When answering machines are still relatively new contraptions for home use in the mid-80s, my parents get one for our house. Our dog has been trained to bark on command via hand signals, so, for the novelty value, it’s decided at some point that the greeting message will be the dog barking a few times.
Normally, we don’t get a lot of calls — just family every so often. One day, we return to find the machine blinking that there are a number of messages waiting. The cassette is rewound and the first several messages are nothing but hangups. After a couple of these, there’s finally a stranger’s voice:
“Martha! MARTHA! COME QUICK! They’ve trained a dog to answer the phone!”
I am Hispanic, and I’m doing tourism in southern Canada. My spoken English is far from perfect, but so far, native speakers have had no problem understanding me.
At one point, I go buy an ice cream… and the Asian lady behind the counter doesn’t know what I’m saying. After a few tries, I realize the problem: her English is lacking, too. She can’t decipher my accent and I can’t decipher hers. We just laugh and communicate with mimic and pointing for the rest of the transaction.
(I buy a cheese pastry in a supermarket and, after paying for it, I sit down at a table they have in there for people to rest during their shopping or wait for other shoppers to finish and I start eating it.)
Lady: *keeps staring intensely at my pastry*
Me: “Would you like to have a piece?”
Lady: “Oh, no, I really don’t like cheese.”
Me: “Oh, okay. Thankfully, I do.”
Lady: “Yeah… No, I really don’t like cheese.”
Me: “Okay.”
Lady: “If I ate only a small piece of cheese I would vomit.”
Me: “…”
Lady: “Yes, I would vomit right away. I really, really don’t like cheese. I think it’s really disgusting. For my entire life, I never liked it. I don’t even want to think about eating it. Cheese is disgusting.”
Me: “…”
Lady: “You know, if there was one thing I could ban from the world completely, it would be: fruit juice with apple juice mixed in it, cheese, and red peppers, but seriously, those are really dangerous.”
(Thankfully, I enjoyed the rest of my pastry in silence.)
(Our voting place has been inside an apartment complex near our house for years. I usually walk there, but one year I decide to drive. I go in the morning because I can vote before work and my shift will last past voting hours. No big deal, right? I drive up and the complex has four parking spaces for voters and all are being used. The only other parking space is handicapped. Knowing I am going to run in and out — I have a filled-out sample ballot so all I have to do is color in some circles — I park in a resident’s spot. I hate doing it but figure I’ll be really quick. I am quite literally filling in the last circle when a lady bursts into the voting place.)
Lady: “Who drives a [car meeting mine’s description]? You’re in my spot!”
Me: *fessing up* “That’s me. I’m leaving right now. Sorry, there was nowhere to park.”
(It’s lame, I know it, but I’m complying with her wants.)
Lady: “You’re in my spot! It’s not for voters!”
Me: “I know. All those spots were filled. Again, I’m sorry.”
(I try to leave to move my car, but she isn’t done.)
Lady: “You can’t park there! You—“ *directs her finger to the voting volunteers* “—need to make sure they can’t park there.”
Volunteer: “Ma’am, we do not block people from voting. It is about ten in the morning, so people are going to use those open spots. We will not stop them.”
(She had a small meltdown and I walked out to move the car. Out there I saw one vehicle parked across two open resident spaces near the spot I parked in. Apparently, she could park in two other people’s spot but I couldn’t park in one!)
My boyfriend and I have just gone out for the first time in a good while to a local steakhouse. I use a walker to get around due to complications of some meds I take and so on. I have just gone to the restroom before we leave the steakhouse and my boyfriend, also my primary caregiver, has pulled his SUV to right in front of the doors and come inside to help me walk to the car as I have a tendency of falling.
As we reach the outside doors, this random grouchy old woman starts screaming at him for “blocking the doors.” He patiently tries to explain that I am handicapped and have just come out of dialysis. Bear in mind, I am standing right there with my walker and she can plainly see me.
But nope, not good enough. This entitled harpy of a woman continues to throw a tantrum while he ignores her and proceeds to assist me into the car.
Finally, she realizes he isn’t listening and storms off in a huff, leaving us shaking our heads.
I am sooooo sorry that my safety got in the way of you being right in front of the doors to pick up your to-go order, lady. At least you can walk unassisted!
