Mercury Isn’t The Only Thing In Retrograde

, , , , | Friendly | September 19, 2017

(I get on a train to travel to meet a friend. A girl who looks like she’s about 17 or 18 gets onto the train at the same time as I do, and stays on her phone for the duration of the 45-minute ride, practically shouting into her hands-free microphone. I can hear her from the other side of the carriage, despite having earbuds in. Eventually, I can’t help but listen in, because she’s so absolutely over-the-top and enthusiastic about everything. Between the sentences are pauses where the other person on the call is speaking.)

Girl: “I was thinking of applying for a job at [Cosmetics Store], because everybody there is so nice.”

Girl: “Well, no. I don’t think it’s even possible to be mean if you’re a vegan. It’s like, against their religion, or something.”

Girl: “Yeah, no. I was thinking that maybe I should convert. My family isn’t very religious, other than Christmas. I reckon their customers are all really nice, too.”

Girl: “My dad said he’s cutting off my allowance, since he had to pay for my new phone.”

Girl: “I know, right? It’s not my fault it got ruined at the pool. Mercury is in retrograde.”

Girl: “No. Mercury.”

Girl: “Mer-cur-y. The planet, you know? Not that Mercury. Anyway, no. I’m not sure what retrograde means, but Sarah says that, because of Mercury, it’s not my fault, so I’m going to ask Mum for my allowance tomorrow if Dad still says no.”

Girl: “Oh. My. God. That would be my dream job, unless I could work at [Clothing Store], because that’s the Holy Grail.”

Girl: “I guess. I’m on my way to work now, but my boss is such an a***hole. He said if I was late again, he’d fire me.”

Girl: “No, I was supposed to be there twenty minutes ago or something, so I was thinking I’d walk in and quit instead.”
Girl: “We’re coming up to my stop, so I should hang up.” *pause* “No, my stop. I’m not at work yet.” *pause* “I can’t be on the phone if I want coffee, and if I’m going to quit today, I want to at least have a mocha.”

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A Colorful Tale

, , , | Friendly | September 17, 2017

(I have long, colourful hair. It goes from dark purple down to lilac, and ends around my waist, so I usually keep it in a braid. While getting coffee with a friend, I notice a mum and her little daughter staring at me. After a while, I have to undo my braid because it’s starting to hurt my head from being too tight. I hear an audible gasp from the little girl, and her mum nudges her to go over to my table.)

Little Girl: *in the fastest, most nervous way I’ve ever heard a kid speak* “Hi! I really like your hair; it’s pretty like a mermaid! My mum said to tell you it’s pretty, and I wanted to ask if it is your real hair!”

Me: *laughing* “It’s my real hair, but it’s coloured in!”

Little Girl: *eyes widening* “YOU CAN DO THAT?!”

(She ran back to her mum, who came up to me to ask me about which hair dye I use, etc. I told her that it was non-permanent, and that there was even a brand that could be washed out immediately,meant for Halloween costumes and such. Now the little girl gets to be a mermaid at her school’s Halloween party.)

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Confidence Is Cute

, , , , | Friendly | September 15, 2017

(I’ve recently moved to New York City for graduate school. I previously lived in a small town in New England, so, as you would imagine, I’m undergoing some culture shock. I have about two hours to kill between classes, so I decide to head for the library. As I reach the library, a very large, burly man walks down the sidewalk behind me, singing “Come On, Eileen” loudly. He stops in front of me and stops singing.)

Man: “Do you think I’m cute?”

Me: “Uh…”

Man: “What would you rate me on a scale of 1 to 10?”

Me: “Of cuteness?”

Man: “Yes!”

Me: “Um… eight?”

Man: “Eight? That’s good. You know, I always rate myself an eight.”

(At this, he wandered back down the sidewalk, while I walked into the library. I wish I had his self-confidence!)

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You Wanna Get Hazelnuts? Then Let’s Get Hazel-Nuts!

