(Some friends and I are attending a small party held at a park in the afternoon. We soon realize that we have forgotten all of the utensils and plates. We don’t need much, so we decide to go to a fast food restaurant to get some drinks and the necessary supplies. We are pulling through the drive-thru.)

Employee: “Hello, and thanks for choosing [Restaurant]. What can we get for you today?”

(I order some drinks, and at the very end I ask for the supplies we need.)

Me: “Also, can we get some of your foam bowls, and some sporks?”

Employee: “You want some bowls?”

Me: “Yes. The ones that you use for cheesy potatoes. Could we get five of them?”

Employee: “You want cheesy potatoes?”

Me: “No, I just want the foam bowl that they come in.”

(The employee then adds cheesy potatoes to the order screen.)

Employee: “Anything else for you today?”

Me: “No, but I don’t want cheesy potatoes, I just want the foam bowl that they come in. Don’t ring it up; I just want the bowl.”

Employee: “But if you want the potatoes, I’ll have to ring it up.”

Me: “Okay, imagine that you have a bowl of cheesy potatoes in your hand. Now, take away the sour cream, the nacho cheese, and the potatoes. What is left in your hand?”

Employee: “Nothing?”

(At this point, I’ve given up explaining.)

Me: “All right, how about you take off the cheesy potatoes from the order, and I’ll explain at the window?”

Employee: “Uh, all right.”

(We pull forward, only to find that this employee is either drunk, high, or both. She’s barely lucid.)

Me: “Can we talk with a manager?”

(The manager arrives quickly.)

Manager: “What’s the problem?”

Me: “We just want some foam bowls. The ones you use for cheesy potatoes.”

Manager: “How many?”

Me: “Just five, and some sporks”

(He grabbed the items and sent us on our way. I’m still astounded that her manager allowed her to work in that condition!)

(I’ve been searching for a job for a while and have gotten hired at a place that does at-home presentations. It’s my first day, and I’m paired with one of the senior trainers who’s been told to take me around his assigned territory.)

Trainer: “So, just to let you know, I got a DUI last week, so forgive me that I have to do the stupid breathalyzer thing every time I start my car up.”

(We get into his car, which is overloaded with trash, and the trainer grumbles about how it wasn’t his fault, his friend spiked his drinks, the police were bullying him, and so on, as he blows into the ignition interlock that’s been fitted. I try to ignore this, telling myself I need this job, I’m a good salesman, and once I get the gist of this I can drive my own car from place to place. For most of the day, the trainer just runs me through the gauntlet of what to say for each presentation, how we receive calls from potential customers, the sheets we have to fill out for each house we visit, etc. Every so often he brings up again how he’s not to blame for the DUI, and curses the police whenever he has to blow into the ignition interlock; however, things don’t go south until later in the afternoon, when the trainer suddenly stops in the middle of telling me something and looks at his rear-view mirror.)

Trainer: “D*** it! No, please, not now!”

(I look behind us and notice a cop car with their lights flashing. The trainer keeps cursing as he pulls over and turns to me.)

Trainer: “Okay, look. I need you to do me a favor. Tell the officer this is your car and you’re just letting me drive it!”

Me: “What?”

Trainer: “I have expired license plates! I can’t let that be added to my record, too!”

Me: “Wait, what about your registration?”

Trainer: “It’s expired, too! So is my license! Look, just tell this guy it’s your car! I’m begging you!”

Me: “I can’t do that!”

Trainer: “You don’t understand! I can’t go back to jail again!”

(The cop knocks on the window.)

Trainer: “Remember, this is your car!”

(He rolls the window down and repeats the same thing he just told me. The cop looks at me questioningly.)

Me: “This isn’t my car.”

(The trainer ended up being arrested on the spot, because his expired license meant he shouldn’t have been on the road at all. The cop let me go after confirming my identity and my statement that I did not own the car, and I ended up having to catch the bus back to the office, since I’d left my own vehicle there. I quit that job shortly after.)

(At my family’s Christmas dinner, my uncle is talking to my cousin. His mom — my grandma — hears them, and asks this gem.)

Grandma: “Oh, you know [Cousin]?”

Uncle: “Yes, Mom. He’s my son.”

Me: *snorts into potatoes from a table away*

(In her defence, she’s 80 years old with eight kids. Not exactly easy to keep track.)

(I’m working at a small public library around the holidays, and while shelving books one day, I notice a man, his wife, and their two small children enter the library. The dad and mom are both wearing shirts with Hebrew script on them, and as a Jewish person who also studied Hebrew in college, I am able to mentally translate the words on their shirts from Hebrew into English: “Daddy” and “Mommy,” respectively. As they near the shelf where I’m working, I smile at the father.)

Me: “Excuse me, sir. I like your shirt!”

Dad: “Oh! Thanks! It means ‘dad’ in Hebrew!”

Me: “I thought so. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone in the U.S. wearing clothing with Hebrew text on it before. That’s really cool.”

