My company does background screenings, and there is a form for the Washington Drivers history report that has a line to put the date and the place signed.

One client calls:

Client: “Why was my form rejected? I filled out every line.”

I look at the form.

Me: “Well, ma’am, on the line for date and place signed, they want the city and state where it was signed. You put ‘my office.’”

I am in the process of getting ready to see a new ObGyn because I really do not like my current provider. Nervous as heck, I leave early for my appointment so that I arrive twenty minutes early. When I park, I see the sign that says to call to check-in. I call and talk to the receptionist, answer the screening questions, and double-check that I need a mask. Then, I head inside the building.

There is one person that goes into the office just ahead of me. I wait off to the side while they fill out their paperwork, and the receptionist calls my name. I fill out the paperwork, and she hands me a sticker sheet of labels with my information on it. I take my labels and go sit down.

Thirty minutes later, fifteen minutes past my appointment time, several other people have been and gone. I assume they’re seeing one of the other doctors. But there is one couple that has been waiting longer than me. They ask the receptionist what the delay might be. She makes some calls, and then about ten minutes later, they’re called into the back. At this point, my assumption is that we’re seeing the same doctor and that perhaps there was a delivery or something.

Thirty more minutes pass, and I still haven’t been called up. The couple from before leaves. Now I’m concerned. The receptionist has not checked in with me, and I tried to speak up, but my anxiety got the better of me. Finally, I get loud enough to ask what’s up.

Me: “Excuse me, but may I ask why the delay?”

Receptionist: “What was the last name again?”

Me: “[My Last Name]. I had a 2:15 appointment with [Doctor]?”

Receptionist: “Huh. Let me go check what’s going on.”

She goes to the back and comes back.

Receptionist: “Well, it looks like whoever checked you in didn’t do it all the way, so they didn’t even know you were here!”

At this point, I want to both cry and yell because SHE WAS THE ONE WHO CHECKED ME IN.

Receptionist: “Well, they know you’re here now, so let’s get your paperwork filled out.”

Me: “I already did it — the consent form and the contact form.”

Receptionist: “Oh, well, let me get you your labels.”

Me: “I already have them!”

I was dumbfounded. How do you just forget a person? The kicker is that we had definitely made eye contact more than once over that hour, but she never asked me what I was doing just hanging out there. She just let me sit there.

The good news is that I love my new doctor. I’m just going to be keeping an eye on the office staff… and be a little more assertive!

I’m working the till during breakfast at a restaurant that makes its own biscuits. An older customer approaches the counter to order.

Customer: “I’d like an El Grande.”

Me: “I’m sorry, we don’t have anything called an El Grande.”

Customer: “Are you sure? Someone was telling me that you had one, but it wasn’t on the menu anymore because there wasn’t room for it. It’s like you take two of your biscuits and put them together like this.”

He motions stacking two items vertically.

Me: “No, that still doesn’t sound like anything we have. The closest we have to something like that would be [product], which is our biggest sandwich and has [ingredients].”

Customer: “No, that’s not what I want. I want an El Grande.”

I ask my manager if she could chip in. The customer goes through the same description of the fabled El Grande and my manager informs him that everything we have to serve is visible on the menu and there are no secret menu items. She also throws in that she has been here ten years and never heard of the item he’s describing.

The customer begrudgingly seems to accept this explanation and I take back over as he looks over the menu.

Customer: “I want the #4 there. The bigger one.”

Me: “The biscuits and gravy? Okay. Just so you’re aware, the item itself only comes in one size. The bigger price you see up there is the combo price.”

Customer: “I want your big one.”

Me: “All right. One biscuits and gravy combo. Would you like to upsize your hashbrowns and your drink to a medium or large?”

I’m speaking clearly here as I’m afraid he still thinks the combo price meant a larger-sized item.

Customer: “Yes! Large! I keep saying I want the bigger one.”

He pays for the food and goes to fill his drink. Fast forward a couple of minutes when I call for him to pick up his order.

Customer: “What the h*** is this?! Why is this so small?! I said I wanted the big one! I wanted an El Grande!”

My manager steps in before I can react

Manager: “We don’t have an El Grande! I listened to that entire order. You were told exactly what you were getting, you said it was correct, you are getting the biscuits and gravy you ordered.”

Customer: “Oh, to h*** with this!”

He turned around, dumped everything in the trash, and left.

My mother recently noticed that a new, locally-owned pizza place has popped up nearby in a direction we don’t travel very often. After some sleuthing, we discover that the place has been open for about a year, so we decide to set aside some time one Friday evening to check it out.