, , , , , | Friendly | September 14, 2017

(I’ve had a horribly rough day at work and want one of my favorite drinks, a butterbeer blended ice drink, similar to a frappuccino, from my regular coffee shop. It’s a rarely-purchased item, because it takes a lot of extra syrup shots and costs close to $8, but I figure the day I’ve had is worth the cost.)

Me: *to barista* “Can I get a butterbeer frappe, please?”

Customer: *behind me* “Oooh, what’s that?”

Me: “It’s five shots of hazelnut, four of vanilla, and two of caramel; then you top it with whip cream and caramel sauce. You can do the coffee blend or the vanilla blend; it tastes good either way. But it’s expensive!”

Customer: “Is it on their secret list?”

Me: “No, but a friend of mine who works here made the drink up, and we’ve always come here when we need one.”

(I sit down to wait for my drink, which comes out at the same time as the one for the other customer I’d been talking to earlier. However, when I grab for my drink, I realize it doesn’t have my name on it and start to look around for the other cup.)

Me: “Hey, [Barista], I thought you said mine was ready?”

Barista: “It is… wait, d*** it. I made a point to set that other girl’s drink to the side for her, because she was eyeing yours. She grabbed your cup, didn’t she? D*** it. I’ll make yours up again, sorry.” *glares at the other customer, who is looking smug*

Me: *approaching the customer’s table* “You have my drink.”

Customer: *smiles as she puts her straw in the drink and sips from it* “I don’t think so. I think I got the right one, and yours is on the counter still.” *when she sets it down, I notice my name on it and all the markings which clearly indicates she grabbed the wrong one*

Me: “Your name is [My Name]?”

Customer: “No.”

Me: “Then you got the wrong drink. Maybe you should give it back and get the drink you actually ordered, instead of stealing other people’s drinks.”

Customer: “Oh my God, get over yourself. Just buy yourself another drink.”

(When she raises her drink again, I make a point to smack it so drops out of her hand and falls on the floor.)

Me: “Oops. Seems like you don’t get that drink, either. Yours might still be on the counter, though.”

(She screamed at me for knocking the drink out of her hand, but I was already in such a rage that I walked out without grabbing my drink. My friend called me later about the incident and said that the customer had been kicked out when she threw both her drink and my replacement drink at the barista. I got a card for five free butterbeer frappes from the owner of the place when I called her to apologize for my actions. She said she’d have done the same thing. I did get stuck with mopping the floors as a way of making up for my actions, though.)

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Let Me Get This Straight…

, , , , | Friendly | September 13, 2017

(My mother is driving us to pick up my grandmother from a doctor’s appointment, then we we’re all going out for the afternoon. There’s a four-way stop just before the parking lot. We’re stopped and going straight, and the guy across from us is turning left. We start to go forward, and so does he. Despite being lead-footed, he hits the brakes, and so does Mom, and the bumpers don’t-quite-bang into each other. She hasn’t even gotten the car in park yet when the other driver is out of his car, around the back, and up to her window.)

Male Driver: “YOU DIDN’T SIGNAL THAT YOU WERE GOING STRAIGHT!”

Mom: “…I’m sorry, what?”

Male Driver: “YOU DIDN’T SIGNAL, THAT YOU, WERE GOING, STRAIGHT!”

Me: *speechless and staring at him like a second head just sprang out*

Mom: “Please show me which way I’m supposed to flick the lever to make THAT happen!”

(By this point, the woman who was behind us is now up to the window as well.)

Female Driver: “DON’T YOU DARE LET HIM TELL YOU THAT WAS YOUR FAULT; I SAW IT ALL!”

(The now three-way argument goes back and forth for about five minutes, all while Grandma is standing outside the doctor’s office, watching from a distance because she can’t walk very well. Finally, because there is no visible damage, the other guy “lets us go” and takes off, and we finally pull into the parking lot.)

Grandma: “What the f*** was all that about!?”

(And that’s where I learned where my mother got her colorful vocabulary. Twenty years later, I still haven’t figured out how to signal that I am going straight, either…)

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