(I am the idiot customer in this story. The legal drinking age in Canada is nineteen, so it is quite common to have a fake ID when younger in order to get into bars and clubs. I am fifteen and have just gotten my first fake ID, and my friends and I are going to our first ever bar to celebrate. The sign at the bar reads, “Highballs on special $5.00.” Now, being fifteen, I have no idea what a highball is, and I assume it is the name of a specific cocktail or something like that.)

Me: “I’ll have one highball, please!”

(The large, burly, bartender looks at me suspiciously.)

Bartender: “Okay… Which one?”

Me: “Just… just one highball. The highball?”

Bartender: “Yes, and which highball, exactly, do you want?”

Me: *becoming totally flustered and trying to read the sign again for the name of a specific highball* “The sign says highballs are on special! I… I want that… from the sign! The… normal highball!”

Bartender: *clearly exasperated* “Miss, you can’t just walk in and order ‘a highball.’ That’s like walking into an ice cream shop and ordering ‘an ice cream.’ There’s vanilla, chocolate, pistachio, mint—”

Me: *completely flushed now, embarrassed, and terrified that I will be thrown out of the bar any minute now, in a shrill voice* “VANILLA, THEN! I’LL TAKE A VANILLA HIGHBALL!”

(A wealthy-looking, middle-aged woman comes into the nail salon while I’m waiting for my appointment.)

Customer: “Hello. I’m here for my one o’clock appointment with [Nail Tech].”

Receptionist: “Okay, if I could just get your name, please?”

Customer: “It’s [Customer].”

Receptionist: “Oh, no, it looks like you’re late for your appointment.”

Customer: *laughs, thinking the receptionist is joking* “I know it’s 1:10 right now, but you know how it can just get so busy!”

Receptionist: “No, I mean your appointment was booked for noon.”

Customer: “No, it wasn’t. I know for a fact that it was one o’clock.”

Manager: *takes over* “Ma’am, it’s written right here as being booked for 12:00 pm.”

Customer: “No, look.” *pulls out smartphone* “I have it written down here as… Oh. Oh, well. I guess the appointment was for noon. But I still need [Nail Tech] to do my mani-pedi now.”

Manager: “Ma’am, I’m very sorry, but [Nail Tech] is booked up all day. However, we can have another employee help you at this time.”

Customer: “No, that won’t do. I must have [Nail Tech]. Anyone else is a waste of my time and money!”

Manager: “Well, we can book a new appointment with [Nail Tech] for another day.”

Customer: “No. I have a party tonight and I need my nails done before then! Can’t you just… give me someone else’s appointment with [Nail Tech], and schedule them with someone else?”

Manager: *starting to get impatient* “No, ma’am, we can’t do that.”

Customer: “You should have called me, then! I live only a couple of blocks away! If you’d have called me when I missed my appointment, then I would have been here on time!”

Manager: “We would have called you, ma’am, but you never gave us your phone number.”

Customer: “Well, I never! I guess I just won’t have my nails done for my dinner, then! I hope you feel bad about this!” *storms off in a huff*

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(I’m the customer in this story. I am Caucasian, of Irish and Scottish descent, and have extremely pale skin.)

Me: “Hi. Do you have melanin?”

Pharmacy Worker: “Sorry?”

Me: “Melanin, do you guys carry it?”

Pharmacy Worker: “No, I don’t think so.”

Me: “Drat, are you sure? My doctor told me I should get some before I went on my trip.”

Pharmacy Worker: “I don’t think it works like that.”

Me: “With respect, I’m going to listen to my doctor about how to treat my jet lag.”

Pharmacy Worker: “Jet lag? OH! You mean melatonin!“

Me: “Yes! Wait, did I say, ‘melanin’? Oh, my God, oops.”

(Melatonin is a sleep-related hormone you can buy over the counter in Canada; melanin is the compound that darkens your skin when you tan. I may be a bit short on melanin, but I wasn’t expecting to buy it at the pharmacy!)

Me: “Hey, can I please have a large earl grey?”

Barista: “Yes. Sweetened?”

Me: “No.”

Barista: “What?”

Me: “No, not sweetened. Thanks.”

Barista: “Okay. Sweetened?”

Me: “No, I don’t want it sweetened.”

Barista: “You ordered the earl grey, right?”

Me: “Yes.”

Barista: “Sweetened.”

(At this point, I’m looking around at the other barista because this is getting ridiculous.)

Other Barista: *comes to the register* “It’s $3.10.”

(Yup, I felt very stupid.)

(I’m a female working as a technician at a popular electronics store. I have just completed a technical appointment with a nice older couple, likely in their late 60s or early 70s, from New Zealand, with very thick accents. They are very pleasant people, and they tell me how much they’re loving their time in Canada. After their appointment:)

Woman: “Can you tell me if there’s a sex shop around?”

Me: *a bit taken aback by the question, but not one to judge* “Oh, yes, there are plenty in this area. I’ll show you on a map on one of our computers.” *takes them over to one of the store computers and types “sex shop” into maps search*

Woman: *bursts out laughing* “Oh, no no no, dear! I was asking about Saaaaaks. As in ‘Saks Off Fifth!’”

(She is referring to Saks department store, which we don’t have in Canada. I’m blushing profusely and the husband and wife are cracking up.)

Me: “Well… you never know… It made sense; you two are on vacation.” *laughs* “No, we don’t have that store in Canada.”

(All three of us were laughing so hard, I had to quickly make sure to close the open browser window with the nearest “sex shops” shown on the map. This was about five years ago and I still crack up every time I think of it.)