I have suffered two bad ingrown toenails, one on each big toe. The first was handled by my general practitioner with general anesthesia. I didn’t know better at the time, but this was serious overkill. I got the whole hospital gown and recovery room treatment. When my other toe needed the same treatment, I went to a podiatrist. I told him the story of my first toe.

Podiatrist: “Well, that’s a GP for you; they don’t know how to anesthetize a toe. Well, let’s get you all fixed up.”

At that point, he zaps my toe and we wait a bit. He starts to touch my toe with the scalpel.

Me: “Um, I can feel that.”

Podiatrist: “What? That should be completely numb by now.”

Wonderful. It turns out that I’m one of the very few people whose nerve for the tip of their toe grows on the opposite side of the toe. He got me properly numbed, but I still laugh at the irony of him fussing that my previous doctor couldn’t properly numb my toe.

One of the strangest things about working in a library is having to tell someone that, according to the reference sources available, their gold coin, china plate, oriental fan, etc. is just not valuable. At least today, we are able to pull up pictures of the item on the Internet (usually) and show the patron what experts say.

In the 1980s and early 1990s, this was not possible. We relied on various annual resources and, more importantly, a cache of names and phone numbers of antique dealers around the county.

A patron brings us an item wrapped in layers of tissue. He’s holding it gently and gingerly, cradled in both hands.

Patron: “I need some idea of how much this is worth. My great grandfather carried it with him for the whole of the Civil War.”

He unwraps the tissue to reveal a blindingly shiny gold pocket watch.

Coworker: “Well, unfortunately, I don’t think it’s worth very much.”

Patron: “How can you say that? My great grandfather carried this through the whole civil war! It must be valuable!”

Coworker: “Okay, well, I am not an expert in antiques, but given that on the back there is a stamp that reads, ‘Made In China, 1985,’ I think your great grandfather is pulling your leg about carrying it throughout the Civil War.”

Patron: “What do you mean? Are you calling my great grandfather a liar?”

Coworker: “Of course not. Perhaps he was a time traveler?”

This same patron comes in some time later with yet another of his treasures. He puts a parcel in front of me and begins to carefully unwrap it from the crisp, pure white tissue paper.

Patron: “You can’t say this isn’t valuable. Look at it! This is the sword Alexander the Great carried with him when he was conquering the known world!”

Me: “Um. I don’t want to burst your bubble, but I don’t think that’s the case.”

Patron: “What do you mean?”

Me: “Well, first of all, I don’t think Alexander’s sword had ‘Veni, Vidi, Vici’ carved into it. That was Julius Caesar’s thing.”

Patron: “So Alexander had Julius Caesar’s sword?”

Me: “No, I am sorry. I don’t think so.”

Patron: “Well, how can you tell? It could have happened.”

Me: “I guess it could have, but the thing is, when Alexander the Great was alive, their swords were made of metals like iron, and a sword made from Styrofoam would not have been much protection.”

This guy was in his mid-thirties, and for as long as I worked in that department, the day wasn’t complete until he brought in one of the many famed treasures he wanted to sell.

I received a phone call in mid-January from a credit card company. With the craziness of the holidays, I had managed to miss a payment. The agent I spoke with was understanding and we actually chatted about life and motherhood and the craziness it can cause in one’s life.

All in all, the total phone call was probably only about forty-five minutes, including making a payment.

A few days later, as I’m walking out to check the mail, I notice a box on the porch from an online flower delivery company. My first thought is, “Oh, no, someone misdelivered a package to my house.” I pick it up to see if the address is close so I can drop it off and, to my surprise, it not only has my address but my name!

I take it inside, and I’m not gonna lie here, I’m already teary-eyed. When I open the box, there are two dozen yellow roses in a beautiful white and blue vase. I find the card and the surprises just keep coming. Not only have I got flowers, but they are from a complete stranger located in a different state!

The agent has sent me flowers with a note of encouragement from one mom to another. I sit down on my kitchen floor and cry like a baby. I’m so touched that not only a stranger but someone I only talked to for less than an hour took the time to send me some encouragement and flowers!

I call the card company. The nice man who answers the phone tells me I can’t be transferred to a specific agent, so I ask for a manager. When I get one, I tell her the whole story and, while starting to cry again, ask if she can please pass on my thanks and let the agent’s supervisor know what an amazing person they have working for them.

To that agent, wherever you are, I hope you know you made my day, week, and possibly year. It is things like this that remind me that while there is trouble, anger, and hate in the world, there is also kindness, generosity, and love for our fellow man.

I work at a restaurant that, while not exclusively vegan, offers vegan versions of many of our dishes. We offer the vegan menu separately. A group of four comes in consisting of an older and a younger couple. I go to seat them and ask if they want vegan menus in addition to the standard ones.

Older Man: *Scoffs* “Of course not!”

Younger Woman: *Looking slightly annoyed* “I’d like one, please.”

The older man looks at her like she has three heads.

Older Man: “Why?”

Younger Woman: “Honestly, because you always make a big production at the very idea of a meal without any meat, and it’s getting really irritating. Plus, it’s my dinner; no one’s forcing you to eat it!”

The older man went quiet, the other members of the group didn’t seem to have any strong opinions, and they were happily seated with their respective menus.

When I passed by the table later, the younger woman was enjoying her clearly vegan meal. People order from our vegan menu for a lot of reasons, but it was the first time I’d seen spite as one of them.

I work in a food service establishment with “bagels” in the name. We’re known for our New York-style bagels and we’re only open during breakfast and lunch.

Customer: “I’ll have a sausage, egg, and cheese.”

Me: “And what bagel would you like that on?”

Customer: “Bagel?”

I gesture to the wall of bagels behind me.

Customer: “Don’t they come on wraps?”

Me: “We used to offer wraps, but corporate discontinued them.”

Customer: “Oh, never mind.”

Like, what? Bagels are in the name. We’re not called [Store] Wraps; we’re [Store] Bagels.