My father-in-law has been working with electronics and audio since the last ice age (or at least the mid-1950s). He has always been paranoid regarding magnets and magnetic tools near tape recorders. This all happened in the 1990s, so tapes were still in use for audio recordings.

He called me one evening having a problem with his three-and-a-half-inch diskettes. (Young people: imagine a three-and-a-half-inch 3D-printed save symbol.)

His problem was interesting. He inserted the diskette in the drive, formatted it, tested it, saved a file, verified the file, ejected the diskette, and inserted it again.

And now the diskette was corrupted.

He had tried several times with the same result before calling me.

I tried the same operations — with success. 

Father-In-Law: “What was the problem?”

I said nothing and just pointed at the magnetic paperclip dispenser, which I had moved first. My father-in-law, aware of all magnetic tools, had placed the dispenser next to the computer, right under the drive.

Every time he had removed the diskette, he had erased it.

I worked in a waffle café in Sweden, in a town that gets a lot of Norwegian tourists every summer. Norwegian is very similar to Swedish, but some words are quite different which can cause some misunderstandings.

It is a very hot day — like, 32 degrees Celsius (90F), which is hot for a Swede — with amazing weather, and the tiny café is flooded with guests. I have worked at the till for many hours. I am hot, thirsty, hungry, and tired.

Customer: “Three waffles with raspberry jam, two coffees, and a sparkling water.”

Me: “Yes, sir! That will be [amount].”

Woman Behind Him: “Do you have ice?”

Me: “Ice? With the water?”

Woman Behind Him: *Like I am very stupid* “No! On the waffles!”

Me: “You want ice… With the waffles?”

Woman Behind Him: “Yes! On the waffles.”

Me: *Picturing ice cubes on the waffles* “You want us to put ice from the freezer on your waffles?”

The man and the woman exchange glances.

Woman Behind Him: “Yes. On one of the waffles.”

Me: *Long silence* “Right. We’ll do that.”

We finish the transaction, the couple (and their kid) takes a table outside in the sun and I give the order to the VERY confused kitchen. Three plates, three waffles: two with cream and raspberry jam, and one with ice cubes and raspberry jam.

They happen to be served by my boss, and I see them being confused for a short while before they double over in laughter. My boss comes back in with the ice cube waffle.

Boss: *Very amused* “Take a break. Drink water.”

Me: “No, it’s fine.”

Boss: “[My Name], ‘ice’ is Norwegian for ‘ice cream’. Take a break. Drink water.” 

The break was very, very needed.

I once worked for a telephone service that took calls for a number of private doctor’s offices. We would take calls that came in outside of office hours and send a message to the doctor, who could then prioritize. We were also instructed to tell anyone calling in with an emergency to call emergency services for immediate help. 

We have public healthcare in Sweden, which is available for everyone to use, but you can also choose to pay for private healthcare if you can afford it. This caller definitely had the money and the self-entitlement that came with it.

Caller: “Hello, I need the doctor to come right away. it’s an emergency.”

Me: “The doctor doesn’t make house calls. If it’s a medical emergency, you need to go to the emergency room or call 112 (the Swedish emergency number).”

Caller: “My son is having an allergic reaction. I need to talk to the doctor now.”

Me: “The doctor isn’t in right now. I repeat, you need to take your child to the ER or call 112, right away.”

Caller: “You listen to me. I’m not paying all this money for private healthcare and not getting help when I need it! Get me [Doctor] on the line, right now!”

Me: “He will tell you to go to the ER!”

Caller: “I’m not going to spend the night at a public hospital. I pay for private healthcare, and I will have private healthcare!”

I knew what the answer would be, but just to cover my own a**, I tried to get hold of [Doctor]. He picked up, in the middle of dinner, not very happy.

Me: “Hi, sorry I’m calling so late. I have [Caller] on the line, and she’s requesting to talk to you because her child is having an allergic reaction.”

Doctor: “What? She’s crazy! She doesn’t need to talk to me; she needs to go to the ER!”

Me: “I’ve told her that. Repeatedly.”

Doctor: *In the coldest, angriest voice imaginable* “Transfer her over.”

I wish I could have overheard that conversation. Yep. The lady would rather risk her child’s life than be forced to use — gasp! — public healthcare.

I don’t know exactly what happened after that, but at least the kid was fine in the end, and I believe [Doctor] reported the incident to Social Services.

