It’s my first day working at a very small office. I don’t really have a specific role; I just do whatever is needed. My boss asks me to make a “shopping list” with all the office supplies we’ll need during the month, and their respective prices taken from the stores’ websites. I present a list of $208 worth of items. 

The next day, my boss takes the list but goes to a completely different store that I hadn’t considered in my research, and ends up buying other things. Between these discrepancies and some sales, her total spending comes up to… $208.10. She laughed and said she should’ve taken me to the casino for good luck.

My friend and I popped by a well-known drug store so I could pick up some medicine for my cold. She noticed that tampons were on sale and grabbed a box, along with some chapstick. We got up to the register, I paid for my medicine, and she put the tampons and chapstick on the counter.

The guy at the register visibly paled upon seeing the box and used the chapstick to push the box onto the scanner and then into a bag so that he wouldn’t have to touch an unopened box of tampons. I know periods are bad, but you do realize you don’t magically get them if you touch a box of tampons, right?

I’m making drinks for orders. Since I’m not on the register, I don’t realize that two separate orders have come in under the same name. I make the first drink, which is a large, hot tea, and place it on the counter, then call out the customer’s name.

Immediately, a woman zooms up to the counter, picks up the drink, and takes a big gulp. I turn to grab the next cup, which is for a small, iced mocha, and notice that it has the same name on it as the prior order. Before I can start on that drink, I hear an “Excuse me,” and see two women standing at the counter; the one who took the tea, and another one who was waiting a little further back. They both look annoyed.

The woman who took the tea tells me that this isn’t her drink. The second woman nods and tells me that it’s hers. I ask them if their names are both the name on the separate orders, which they confirm. I explain what happened, apologize for the confusion, tell them both their drinks will be up in a moment, and then go back to remake the tea. The tea-stealer calls me back over, and says that she should get her drink first, since it’s my fault she took the wrong drink because I didn’t specify which drink it was.

Gee, lady, the fact that you ordered a small, iced drink and the one that came out was a large, hot one didn’t give you the slightest clue?

I remade the tea first.

This story happens when I’m quite small, about three or four years old. My parents have taken me to a children’s matinee at the Royal Winnipeg Ballet. They were worried that I’d be bored, but apparently, I’m utterly enthralled.

At one point, a male and female dancer begin to perform a romantic pas-de-deux, and a small voice pipes up from the middle of the crowd, “Oh! The pretty lady loves the man!”

We’re sitting far enough back that the dancers don’t hear this, but a ripple of laughter moves through the audience nearby. An usher hurries over and asks my father to take me to sit at the back, and he complies.

Another scene is circus-themed and features a clown putting on his clown suit. Midway through, the same small voice rings out again. “He’s putting on his jammies!”

More laughter from the audience. This time the usher asks my dad to remove me from the audience entirely. 

As my dad says, this was clearly the beginning of my career in media analysis.

My three-year-old daughter recently got a betta fish as a first pet, and one afternoon we go to the local pet store to buy a decoration for his tank. She picks out a yellow submarine and proudly walks it to the checkout counter.

As I’m paying, I feel something large and fuzzy bump into me, sending my daughter a few steps back, as well. A massive dog has jumped onto the counter and pulled the submarine down, breaking it. The dog is bigger than my daughter and she begins to cry because she can’t get to me. 

The woman holding the dog gives a token apology while doing little to rein the dog in. I have to move past the dog and pick up my daughter, who is starting to cry. The lady then proceeds to say there’s no reason to worry; her dog is fine — I wasn’t worried about the dog.

She then proceeds to talk to the clerk checking me out, demanding to know if another employee is working, all while he’s still trying to process my payment. 

The clerk discounts the damaged submarine and I head out, clutching my crying daughter, all while the woman with the dog that’s too big for her to control sits there, unsure why everyone is upset. I’ve always liked dogs, but now I know I don’t like dog people!