I’m working at a coffee shop in a mall. It’s December 23, and I’ll be taking Christmas Eve off to be with my family in my hometown, a couple of hours away; I’m expecting to be back to work on Boxing Day.

As I’m getting my stuff together once my shift is over, I check my voicemail on my phone. My mother has left me a message telling me to call her right away; I do, and she tells me my grandfather has passed away.

Merry f****** Christmas, right? 

I quietly leave the break room, pull my manager over, and, struggling to keep it together, explain that I will not be able to return to work for four extra days.

Do I get an “of course, take all the time you need”? How about an “I’m so sorry”? At the outside, “Yeah, okay.”?

Nope. I get an eye roll and a:

Manager: “You know, this is really not a great time for you to be asking for favours like this. I suppose you can’t come in tomorrow instead to make up for the time you’ll be away?”

I pick my jaw up off the floor and say:

Me: “No. I need to be with my family. Because, you know, my grandfather just died?”

Manager: “Hmm. Are you sure you’re going to need so much time?”

I feel I behave extremely well in not dissolving into incoherent tears or screaming in her face as I explain that the logistics of travelling from coastal British Columbia to a small town in Saskatchewan for a funeral in late December (which I believe is the scientific opposite of fun) rather preclude the possibility that I can be back more than a couple days before New Year’s, when we’ll be in the post-Christmas lull anyway. 

After many sighs and another reminder that the loss of my last living grandparent is terribly inconvenient for my manager, I’m finally able to leave. 

There’s a shop across the hall whose employees often get coffee at my workplace. One of those employees sees me leaving in tears, runs out, and asks me what’s wrong.

Yup. Someone who’s also run off her a** during the Christmas rush takes time to notice a person she barely knows looking sad and comes over to comfort her. So, the idea that my boss was too harried and stressed to even say “I’m sorry for your loss” cuts very little ice with me.

My husband and I are visiting his sister, and their aunt and uncle from the other side of the country are in town as well, so we all go out to lunch together.

Aunt: *Pointing at my sister-in-law’s wrist.* “What’s that?”

Sister-In-Law: “It’s a bi Pride bracelet.”

Uncle: “I thought you were straight.”

Sister-In-Law: “Nope. Bisexual.”

Uncle: “Wait, did I know that already? Honey, did we know that?”

Aunt: “I don’t think so.”

Sister-In-Law: “Oh. I did tell Mum and Dad quite a while ago, but I guess they didn’t mention it to you.”

Me: “Why would they not tell them that?”

Sister-In-Law: “Well, Dad probably thought it wasn’t his business to say, and Mum probably just forgot.”

Me: “…You think your mother forgot that you came out to her?”

Sister-In-Law: “I mean, I routinely have to remind her that I’m lactose intolerant and what my husband does for a living. I don’t think it would stick unless my husband died and I started dating a woman. Even then, I’d probably have to bring a girlfriend over two Christmases in a row.”

Aunt: “I feel like I should defend my sister here, but just between us, that’s accurate.”

I’m a cashier at a liquor store. Two young men who appear to be under twenty-five come through my line with a case of beer and I card them, per policy. Both of them show ID from another country, which is fine. One of them is of age. For the other, I double-check the birthday and run the math in my head. Nope, underage.

Just to double-check:

Me: “Hey man, how old are you?”

Underage Guy: “Eighteen.”

Me: “Yup, no beer for you tonight.”

Underage Guy: “Wait, what? I’m eighteen!”

Me: “Legal age in this province is nineteen.” *I point to the sign that’s laminated onto the counter.* “I can’t sell it to you. Sorry, man.”

I do genuinely feel bad for him because he may have just made a mistake; eighteen is legal in some Canadian provinces, but not this one.

Underage Guy: “But I’ll be nineteen later this year.”

Me: “Are you nineteen now?”

Underage Guy: “Um…”

Me: “Come back on your birthday. Today, no.”

Other Guy: “What about me?”

Me: “Buying for someone who’s underage is illegal. No beer for you either.”

Other Guy: *Clearly trying to sound crafty.* “No, no, he just didn’t understand you. He’s totally nineteen.”

To the underage guy’s credit, he gives his friend a WTF look.

Me: “He just told me himself that he’s eighteen. Like three times.”

Other Guy: “He just doesn’t speak English well!”

Me: “So why doesn’t his ID say that? Math is the same in every language.”

Other Guy: “Look, there’s a misunderstanding here.”

Me: “Oh, okay. So, you guys are from Venezuela? Habla espanol?”

I don’t speak Spanish at all; my accent is pretty terrible. The other guy starts grinning.

Other Guy: “Si!”

Me: “No problem. Hey, Eduardo!”

Coworker: *In a clear Venezuelan accent.* “What’s up?”

Me: “So, totally random, these guys are also from Venezuela! Can you explain to them that one of them is underage and they must think I’m an idiot not to understand… oh, they left. How do you say, ‘what a pity’ in Spanish?”

I used to work overnight “graveyard” shifts at a popular Canadian hardware/automotive/everything else store. Because of the hours I worked, chatting with the other staff was pretty much the closest I came to having a social life. As such, I would usually show up somewhat early for my shift to catch up and socialize.

One particular evening, I’m hanging out near customer service, and notice that they seem rather harried. A customer is waiting at the customer service desk, and it turns out he’s there to pick up a go-kart that he’d ordered and had been phoned and told had arrived.

It transpired that he’d been there waiting for some time (quite patiently!), while both of the young women working in customer service were searching for his go-kart.

This particular store had a “hold” room behind customer service, where 95% of customer orders were put when they came in. The remaining 5% ended up being left in the warehouse at the back of the store. (No real rhyme or reason, I guess some warehouse staff couldn’t be bothered to bring those items up to the front.)

When I started paying attention, one of the customer service women had just come back from checking the hold room for the second time. The other one had checked the hold room once and had also searched the warehouse. They were just in the process of explaining to the customer that he must have been phoned in error, when I stepped in and offered to have a quicker search. It’s a go-kart: it can’t be that hard to find, right?

I headed to the hold room and quickly found the go-kart. It turned out that, being a large item (this was a fully rideable one, not a little remote control), it was, surprise, surprise, in a large box. This box was lying across the doorway, literally blocking the access to the rest of the hold room.

Between them, the customer service women had CLIMBED OVER the go-kart six times (three in, three out), without being able to find it.

I hauled it out to the very happy customer, and took my opinion of our customer service staff down a level.

I have a bit of a medical background and am always asked questions on first aid and such. My husband is having a weird conversation on the phone with his mom, and turns to ask me mid-conversation.

Husband: “What is the name of that disease that makes you old before your time?”

Me: “Parenthood?”

Husband: *Laughs.* “You deserve a kiss for that!”