Back in high school (högstadiet, where students are thirteen to fifteen years old), a part of PE was orienteering. You were given a map with forty places to find and five or six lessons to find as many as possible. You didn’t have to get them all, but the higher grades were essentially impossible to get without finding at least a majority. Each location had a little hole punch with a unique combination of up to none or twelve pegs, and you marked a little sheet of plastic with these punches in neat little pre-marked squares. Control station number one could have three dots in a diagonal line and number two had a hollow square. These punches could also be very easily replicated with a paperclip and patience if you had the pattern. 

There was, therefore, quite the black market for these patterns. Hence, the patterns were unique for each grade, and they were also changed every year. The teachers hated the black market with a passion and did a lot of things to stop it, but the temptation to just cheat a little (or a lot) and chill in the forest for an hour during each lesson was far too great for most kids, and so the market for contraband orienteering patterns kept living for generation after generation of students. The only problem was finding out what this year’s patterns were, and the most remote one, due to some strange tradition, was always number nineteen.

I happened to be a typical nerd, a straight-A, teacher’s pet, and goody-two-shoes. I was quite bad at the whole running bit, but I was really good at reading maps, and I liked taking a nice September stroll to weird places like the most remote stations. I was therefore the first one to get the most remote one of them all: number nineteen. 

A classmate approached me when the rumour had spread.

Classmate: “So, [My Name], is it true that you have pattern number nineteen?”

Me: “Maybe? Why?”

Classmate: “Can you show it to me?”

Me: “Wait, are you with the Black Market?”

Classmate: *Shrugs* “Maybe? Look, I just want a peek. I can pay you money?”

Me: “No. No, no, no, no. I don’t want any part of this.”

Classmate: “Come on. Name your price! I’ll owe you one! Do you want to be seated next to [Popular Girl who I like] in class? Maybe even a date? I can get you that. Even both!”

Me: “I will not be bribed! Go away!”

Classmate: “Everyone has their price.”

Me: “Not me!”

He rummaged through his backpack.

Classmate: “What about…” *pulls out some candy* “…eleven banana skids?”

Me: “SOLD!” 

And thus, I sold my dignity and accepted the only bribe of my life for the steep price of eleven pieces of banana-chocolate chewy taffy, priced at one krona each, so around 1.10 dollars in total.

I really like banana chocolate.

I was sitting on the sofa watching something stupid when my phone rang. It should be noted that I have a very male voice and a very male name.

Me: “Hello, [My Name] speaking.”

Caller: “Hello. I am [Caller] calling you from [Clinic I haven’t heard of] to inform you that you didn’t show up at your appointed time today.”

Me: “Oh, sorry! I… didn’t know I had one. I must’ve forgotten. From where are you calling?”

Caller: “I am calling from the Gynecological Clinic of [Town more than 1,000 kilometers (620 miles) away]. We will, of course, charge you for this, the full 150 kronor (15 dollars).”

Me: “Well, that is fai— Wait, did you say ‘gynecological clinic’?”

Caller: “Yes, you had a scheduled ultrasound today. As I said, we will—” 

Me: “Woah, stop now. I know that I have made no such appointment.”

Caller: “The appointment is registered to this cell phone number. Now, the bill will—”

Me: “Stop! Look, I have no such appointment. I have never made one. It should be obvious why.”

Caller: “As I said, the appointment is registered—”

Me: “I must give you credit for being so incredibly non-prejudiced toward people with male-sounding names and voices, but I can assure you that you have the wrong person here.”

Caller: *Louder and slower* “Your cell phone number — this number — is registered to this appointment. Your bill—”

Me: “Please listen. You have the wrong person. I have no need for such an appointment.”

Caller: “But we will send the bill to you, as the appointment—”

Me: “I DON’T HAVE A WOMB.”

Caller: *Very short pause* “Oh. Why didn’t you say so? Your bill will be voided. Goodbye! *Click*

The strangest part is that you don’t register appointments with phone numbers in Sweden. You register them with state-given, unique personal identifying numbers. They had the correct phone number and address all along.

Related:
You Got The Wrongest Number, Part 10
You Got The Wrongest Number, Part 9
You Got The Wrongest Number, Part 8
You Got The Wrongest Number, Part 7
The Wrongest Number Got You