We somehow chose a name for our second daughter that was close in spelling to her cousin’s name. I swear, my sister-in-law never told me it was her dream name for her child. Our child was born two years before and named Macy; our niece was Maiizelen, nicknamed Maizie. 

My child’s earliest memories were showing up at the two or so family events, and one of the cousins saying, “Did you know there are two Maizie [Our Last Name]s? I like the other one better.” There’s a back story about teen marriage and ugly divorce with the cousins’ parents, but it’s not important.

We brought up this behavior with the family (again, another back story).

Sister-In-Law: “They’re just children!”

Me: “You’re in your twenties; you know better.”

The cousins also used to lock the child of their father’s second wife in the closet at Grandma’s house.

Fast forward to Macy being twenty-three. It’s Christmas morning. The cousins have been pregaming for the 10:00 am brunch at Grandma’s, and they’ve brought along their red Solo cups. One cousin turns his cup away when Macy walks up to him, but not before she sees “#RealMaizie[Our Last Name]”. He’s embarrassed. So, the cousins have been pregaming by making fun of Macy once again.  

No surprise, Maizie was not invited to Macy’s wedding at the extremely nice venue — a thirty-fifth-floor private club in a major city with a live band, an open bar, and a flower wall for Instragam photos. But she did comment on Macy’s Instagram photo, which [Sister-In-Law] shared. 

Maizie: “Must be nice to be invited to a family event.”

Macy responded with a request for her aunt to take down the image, as well as:

Macy: “I don’t know why you would ever expect to be invited since my earliest memories of you were being bullied.”

I often frequent a specific coffee shop — enough to be recognized by one or two baristas, not enough to be considered a “regular”, and certainly not enough to be recognized by other patrons. I’ve been sitting at a table in the center of the room for at least two hours, and I get up to put my dishes in the bus tub approximately three steps away.

While doing so, I stack the dishes to leave some space. Apparently, this means I work there.

Woman Beside Me: “What’sTheRestroomCode?”

Yes, it’s said so rapidly it barely sounds like separate words. I don’t even realize she’s talking to me until I turn to go back to my table and she steps in front of me, into my personal space, and gets louder.

Woman Beside Me: “EXCUSE ME! WHAT’S THE RESTROOM CODE?!”

I know the restroom code. However, it’s my day off. I have to answer this question at my own job a thousand times a day, even when I’m on break or off the clock entirely, and I don’t want to. Besides, she’s rude.

Me: *Wide-eyed* “I’m not sure?”

Woman Beside Me: *Shocked* “Oh.”

She then stepped around me and snapped the question in exactly the same inflection at the barista behind the counter, while I returned to my table. She interrupted the barista’s answer to say, “WHAT?!” and did not look at me while hurrying off. I shook my head and picked up my book.

Related:
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 47
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 46
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 45
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 44
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 43

I work at an expensive coffee chain. A young man, probably in his early to mid-twenties, comes to the register and orders a small drink and a bag of popcorn, totaling about $8. His card declines. Honestly, this isn’t unusual; our card readers are fickle.

Me: “Oh, sorry about that; our card readers can be picky sometimes. Let’s try again.”

Declined again.

Me: “I’m sorry, it’s coming up as ‘Cannot be read or not accepted’, which just means it isn’t working. It doesn’t tell us why. Did you have another card we could try?”

Customer: “No, this is my only card.”

Me: “Okay, I’m sorry. How would you like to proceed?”

Customer: “Can I try it again?”

Me: “Sure.”

Predictably, it declines again.

Me: “I’m sorry, it’s not working. Did you want to try a different drink or just the popcorn? Do you have a phone to check your balance or anything?”

He starts looking around at everyone behind the counter.

Customer: “This is my only form of payment.”

Me: “Okay. Did you want to try just the drink or just the popcorn?”

Customer: “This is my only form of payment.”

Me: “I understand, and I’m sorry. Do you want to take something off the ticket?”

Customer: “This is my only card; it’s my only form of payment.”

Me: “Yes, sir, I understand. I can’t change the price of anything, so all I can do is remove something.”

We go around a few more times like this.

Customer: “Man, this is my only card… I just got kicked out…”

He stares around at everyone for another few seconds. I just wait because I’m kind of out of things to say. 

Customer: “That’s fine.”

He walked away to a table. Ten seconds later, the lady who had just finished ordering at the other register came back and told me she’d like to buy whatever he was trying to order. I was happy to ring her up and put his name down on the ticket. I’m glad he was able to get his drink and snack in the end, though I wish we could have cut some of the repetitive guilt-tripping out of the middle!

Customer: “Two tickets to [Movie], please. I love this movie! It’s my fourth time seeing it!”

Me: “Wow, you must really like it. That’s [total], please.”

Customer: “Jim Caviezel is so handsome! How many times have you seen it?”

Me: “I haven’t actually seen it.”

Customer: “But it’s been out for a week! You have to see it! It’s practically un-American to not see it!”

Me: “But, I’m not American.”

Customer: *Gasps* “You’re not?!”

Me: “No, I’m from Denmark.”

Customer: “But… you’re white!”

Me: “Yes, most people from Denmark are white.”

Customer: “I thought white people only come from America.”

Me: “Uh… actually, Europe is the continent that’s mostly ethnically white.”

Customer: “Europe? Like New England?”

Me: “Like France, Italy, Spain…”

Customer: “I thought Spain was full of Mexicans?”

Me: “Enjoy the movie, ma’am.”

Related:
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 15
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 14
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 13
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 12
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 11

This is a story my dad loves to tell about me when I was much younger, maybe two or three. My parents were out grocery shopping with me in the cart. While in the produce section, my mom dipped over one aisle to grab something while my dad went on to pick up the other things they needed.

As we walked, we passed by one of those big cardboard bins filled with whole watermelons. I pointed at the watermelons and shouted with all the excitement and sincerity a two-year-old can muster:

Me: “DADDY! Look at them big ol’ pickles!”

My dad lost it, and another customer doubled over and didn’t stop laughing for a good few minutes after my outburst!