(I overhear this interaction at the front desk. There is a parking lot across the street from our office building which is owned by the company we rent the building from, and most of the spots are reserved for our head office staff. There are signs all over the parking lot explaining that you cannot park there from six am to six pm. It is just past noon when a tourist walks in, and the following exchange occurs.)

Tourist: “I parked in that lot across the way, but it says reserved, so I tried to move my car, but there’s another car in the other spot.”

Office Manager: “Ma’am, that lot is for our staff to park.”

Tourist: “But I wanted to park there, and the sign said, ‘Reserved,’ but it didn’t say that on the other side.”

Office Manager: “I’m sorry; you said the other side?”

Tourist: “Yes, you have to write down your spot number when you pay, and I was in number five. Then I saw the reserved sign and I tried to park in the spot on the other side that also was number five, but there’s a car parked there.”

Office Manager: “Because our staff pay extra to be able to park there. You have to move your car.”

Tourist: “But I already paid!”

Office Manager: “Can you move it to another spot that isn’t reserved?”

Tourist: “But I have to write down my number, and I already wrote five!”

Office Manager: “Ma’am, I’m not sure what to tell you. Most of those spots are reserved for our staff. You can’t park there.”

Tourist: *turning nasty* “I KNOW. But I ALREADY PAID. Can you just give me a refund?”

(We’re not the ones who own the lot; we just rent the spaces. We are also an executive office, not a store. We don’t have a cash register or any means to accept or exchange tender.)

Office Manager: “Ma’am, unfortunately, we don’t have the ability to offer refunds as we don’t own the lot. I can call the owners for you.”

Tourist: “But it’s YOUR LOT!”

(They go around in circles like this for a few minutes. Finally, the office manager calls the group that owns the lot — a church, by the way — and they say exactly what she’s been telling the tourist: it’s not our responsibility that she didn’t read the signs. Just to get her to leave, the office manager offers to validate her parking, which we’re only supposed to do for staff and clients, and the tourist leaves.)

Coworker: “The sign says no parking from six am to six pm. Am I stupid, or is it twelve o’ clock?”

(A few minutes later some more tourists come and start pulling on the doors. The office manager presses the button to let them in, but they just keep staring at her through the glass, so she gets up and goes to the door to talk to them. People often assume that we are the visitors’ center, but we are just the business office. There is actually a notice etched in our doors stating this, along with directions to the center itself, which is just around the corner, but I’ve long since stopped expecting visitors to actually read.)

Office Manager: “Are y’all looking for the visitors’ center?”

(The tourists say something indistinguishable and I hear the office manager abruptly close the door and return to her desk.)

Office Manager: “I cannot deal with people today. I just can’t.”

(My newer Land Rover SUV’s motor blows. Even blown, the SUV is worth about $1500, according to my research. I list it online for $1200, but I want $1000. Some guy keeps emailing every few hours, trying to lowball me.)

Guy: “So, I see you are trying to sell your Land Rover with the blown engine. You won’t get over $500 for it, but I need the parts, so I will gladly give you $600 to be nice.”

Me: “Thank you for your offer, but no, thank you. My husband is selling it for me and is sure he can get more. You are welcome to come to look at it, but not for that price.”

Guy: “Your husband is very wrong. He knows nothing about cars. Trust me; $600 is more than fair.”

Me: “My husband knows a great deal about cars, being not only a mechanic but from a family of mechanics, so I will go with him. If you wish to see the vehicle, I can arrange a time for you, but don’t waste either of our time if you think it will be for anywhere near $600.”

(He keeps emailing me for two days telling me that he was offering a great deal, and if I don’t take him up on it, the offer will go down to $500 and I will lose out. I ignore every email. On the third day, I receive ANOTHER email just as I am selling it.)

Me: Thank you for your offer but the vehicle is sold. The new owner is here picking up.”

Guy: “You’re kidding! So, just how much did you get? I will still give you $600 if you hold it.”

Me: “No, thank you. I got over $1100 for it.”

Guy: “I don’t believe you.”

Me: “I don’t care. I have to go to the bank now with my cash. Goodbye.”

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(This entire exchange takes place over online chat.)

Me: “Good afternoon. This is [My Name]. How can I help you today?”

Customer: “I DON’T UNDERSTAND THESE ROBOT NUMBERS!”

(It is very common for people who are requesting one of our visitor guides online to struggle with the captcha.)

Me: “Are you trying to request a visitor guide?”

Customer: “YES!”

Me: “If you are having trouble putting your request through, I can enter it manually. I just need your name and address.”

Customer: *gives information, still in all caps*

Me: “Okay, I will process that and it should be out to you in seven to ten business days. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Customer: “WAIT! I WASN’T READY TO END CHAT!”

Me: “That is okay; I have not ended the chat yet.”

(Five minutes later with no other communication…)

Customer: “OKAY, I’M READY TO END THE CHAT NOW… BYE!”

(I don’t even know.)

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(Newsrooms are no stranger to weird, angry, or silly viewer calls, and on most days, our assignment manager quickly takes care of them. On weekends, though, there are only a handful of people available to take calls. This one happens on our new weekend anchor’s first night on the job.)

Anchor: “[News Station], this is [Anchor]. Uh-huh. Okay, well, I don’t know if— You say you sent an email earlier? Okay, well, sir, I don’t— Hang on.”

(He puts the caller on hold and shouts to the newsroom:)

Anchor: “Hey, did anyone get an email about a spider? This guy wants us to tell him what kind it is.”

(It was an ordinary garden spider that he found in his backyard, and our anchor tells him so.)

Anchor: “Now he wants us to tell him what he should do about it.”

(I gesture for the phone.)

Me: “Hi, sir. Do you have a broom? Swat it.” *click*

My mother has a serious shellfish allergy; as she gets older, it has become progressively more serious. When she eats shellfish, she needs to go to the emergency room. Her friends are well aware of this; every time she eats out at a place that serves crustaceans, she explains it to the wait-staff in excruciating detail. She also lives in a part of the country where shrimp makes an appearance in many food items, so she has to repeat this often.

One day, my parents are having dinner with a friend of theirs. A few bites into dinner, my mother can sense that something is wrong. She mentions this to my father, who confirms that she’s having a reaction, and he asks the hostess whether there was shellfish in the food. The hostess says that there was, but that she took the shrimp out when she remembered about my mom’s allergy.

My parents immediately ask where the nearest hospital is and get ready to leave. The hostess disappears as they’re putting on their coats. When she emerges, she has boxed up their leftovers so they can eat them later.