A Signature Of Not Knowing What They’re Doing

, , , | Working | December 6, 2019

(When I am a kid in the 70s, my mum sets me up with a Post Office Savings Account with her as a trustee. Just after I turn sixteen, my mum and I go in to switch it into my name only. My mum is asked to sign something, and then it is my turn. My full name is quite long; let’s say it’s Elizabeth Suzanne MacKenzie.)

Cashier: “I need you to sign this signature card to put in your Savings Book.”

Me: “Okay.” *signs card*

Cashier: “No, I need you to sign your name.”

Me: “I did.”

Cashier: *sighs* “You signed ‘E MacKenzie.’ The name on the account is ‘Elizabeth Suzanne MacKenzie.’ That’s what you need to sign.”

Me: “But…” *pointing* “…that there is my signature. Do you want me to just write my name?”

Cashier: “You need to do your signature, but with your full name.”

Me: “But… my signature, that I use all the time, is that: it’s just my initial and surname. My signature doesn’t have my full name in it.”

Cashier: “Well, we need you to sign your full name.”

Me: “I can write my full name, or I can do a signature, but they’re completely different things. What one do you want?”

Cashier: “You need to sign your full name.”

Me: *totally fed up at this point* “Okay, fine.”

(And that’s why, until I got married ten years later and changed my name, I held an account where my signature was just my name, entirely printed in bold capitals. Yes, apparently that was perfectly acceptable as a “signature.”)

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Having Kids Ages You

, , , , | Related | December 4, 2019

(As I’m 17 now, my dad and I have to go in to get me a new passport. While we’re waiting for our turn, a couple comes in with their son and daughter who look to be about ten and six years old respectively. Naturally, after waiting a bit, the little girl becomes really antsy so her mom gives her her — meaning the mother’s — passport form to keep the girl busy.)

Girl: “Mama, your paper’s wrong! It says you have brown hair.”

Mom: *laughing* “Well, what is supposed to say?”

Girl: “Gray!”

Mom: “…”

(I struggled so hard to hide my laughter, that poor lady.)

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Have You Tried Email, Instead?

, , | Right | December 1, 2019

(I’m delivering the mail. Saturdays are busy days, as there is no delivery on Sundays and Mondays and many people want their mail to arrive before that. On top of that, we also deliver ad flyers that have to be delivered to every house that has no “no ads” sticker. We are short-staffed, so I have two delivery routes today, which I can usually just manage within the time period in which mail has to arrive. I’m at the end of the second route when I arrive at the house of a woman who always complains about me being late. This time, I’m actually pretty early for the Saturday delivery. I hear running behind the door as I push the mail through the mail slot.)

Woman: *ripping open the door with a menacing laugh* “Late again! You are always late on Saturdays! You are lazy!”

Me: “I’m sorry, madam. We have to deliver a lot on Saturday, and this is my second route. In any case, I’m supposed to get the mail to you before 5:00, and it is 3:30.”

Woman: “That’s not my problem! Be earlier!”

Me: “You’ll have to take it up with my manager; tell him he should hire more people to spread the workload.”

Woman: “That’s ridiculous. You should be here earlier!”

(I’m too tired for this s***.)

Me: “Have you considered moving to a house that is closer to the start of the delivery route?”

(She slammed the door shut. I moved on, and then called my supervisor to tell him we might be getting a complaint and to explain the situation. Luckily, she never did make a complaint, and my supervisor thought it was funny.)

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Neither Snow Nor Rain Nor Heat Nor Quantum Physics

, , , | Right | November 20, 2019

(I work at a post office. Just before closing, two women approach the window.)

Customer: “I have my mail on hold, and we’re going away tomorrow. Can I pick up tomorrow’s mail?”

Me: *trying not to laugh in her face* “Ma’am, we won’t have tomorrow’s mail until tomorrow.”

Customer: “Well, can I go to the distribution center–” *five minutes from the office where we’re located* “–to pick up tomorrow’s mail?”

Me: “They don’t even have tomorrow’s mail. Why don’t you stop by tomorrow after ten am for tomorrow’s mail?”

(The customers leave with a confused look on their faces, not making a fuss but definitely not understanding that the post office ascribes to a linear understanding of time and cannot, in fact, give them their mail before it arrives.)

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The Sum Of All Your Tears

, , , , | Right | November 7, 2019

(I am the bad customer in the story. It has been a busy day and I have just gotten out of a doctor’s appointment, one in which I found out the tendon relocation surgery I had on my finger didn’t take. Because of this, my finger is far worse off than it was before hand, and possibly needs amputation. Despite the limited function in my hand, I have managed to become a decent makeup artist. Before I left for the doctors I was notified that I had a package at the local post office; it was an in-demand eyeshadow palette I have been waiting for.)

Me: “Hi, I’m here to pick up a package.”

(I hand over my slip, and despite the news I have gotten, I am trying my best to smile.) 

Clerk: *after a moment of typing* “I am so sorry, ma’am, but it looks like it was actually lost in transit.”

(I break down crying, not so much because of the palette but because of the stress of the day. The poor clerk looks utterly terrified, and I can’t seem to explain myself between sobs. It doesn’t take long for a manager to take over, telling the clerk to head to the back. The manager informs me that because the package was insured, they will do their best to get it replaced or found. I can hardly get out a thank-you before heading outside. I sit on a bench trying to gather myself when, out of the corner of my eye, I see the clerk I dealt with getting in her car and driving off. I head back inside and end up talking to the same manager.)

Me: “Hi. I was wondering if the clerk that helped me would be back; I would like to apologize for my outburst.”

Manager: *looking aggravated* “She was actually just let go.” 

(I felt terrible and tried to explain what had happened and that it wasn’t the clerks fault at all. The manager only seemed half-interested in my story and tried to offer me free shipping to mitigate the situation, which I declined. I felt awful the whole way home. I ended up calling customer service once I got home, and they, too, also offered me something to make the issue better; however, once I explained myself better, they seemed to be more understanding. I didn’t think anything would come of it, and the whole situation kind of went to the back of my mind. About a month later, I walked into the post office and saw the same clerk working behind the counter. I apologized profusely, and she just kept telling me over and over again that it was okay. She told me she couldn’t accept gifts, but I still slipped her a Visa gift card to make up for it all. To the post office clerk, I am so sorry that I put your job in jeopardy. I shouldn’t have let my emotions get the best of me.)

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