Dad: “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who could READ Hebrew text before!”

(He smiles and returns to his family as I resume shelving books. A few minutes later, I see that the family is preparing to leave the library, and cheerfully wish them a happy Hanukkah as they pass. The parents abruptly stop and the father turns to look at me.)

Dad: “What did you say?”

Me: “Happy Hanukkah, sir.”

Dad: “Happy HANUKKAH?”

Me: *realizing that I’ve made an admittedly unfair assumption and that, based on his reaction, it was the wrong one to make* “Oh, I’m sorry. I just assumed-”

Dad: “What? You thought we were Jews or something?”

Me: “I thought, because of the Hebrew…”

Dad: *visibly irate* “Yeah, you thought I was a Jew. Do I LOOK like a Jew to you?”

Me: “Well, I—”

Dad: “We are a good CHRISTIAN family, thanks. We aren’t sinners. What, you think CHRISTIANS can’t speak Hebrew?”

Me: *with genuine remorse, kicking myself internally* “Of course, sir, I’m sorry. That was a dumb thing to assume. You’re right. Anybody can speak Hebrew.”

Dad: “You’re god-d*** right anybody can speak Hebrew, ESPECIALLY Christians! It was OUR language first!”

Me: “…”

Dad: “I think I’ll need to speak to your supervisor.”

(I go to fetch the branch manager, still kicking myself all the way.)

Manager: “Is there something I can help you with, sir?”

Dad: “Yes! This employee insinuated that I was a Jew!”

Manager: *taken aback* “She did what?”

Dad: “She called me a Jew!”

Me: *as my manager turns to question me* “I wished them Happy Hanukkah because I noticed the Hebrew lettering on their shirts. I apologized. It was a genuine mistake.”

Dad: “Oh, that’s not good enough! We’re GOOD CHRISTIANS. We don’t deserve to be treated like…”

Me: “…Jews?”

Dad: “Yes!” *to my manager* “What are you going to do about this?”

Manager: “Well, sir, I think—”

Dad: “Erase our library fines.”

Manager: “Excuse me?”

Dad: “Our library fines. Erase them. It’s the least you can do.”

Manager: “I can’t do that, sir. I’m sorry. My employee has apologized and I guarantee that she and I will have a conversation about this later. I’m deeply sorry that she offended you, but there’s nothing more I can do for you.”

(After some huffing and puffing, he goes back down about the fines, but lingers near the front doors for a while, finally turning to glare at me.)

Dad: “Well?”

Me: “I’m sorry…?”

Dad: “Aren’t you going to wish us a MERRY CHRISTMAS? That’s what the season is actually for, you know. It’s CHRIST-mas, none of this Hanukkah bull-s***, and not ‘Happy Holidays,’ either, but CHRIST-mas!”

Me: “…Merry Christmas, sir.”

(He grinned smugly and stormed out of the library with his family in tow.)

(After our son is born:)

Nurse: *to my wife* “And I’m just confirming that the baby is covered by your insurance for at least 21 days?”

Wife: “Yes, that’s correct.”

(Later:)

Doctor #1: “Hi, Mom & Dad! Congratulations! I’m [Doctor] and just here to look over the little guy. Oh, he’s a cutie!” *examines the baby for five minutes* “Well, everything looks good. Congratulations again!”

(Even later:)

Doctor #2: “Hello! I’m [Doctor #2]. I’m here to examine [something else] with your son. Congratulations, by the way! Oh, he’s a handsome guy!” *examines baby for five minutes* “Well, everything looks good. He seems to be doing great!”

(Later still:)

Doctor #3: “He’s doing great, but his levels aren’t quite where we would really like them to be. I’m going to keep you guys here for another night to monitor him.”

(Months later we start seeing bills from pediatricians whose names we didn’t recognize at all for “neonatal exam” and other odd things. Two years later our daughter is born in the same hospital.)

Nurse: *to my wife* “And I’m just confirming that the baby is covered by your insurance for at least 21 days?”

Wife: “No, I’m on a self-funded plan so that isn’t the case. We’ll be putting her on the state-based Medicaid plan with her brother and coverage will be retroactive to her birthday.”

(Later, as in less than 24 hours after the birth:)

Nurse: “Looks like you guys get to go home today! Just so you know, her levels aren’t quite where we would want them to be so you’ll need to set up an appointment with your primary care pediatrician to have her checked within the next day. Congratulations again!”

(The next day at our pediatrician’s office:)

Pediatrician: “Why in the world would they discharge you with her levels like this? This is very concerning to me. She needed another night in the hospital. Did any pediatricians at the hospital look at her?”

Wife: “Just one. Weird, because last time we saw like four or five; they’d just pop in and we’d never see them again.”

Pediatrician: “These numbers are not good. We need to get her to the ER today.”

(Off to the ER (at a different hospital) and our new-born daughter had to stay the night for some urgent treatment. She’s fine now but the lesson is learned that we mention Medicaid to the hospital with extreme caution.)