack one. Besides, I prefer just wearing a rainproof jacket and pants.

When I’m done getting ready, I’m in a rainproof light jacket, rainproof pants, rainproof gloves, and I’m wearing a hat that keeps my ears warm.

Dad’s wearing a long-sleeved light sweater, a ball cap, and a pair of jeans. Well, at least he changed out of the shorts and T-shirt.

We’re both wearing hiking boots, and we’ve both got canteens with water and small packs of potentially necessary supplies: Band-Aids, sanitary wipes, and trail mix.

I look Dad up and down again.

Me: “I promise you, I’ve checked the weather. Are you sure you’re dressed appropriately for this? It’s going to be damp and cold. Not raining, but frankly, the type of clinging fog we’re going to be getting is worse than rain.”

Dad: “[My Name], I will be alright. I’ve done this plenty of times. I know what I’m doing, and you don’t have to worry about me.”

Me: “If you’re sure.”

So we go and drive about an hour and a half. We get to the park at about 10 AM, and it’s still cold and damp. We choose a path together, I want to take a short one-two hour one in case the weather is too much for Dad, he wants to take a long six-hour one. We compromise and go on a four-hour path.

By the time we’re done hiking, Dad’s hands are bluish, his lips are bluish, and he’s shivering uncontrollably. His sweater is absolutely soaked. We rushed the final quarter of the trail and passed up on some scenic things he originally wanted to see because he was too cold and wasn’t feeling well.

Dad: “You didn’t tell me the weather would be like this.”

Me: “I did.”

Dad: “I meant three days ago when we were planning the visit.”

Me: “I didn’t know three days ago. Weather prediction changed. It happens.”

Dad: “No, it doesn’t.”

Me: “Dad. We’re Midwesterners. We live in the Midwest. You grew up in Michigan. I grew up in Iowa.”

Dad: “Actually, you were born in LA.”

Me: “Yes, and you moved us to Iowa before I went to elementary school. I don’t even remember LA.”

Dad: “You remember the Kumquat tree we had in our courtyard.”

Me: “I remember the Kumquat tree in our apartment complex’s courtyard. I remember nothing else of LA.”

Dad: “You remember—”

Me: “—For Pete’s sake: You taught me the joke ‘if you don’t like the weather in the Midwest just wait five minutes and it’ll change’. You know as well as I do that weather predictions changed, especially in the Midwest.”

Dad: “Well, it shouldn’t have.”

I didn’t really know how to respond to that, so I just ushered him back into my car, and the towel I’d brought along just in case.

We stopped by a restaurant on the way back into town to warm up and get some food in us.

Dad: “Hey. I had a nice time despite the weather. It was fun. Perhaps next time we can do something indoors?”

Me: “Sure. If you give me enough warning, next time we can do a concert or something.”

Dad: “That would be nice.”

I got him back to his car, and we went our separate ways.

I do taxes for a living. A client owes some money to the IRS, about two hundred dollars. She’s an older woman, she owed last year as well, nothing about this should be a surprise or abnormal for her.

Me: “How do you want to pay the IRS?”

Client: “Can I mail them a check?”

Me: “Yes. Let me print up for you a slip sheet and a voucher.”

I put the slip sheet in the envelope so that the address shows through the little plastic window, clip the voucher to the side with a paperclip, and tell her to mail the check and voucher to the IRS in the envelope.

A few weeks later, she comes back mad as h***.

Client: “The IRS returned the check! You must have done something wrong! Now I’m going to have a late penalty.”

She dramatically throws the returned, still sealed, envelope down onto my desk. I glance over it and notice immediately what went wrong: She’d inserted the check so that it covered up the IRS’s address in the window on the envelope.

I let her rant at me for a bit until she felt better, then I got another envelope from the back, gently opened the one that the post office (not the IRS) returned, moved the slip sheet, voucher, and check into the new envelope so that the destination address was clearly visible through the window, resealed it, wrote her return address on it, and handed it to her.

Me: “Should work now. Make sure to put a fresh stamp on it.”

Client: “Good. Don’t let this happen again in the future, or I shan’t be returning.”

Me: “Okay. Have a nice night.”

And she left, not to darken my door until next year.