I work in a grill restaurant in Amsterdam. A tourist bought a full rack of smoked spare ribs.

Customer: *Calling me over.* “I need to complain.”

Me: “What’s the issue, sir?”

Customer: “The ribs were really tasty, but I’ve been waiting for an hour, and I haven’t felt anything yet. I’m quite dissatisfied.”

Me: “What do you mean?”

Customer: “I ordered a smoked rib, and I’m still not high!”

Me: “Sir, smoked means the ribs were smoked on a grill. They don’t have weed in them.”

Customer: “But… this is Amsterdam!”

Me: “This is not a magical place where everything has weed in it.”

The whole kitchen crew laughed for a solid ten minutes when I told them.

At my job in daycare, it’s an Easter tradition to take the children (two and three year olds) to a nearby farm, have the parents come along if they can, go back to the daycare, let the children search for coloured eggs and then have a little Easter brunch with eggs and home-baked bread.

Of course, not all parents can always come along, and this year one of our classic runs-around-like-a-maniac-all-the-time is alone, so he’s assigned to me to keep an eye on.

He’s very chatty all the way to the farm, he loudly sings all the Easter songs he knows and can barely contain himself. I have to hold his hand the entire time. He RUNS to the chicken coop when I let go of his hand, opens one of the little doors, STICKS HIS ENTIRE HEAD IN BETWEEN THE CHICKENS, and starts cooing.

Boy: “Hello, Mrs. Toktok, hi there, Mrs. Yellowbeak, ooh, I sure love your feathers, Mrs. Tappyfeet. You ladies are all so lovely. Thanks for making all those eggs. Your home sure looks nice, I like all the sticks!”

He just goes on and on and on like that, being really gentle with the chickens like a total professional. The farmer instantly loves this little boy. The toddlers who are slightly intimidated at first look at him, and he tells them there’s nothing to be afraid of if you’re gentle and polite.

One by one, even the children who are scared get to pet the chickens and pick up some eggs. All the parents are absolutely melting. Later that day when he’s being picked up by his mother, she is very surprised.

Mother: “He’s never been to a farm, and so far, I’ve only seen him be very scared of animals, especially birds! I have no idea what happened!”

Boy: “But, mommy! These are EASTER BIRDS!”

I love my job so much.

Among other things, our community center houses a toddler library every Friday. They end at the same time that some of the language classes we host have their break. So, when the moms with the small children come flowing out of the library and want to order coffee and lunch, we’re already swamped with two classes.

Somehow those moms always remain blind to the chaos, and rattle off their orders faster than our register – not to mention us – can keep up, all the while their toddlers are running rampant and trying to get behind the counter.

When the classes go back to their classrooms and the moms and toddlers are all settled, my coworkers and I sit down for our own lunch. The moms have all congregated near the toy corner. Some toddlers are playing there. Some are running up and down the large stairway that houses books and board games in cabinets to the side. They don’t hesitate to fling books off shelves and onto the stairs. The mess is unbelievable. The moms don’t care.

The moms get ready to leave. Some toddlers cry out that they want to ‘help’ clear the tables. So off the moms send them… one tiny item at a time… to run behind the counter and place it wherever. One saucer goes there, one straw to the other place, a spoon disappears in another corner… etc., etc.

We have a table on wheels next to the counter where the dirty dishes go… but they don’t seem to realize this as they pass it at least ten times, all the while the moms are praising them from their seats to high heaven for doing such a good job cleaning it all up.

We’re looking on with weary eyes from our break table. I address my coworker, a young woman, but with the soul of a worn hospitality veteran.

Me: “Are we gonna let this happen, or are we allowed to step up?”

Coworker: “No use. They never listen. We’ll deal with it later; it’s literally not worth it.”

Eventually, the moms try to gather their children to put on their coats, all the while praising how helpful they’ve been. I see them literally stepping over some books their kids have flung down.

They finally leave.