Things start out pretty normal at first: we’re seated and given our drinks and our orders are put in. Between the three of us, we order two appetizers and two 14″ pizzas; however, a solid fifteen minutes after ordering, our waitress reappears.

Waitress: “I’m so sorry, but we’ve run out of [signature topping for the pizza my mother ordered]. Would you like to order something else?”

My mother ends up ordering one of their vegetarian pizzas and opts to add two more veggies to it. And then we wait, and wait, and wait some more. Finally, after nearly forty minutes, our waitress comes back with some food and starts to set it on our table.

Waitress: “Here’s your meatball pizza and—”

Dad: “Uh, neither of those are ours. We haven’t even gotten our appetizers yet.”

Waitress: *Obviously confused* “Oh… I’m so sorry. I’ll be back.”

We watch her walk back to the kitchen with the food, presumably to recheck which table to bring it to. She then proceeds to bring it to a table on the complete opposite end of the restaurant. Whatever, mistakes happen.

We then wait nearly twenty more minutes with no sign of our appetizers or our waitress, so my dad finally gets fed up and goes to find out whether our order was even put in, to begin with.

Dad: “They said the appetizers are going to be out in a minute. I’m honestly almost ready to just walk out at this point.”

After more than an hour, we finally get our appetizers! But then my dad pokes into one of the appetizers and says:

Dad: “This isn’t eggplant.”

Mom: *Trying it* “Definitely not. I think it’s beef?”

We manage to flag down our waitress and explain it to her as she apologizes profusely.

Waitress: “I’m so sorry! [Dish we ordered] and [dish we got] both look almost the same unless you actually dig into them! They’re identical recipes except that one is made with eggplant and the other with meatballs.”

Dad: “It’s fine; we’ll still eat it. We just wanted to let you know that it wasn’t what we ordered.”

After our waitress has left:

Mom: “I think you’re being too nice about this.”

Dad: “It’s fine. It’s still good.”

Thankfully, our pizzas come out not much later, but the issues don’t stop. My pizza comes out fine, but for some reason, my mom’s vegetarian pizza has pepperoni on it. While she isn’t actually vegetarian, my mom definitely isn’t a fan of pepperoni so she is understandably very annoyed at this point.

Before we can decide what to do, our waitress appears holding a THIRD 14″ pizza.

Waitress: “Good news! The kitchen was apparently able to make you [the pizza my mother initially ordered], after all! Would you like me to box it for y’all?”

Dad cuts in before my mother can speak and points to the incorrect pizza.

Dad: “I’m going to be honest here: I’m very confused. But can you box that one, instead?”

Waitress: “Sure thing! And I’m sorry, sir, we’ve just hired on a bunch of new kitchen staff and they’re mostly all being trained this evening, so things are a bit hectic back there.”

Dad: *Sighing* “That’s all right. We just want to eat.”

However, it seems like the universe is deadset on giving us the middle finger this evening: upon opening one of our boxes to put away our leftovers, I notice there’s a MASSIVE WASP just chilling in it. Thankfully, none of us are particularly jumpy around bugs.

Me: *Pointing* “Uh, Dad? There’s a wasp.”

Of course, he immediately shuts the box and puts it on an empty table behind us just as our waitress comes back with our bill.

Me: “Excuse me. We got a, um, ‘friend’ in one of our boxes.”

Dad: *Gesturing to the box* “Yeah, don’t open that. There’s a wasp in it.”

Our waitress’s eyes go about as big as saucers and she gingerly picks up the wasp box.

Waitress: “Oh, my God! I’m so sorry! I’m going to throw this out in the dumpster immediately and bring you another one!”

Thankfully, that box is completely bug-free. By this point, we just can’t help but laugh at the overall absurdity of the evening.

Dad: *Studying our bill* “Well, we got that one appetizer and the third pizza for free, at least. We’ll just call it even and never, ever come back here again.”

Such a shame because the food itself was actually incredibly good, barring my mother’s incorrect pizza! The ridiculous wait and overall service were absolutely not worth it, though.

I work with an agency that helps people get set up with Medicaid/Medicare, disability, etc. Since the world shut down, for the last year, I have been stationed at a reception desk in an empty office building, answering the phone and transferring callers to the department or employee requested — similar to a phone operator.

The phone rings.

Me: “Thank you for calling [Company]. How may I direct your call?”

Caller: “Supervisor.”

Me: “Supervisor of what department?”

Caller: “The supervisor of everything!”

Me: “Is this regarding Medicaid or disability? Or is it something else?”

Caller: *Exasperated* “Send me to the supervisor of Medicaid!”