(My baby was born with a congenital heart disease and required many cannulas and blood draws in the first four weeks of her life. Nurses would try, and then call upon doctors — neonatologists and consultants — and everyone struggled. They would all talk about how small her veins were and how hard it was when she squirmed and cried as they stuck her over and over. The worst part was, when she had a cannula finally inserted, she’d often rip it out within the next couple of hours. After three open-heart surgeries, her last lots of blood are being taken to give us the all-clear to go home.)

Me: “Just be aware, everyone else who has taken blood has had a lot of trouble.”

Young Phlebotomist: *draws blood efficiently and quickly, first time* “All done.”

Me: “Oh, wow! Everyone else has had such trouble; they keep saying she’s got such small veins.”

Young Phlebotomist: “Of course she has small veins. She’s a baby!”

(Since you can never tell tone in these stories, I’d like to clarify that my tone during this conversation was friendly, then transitioned to accidentally but unapologetically bewildered, while the owner’s tone was like Draco Malfoy being forced to talk to Muggles. I’ve been to this animal produce store several times before. A family of three owns it and runs it by themselves. The son is a chipper Richie Cunningham clone and his parents need to swap the sides they sleep in bed, because they’ve both rolled out of bed on the wrong side every time I see them. I shop there because it’s the closest, most reasonably-priced place that I know of. My husband and I have a huge to-do list for around the house, with a few errands to run downtown. While each of the locations we need to visit are close to each other, morning traffic can be complicated, and they open at different times. So, we order the visits the best way we can to get to each store upon opening, as early as possible, to get home quickly. I double-check websites and Google to be sure we don’t waste time. First stop: produce store. It’s 7:55 am. We’re there five minutes early. No big deal; we’re happy to sit.)

Husband: “Do you find it suspicious they’ve not moved any of the bales out?”

Me: “A little bit, but they’re probably not busy this early and can move them while they’re open.”

(Eight am comes and goes.)

Husband: “They’re probably running late. Let’s go to [Store #2] and come back.”

(We do. We get back to the produce store around 8:40.)

Me: “They’re still not open. I’ll check their website… Yep, 8:00 am Saturdays.”

Husband: “Maybe it’s not been updated.”

Me: “Google says 8:00 am. So does their Facebook page.”

Husband: “Weird.”

(We run another errand. We return at 9:30 and they’re open. We get what we need and go to pay.)

Owner: *grunts*

Me: “Hello! Just these and a bale of straw, please.”

Owner: “Sure.”

Me: “Just out of curiosity, do you open at nine on Saturday?”

Owner: *looks at me sideways* “Yes.”

Me: “Oh, okay, no worries.”

Owner: “Why?”

Me: “Oh, no, it’s just that we thought it was eight.”

Owner: “It’s not.”

Me: “Oh. That’s odd.”

Owner: “No, it’s not.”

Me: “Well, I just double-checked, and Google said eight.”

Owner: “It’s never been eight.”

Me: “And your website, too.”

Owner: “No, it doesn’t.”

Me: “Yep, and your Facebook page, too.”

Owner: “They’ve never said eight. You read wrong. Eight am, Monday to Friday.”

Me: “Look. It doesn’t matter too much to me, but you probably want to check yourself.”

Owner: “We’ve never opened at eight on a weekend. Here. Take a business card so you know when you can come next time.”

(I read it.)

Me: “It says eight.”

(Her face turns red, and I think I spot steam pouring out her ears.)

Owner: “I just had these printed. Stupid company printed it wrong.”

Me: *being accidentally cocky, I let slip* “Do they run Google, your Facebook, and your website, too?”

(The owner looks like she’s gotten a third-degree sunburn, and steam is definitely pouring out her ears now. Wondering what is taking so long, my husband has come back inside and overheard part of the conversation.)

Husband: “The sign on the door says eight, too.”

(I lost it and cracked a giggle, while the owner just stared in pure rage. Honestly, my morning was thrown upside-down, but I wasn’t even angry about it. We made do. They’ve never been nice people to deal with, and it’s not the first time they’d given the “customer is always wrong” attitude.)

(It’s a very busy Sunday. We are desperately understaffed, and I’m currently the only person in my entire department. The phone rings.)

Me: “Thank you for calling [Store] at [Location]. How can I help you?”

Caller: “Hi. I’m looking to buy a pair of shoes. I live in [Town about 45 minutes away]. How do I get to your store?”

Me: “Oh, well, I’m actually not too sure. Sorry! No one who works here is from that area, so I’m not exactly sure which roads to take. I would suggest using Google Maps?”

Caller: “No. No, that’s not good enough. Go and find someone who can give me directions.”

Me: “I’m very sorry, sir, but I’m currently the only person working in my department. I do know for certain that Google Maps would show you the fastest way, however.”

Caller: “Well, then, go to your computer, look up the directions, and read them to me.”

Me: *shocked* “Um… I’m sorry? I’m not sure I quite understand.”

Caller: “Go look up the directions. I’ll get in my car now and you can direct me.”

Me: “You want me to leave my department and direct you for 45 minutes, instead of you looking up the directions yourself?”

Caller: “Yes.”

Me: “Um… No.”

Caller: “But what if I don’t have the Internet?! You have to do this! This is terrible customer service!”

Me: “Sir, do you mind me asking how you found our store’s number?”

Caller: “I looked it up on Google.”

(I am allergic to both latex and nitrile, but they’re both relatively new allergies for me, so I don’t think to mention them at first. I need blood taken, so the nurse and I are chatting as she gets the vials ready. As she reaches for the gloves, I notice the box.)

Me: “Oh, sorry. I forgot to say, I’m allergic to both latex and nitrile. Do you have different gloves?”

(The nurse looks at the box, as well.)

Nurse: “These are latex free.”

Me: “I know, but they’re usually nitrile, and I’m allergic to that, too. Do you have vinyl?”

(She grabs a box of vinyl gloves for me.)

Nurse: “Do you know how often I need to wear these? Maybe once a year. They’re horrible! They’re too big, and they feel awful on your hands! I hate them so much!”

(She continued to complain about the gloves as she took my blood. I know vinyl gloves are horrible; I have to wear them for work, too. But I’d also rather not spend the next few hours itching because I got latex or nitrile on my skin!)

(I am folding laundry just as my mother arrives, and I am about to fold a king-sized fitted sheet. One thing I brought away from working retail in bed-linen is the knowledge of how to fold fitted sheets. Mum quietly watches as I take moments to fold it neatly before putting it down on the table.)

Mum: “Wow, I’ve never seen that done before. I was waiting for you scream, swear, and then screw the sheet up like I do.”

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