I go over to their tables and see it still covered with paper wrappings, half-eaten raisin boxes, fruit peels (they’re not even allowed to bring their own food), and toys, muffin crumbs, and errant raisins strewn literally all over our communal area. One electric toy is still on, making a noise every few seconds, but is somehow nowhere to be found.

I try to tackle the mess and find pieces of muffin stuffed inside some of the toys. I finally find the noisy toy in a box that they put in a pot from the kitchen play set, which they then hid in the play kitchen cabinet.

My coworker comes over and simply sighs and shoves all the toys to the corner with her foot.

Coworker: “One of these days, I’m going to get a giant trash bag and chuck it all in there. People gotta start realizing we’re not a daycare, but somehow higher-ups refuse to let go of the play area.”

Me: “About time that higher-ups are going to clean it for once.”

Coworker: “They keep saying the moms are supposed to have that responsibility.”

Me: “Responsibility? You think they even know what that word means?”

The doorbell rings, and my wife goes to take it. It’s a door-to-door salesman.

Salesman: “Hi, can I speak to the head of the household?”

Wife: “Oh, we don’t use our head for that.”

She closes the door again. On our doorbell camera, we see the salesman opening and closing his mouth a few times, his hand hovering over the button. But the decides against it and walks off again.

Our counter is quite high up, and if someone stands close to it, we can’t see anything below their chest. A rather short lady comes up, already looking done with the entire world.

I’m still counting out the previous customer’s loose change when she addresses me.

Customer: “I’d like to purchase a tea, please.”

Me: “I’ll be right with you, ma’am, once I’ve straightened up my register.”

Customer: “Have you heard me? I’d like to purchase a tea.”

Me: *Done counting.* “Yes, ma’am, one tea. Will that be all for you today?”

She gives me a sarcastic look like “of course it is!”. So I decided not to press it further. I ring up her total and turn around to make her tea. Facing the coffee maker on the other end of the bar now, though, a previous customer (a regular) shows up, apologetically pointing at her tea.

Regular: “I’m so sorry, but there is a yucky-looking eyelash floating in my tea.”

Me: “Oh, no worries! I’ll replace that for you.”

Before I can remake her tea, my boss needs me for something quick. The regular notices and gestures to go to my boss first, saying she has no rush.

Coming back after less than a minute (and my quickly distracted ADHD brain frazzled), I realize I now have two tea orders open. I lost sight of the grumpy lady during all this, but she has made her way to the side of the bar where the coffee maker and the tea supplies are.

Customer: “What’s this? You’d think my tea would be here already! I deliberately went to the toilet first, so I wouldn’t have to wait. And it’s not here.”

Me: *Forcing my retail smile.* “Your tea is coming right up, ma’am. Been called away for a second, it’s busy busy!”

It takes literally seconds to make it. I put the glass on a saucer, as is custom, and serve it to her.

Customer: “Uhm, maybe leave out the saucer? I’m leaning on a crutch! How do you expect me to…? Ugh. Do you have a tray or something?”

Only now I see her mobility aid, obscured by our high counter at first. Not sure how the tray will help her, but I fetch her one.

Me: “Apologies, I can also bring it to your table if you like, if you’d show me where you’d like to be seated?”

Customer: “No. You’re soooo busy. I got it.”

She haphazardly throws a tea strainer on the tray, reaches over the bar to stick her hand in the box with the complimentary little cookies – that we normally neatly place on the saucer with the sanitary use of tongs – flings it on there as well, and huffs and puffs away.

I’m breathing in deep to regain some composure, then get reminded of the regular whose tea I’m yet to replace.

Me: “I’m so sorry. I’ll get your tea right away. It’s busy…”

Regular: “Listen. I have eyes. I can see you are busy and dealing with crap. I got time. You just chill, okay? You’re doing great.”

I thanked her, made her tea, gave her an extra cookie, and went on with my shift. On her way out, the regular waved, blew me kisses, gave a thumbs up, and said:

Regular: “Don’t let them drive you mad! Thanks again!”

Oh, the contrast.