(My roommate and I are shopping in a large store. She goes to find a CD while I peruse produce, and I follow her after a minute. I enter the electronics section.)
Employee: “Are you looking for anything particular tonight?”
Me: “Yeah, my roommate.”
Employee: *without missing a beat* “Second to last aisle.”
(I cracked up and thanked him, then went and found her exactly where he’d said she would be.)
(I’m at the drive-thru speaker and notice something new on the menu.)
Me: “What are spicy chicken bites?”
Employee: “Uh… they are bites of chicken, that are… kind of spicy?”
(I don’t know who should have felt more stupid, me or her.)
(It is September 16, 2001, five days after the terrorist attacks on the USA’s east coast. While we are 3000 miles from there, many people have friends or family who have been affected. Our computer store was supposed to have the new Mac OS available, but with plane flights suspended, we haven’t gotten it yet. One man is less than understanding, and is screaming at my coworker:)
Customer: “What do you mean, you don’t have it?! Your ad promised it would be here, and I reserved a copy weeks ago! How can you not have it?!”
(He pauses for breath and I put on my best “helpful customer service” voice.)
Me: “Sir, due to the terrorist attacks Tuesday, in which thousands of people died, shipping has been disrupted. Would you like to leave your name and number so we can call you when your order arrives?” *which we’d be doing for everyone who pre-ordered, anyway*
Customer: *after a long pause, blushes, and whispers* “No, thank you; I’ll check back later.”
(At least he had the grace to be embarrassed.)
(I work in a call center for a security company, and I have dealt with my fair share of interesting customers. This one was a first, though.)
Customer: “I need to get some information about my account.”
Me: “All right. Can I verify your code, please?”
Customer: “Oh, I’m not supposed to give that out…”
(Note that at this point, I have the customer’s information pulled up and I am literally staring right at her code. I just need it to verify that she is who she says she is. I’m taken aback by her response, and I say the only thing I can think to say.)
Me: “Um… I won’t tell anyone.”
(She gave me her code after that, but I think someone needs to tell her that it’s okay to give her code to her security company… which assigned her the code in the first place.)
As a kid, I had a flock of chickens that we tried to keep at 20 to 30 birds. We raised the birds for the eggs and for fun, so we took care of our sick and injured birds.
We bought two silkies — little puffball chickens — and they stuck together. One of the silkies, later named Frankenmonk — or Monk for short — ended up getting an eye infection and lost her eye around when she got a neck injury, so we put the two silkies in the garage while the one healed, and then returned them to the flock.
We didn’t know if Monk and Puff, the other silkie, were males or females as they are notoriously difficult to determine the gender on, but we knew that Puff took care of Monk. Wherever one was, the other was, too.
One day, one of our Rhode Island Red roosters — about four times the size of the silkies at the time — decided to breed with Monk, and as soon as he tried, Puff flung her body into the rooster, knocking him down. Puff and Monk then continued on their way as if nothing had happened.
In my six years of owning chickens, this is still one of my favorite memories.
