Not Even Close, No Cigar

, , , , | | Right | May 24, 2018

(My town has recently enacted a carding regulation that requires everyone purchasing alcohol or tobacco products to have a valid picture ID. There is one customer in front of me and one behind me. The man behind me is dressed in his police uniform and his radio is occasionally crackling, making his presence very obvious.)

Customer #1: “I’d like to buy these cigars.”

Cashier: “Okay, I just need to see some ID.”

Customer #1: “They’re cigars; why do I need ID?”

Cashier: “We must card everyone who purchases tobacco products.”

Customer #1: “But I look over 18.”

Cashier: “Yes, but we must card everyone attempting to purchase alcohol or tobacco products.”

Customer #1: “That’s stupid. Cigars aren’t tobacco products.”

Cashier: “I’m sorry, sir, but they are. Cigars contain tobacco, making them a tobacco product, and I must see a valid ID before I can sell them to you.”

Customer #1: “But they’re cigars. The tobacco doesn’t stay in them; you take it out and fill it with weed.”

Cashier: “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Customer #1: “Not without my cigars.”

(This goes on for several minutes.)

Customer #2: “Sir, I suggest you leave before I decide you have given me probable cause to search your person.”

Customer #1: “Not until she sells me the cigars. I’m over 18, and I don’t want to smoke the tobacco, anyway.”

Me: “You realize it is still illegal in the state of Missouri to smoke marijuana, right?”

Customer #1: “Yeah, but that’s why you put them in cigars. The cops can’t figure it out.”

Me: “You’re kidding, right?” *I hook my thumb at the man behind me* “You just told everyone in the store you were going to empty them out and fill them with pot. That includes him.”

Customer #1: “Oh, here’s my ID.”

(He bought his cigars and walked out of the store. [Customer #2] put his purchases on the counter and followed him out. As I left, [Customer #1] was arguing with the police officer about the morality of marijuana being illegal.)

If At First You Don’t Succeed, Chai Again, Part 6

, , , , | | Working | May 23, 2018

(My husband and I stop at a drive-thru coffee shop for drinks. I don’t drink coffee, but I love this shop’s chai lattes, so I ask for one.)

Husband: “Can we have a medium, decaf, chai vanilla latte and a small peppermint mocha?”

Worker: “Sure! That will be [price] at the window!”

(We pull forward, pay, get our drinks, and pull off. I take my first sip and taste nothing but coffee.)

Me: “This has coffee in it.”

Husband: “What? I’m sorry. Why would they put coffee in it?”

Me: “Maybe because you said, ‘latte’? I mean, that’s what it’s called, but maybe that confused her?”

(We drive back through and pull up to the window.)

Worker: *looking confused* “Can I help you?”

Me: “There was coffee in my chai.”

Worker: “Yeah. You asked for a decaf chai. Decaf means coffee, so I thought you wanted decaf espresso in it.”

Me: “No… I hate coffee. Chai is black tea which has caffeine, so I just wanted that decaf.”

Worker: “So… that’s just regular chai.”

Me: “Yes, but without caffeine?”

Worker: *still seeming confused* “So… just a regular chai?”

Me: *giving up* “Please just give me a vanilla chai, no coffee.”

(To her credit, she did upgrade me to a large, and there was no coffee in my second order. But how do you work at a coffee shop and not know that tea has caffeine?)

If At First You Don’t Succeed, Chai Again, Part 5
If At First You Don’t Succeed, Chai Again, Part 4
If At First You Don’t Succeed, Chai Again, Part 3

Kindness Is Something You Just Run With

, , , , | Hopeless | May 10, 2018

(My school’s PE classes are a joke. To get us moving, my mom signs us up for the county track and field team. Anyone under 18 can participate, with events divided up by age. One day, my older sister and I are off training for our field events, but most of the team is training for long-distance running. My mom is watching the runners from the stands, keeping an eye on the youngest of our siblings. The teens finish first, of course. Then the pre-teens. Then the rugrats — eight and under — start trailing in. One of the teenage boys looks over and notices my little brother still has nearly a full lap to go, and is crying his tiny eyes out. He is three-quarters of a lap behind the next kid, and absolutely devastated to be so far behind.)

Teen #1: “[Brother] is in trouble!”

(All the teenage boys get up from their cool-down stretches, and dash over to my brother, pacing him for the rest of his lap.)

Teen #2: “Come on, [Brother]! You can do this.”

Teen #3: “1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4! You-can-do-this!”

(They all took up the chant, running in perfect time with his tiny, four-year-old legs. He stopped crying, and started to speed up a little, finally crossing the finish line. The moment he stepped across it, they swept him off his feet, carried him on their shoulders, and ran a victory lap, cheering and shouting his name. My mom sobbed, unashamedly. Not only did they know this little kid’s name, but then they did all that to encourage him, and keep him from quitting. My little brother has since become a fantastic runner. When he was 12, he started running more than ten miles to church for youth group, just for fun. We’re all very glad he never gave up.)

Giving Them Your Two Cents, Literally

, , , , , | Working | May 10, 2018

(My husband has been going to a certain restaurant with his coworkers several times a week. He says the food and service are great, so we decide to try it one night with our two teens. There is a long wait, but nothing to complain about. When we get to our table, it is a good 15 minutes before I am able to flag down a waitress and let them know that no one has taken our drink orders. I don’t think too much of it, because they are so busy. The waiter finally arrives and is pretty curt. We give him our drink orders, and he takes off. Another 15 minutes later, he finally comes with our drinks, puts them down, and starts to take off.)

Me: “Excuse me. Are you going to take our orders? We have already been seated here 30 minutes.”

Waiter: “Oh, well, if you are ready, I guess.”

(I order, and then my husband does, too. I think it is nothing complicated. My 16-year-old starts to order, when the waiter turns to me and asks what to bring the teens.)

Me: “They can order for themselves.”

(With a sigh, he takes down their order. He doesn’t bring our salads or bread until the actual meal comes out. And then, he takes off before I can get a refill on our drinks.)

Husband: “Didn’t I ask for no onions on my salad?”

Me: “Yes, and I asked for no tomatoes.”

(On top of that, some of the order is wrong; two of the meals are actually cold — there’s nothing worse than biting into cold mashed potatoes — and just all around not very good. But we do eat what we can, because we are starving. I see the waiter several times at a table a few tables away. It is full of young college girls that are all flirting with him, and he is flirting back. I notice he is there plenty of times during the meal refilling their drinks. I try to get his attention, but he takes off after talking to them. He never returns with our ticket or anything. Fed up, we get up and go to the front to pay. I put in two cents for a tip. The person signing us out asks if I meant to do that. I tell them I most certainly did. I don’t want the waiter to think I forgot him, but I want to let him know what I think of his service. A man standing by tells me he is the manager and asks what happened. I tell him everything, and point out the waiter, who is still laughing with the college girls.)

Me: “I have a feeling that if I had perkier boobs, I would have gotten some decent service. Too bad for him, because I am willing to bet we are better tippers.”

(The manager offered us a gift card. I told him no, thank you. I had no desire to ever return, because frankly, the food just wasn’t that good. My husband did take it, because he goes there for lunch. Apparently, the food at the lunch hour is much better. He tells me they’ve never seen the waiter there again.)


, , , , | Working | May 9, 2018

(My husband and I are ordering dinner. We know this restaurant only serves Pepsi products.)

Worker: “And what drink would you like with that meal?”

Me: “Diet Pepsi.”

Worker: “We don’t serve Coke products; is diet Pepsi okay?”

Me: “Um… Yes.”

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