My primary care physician finds some dangerous anomalies in some routine blood work and refers me to a specialist. I call the specialist’s office to make an appointment and I run into an obstacle.

Receptionist: “Before the doctor can see you, you will need to get your records from your former visit.”

I suddenly remember that I saw this same doctor five years ago for something similar.

Me: “You don’t have the records?”

Receptionist: “We moved buildings and changed our name, so no.”

Me: “Why can’t you use the records on file from my primary physician?”

Receptionist: “We need our former records.”

Me: “And you don’t have them.”

Receptionist: “No. We moved buildings.”

Me: “…”

Receptionist: “Call this number and get your records or the doctor can’t move on with treatment.”

I am frustrated by this, as my health issue is potentially life-threatening and I just want to get started in treatment, but I hang up and call the number. The call leads me to a badly recorded message that’s just some guy saying that if I want records I have to mail twenty-five dollars and a signed note to a PO box. I hang up on that mess, call the specialist’s office back, and speak to the same receptionist.

Me: “That was a weird message asking for money. I won’t be doing that. I can get you the records of my treatment from my doctor. It was only a one-year course of [medication] five years ago. Nothing else.”

Receptionist: “Nothing else?”

Me: “One medication. That was all.”

Receptionist: “Well, you have a week before your appointment. Just get those records or the doctor can’t treat you.”

She hung up on me. Maybe this is common practice for a medical office that has changed buildings, but it seems way too shady to me. I called my PCP and got a referral to a different specialist.

I overhear two women trying on outfits in a clothing store.

Customer: “Is this too sexy? I can’t be too sexy, or I end up with more kids.”

My family owns a Chinese/Thai fusion restaurant in our hometown, and while at university, I work as a host.

I receive a phone call at the host booth from someone who sounds like a movie stereotype of a stoner. The conversation does nothing to change this impression.

Me: “[Chinese Restaurant], how may I help you?”

Stoned Customer: “Hey, um, do you guys do delivery?”

Me: “No, I’m sorry, we don’t. Have you tried [Food Delivery Service]?”

Stoned Customer: “Nooooo, duuuuude, I don’t want someone else delivering it; I want the actual restaurant people to deliver it so they get the money.”

Me: “I can respect that, sir. Unfortunately, we cannot accommodate you.”

Stoned Customer: *Half groaning, half whining* “DUUUUUDE! I really wanted Chinese food!”

Me: “We’re open for dine-in or carry-out.”

Stoned Customer: “I can’t. My car is in the shop.”

Me: “Oh, bummer.”

Stoned Customer: “Heeeeey, I got an idea! I’ll make you a deal: you come pick me up at [Apartment Complex], and I’ll get you some pot.”

Somehow, I am not surprised to hear he has pot at the ready.

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, we cannot accept that as currency.”

Stoned Customer: “Nah, nah, nah, not as currency, dude. This is just a little… perk… you know… on the down low.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but I cannot do that. You might want to call a restaurant that offers delivery.”

Stoned Customer: “Maaaaaaan…” *Click*

I just put my head down on the host booth and sighed deeply.

It is my mom’s birthday, so I call her. We don’t have the best relationship, but I’m a bit old-fashioned and want to respect her even if I have to complain about the things she says afterward.

Me: “I’ll message you the tracking information for the package I sent. It should be there on Monday.”

Mom: “If it doesn’t come before I leave for work, I’ll ask my neighbor to keep an eye out for it. She just had a baby so she’s not going anywhere. I won’t say anything to her face, but she gave her kid the most ridiculous name: [Baby]. She has no business having another kid. She isn’t talking to me, but I don’t know what I did to offend her.”

I wonder why her neighbor wouldn’t want to associate with my dear mother!

I’m taking a walk, going a little slow because I’m still recovering from an ankle injury, and I start crossing the street — admittedly jaywalking — right as a small convertible, roof down in the sunny weather, pulls up from a cross-street and gets ready to turn. A truck pulls up behind her after a few seconds and honks almost immediately, since she’s waiting for me, and I almost feel guilty about my slow pace until the young lady in her little car twists around to glare at him.

Lady: “There’s a pedestrian! Quit acting like an a**hole!”

Truck Driver: “Hey, watch your mouth! I could run right over you.”

Lady: “So, do it, then!”

The truck driver didn’t seem to know how to respond, and with a flip of her ponytail, the girl turned back and started moving, since I was finally out of the way.

I don’t usually enjoy road rage, but something about that young woman in her tiny car chewing him out without hesitation and calling his bluff just tickled me that day!