Many years ago — I want to say in 2012 or so — I began getting calls on my cell phone for a “Harold Rasmussen”. That wasn’t my name — not even close. The calls were from a debt collector, and they were always the same: a pre-recorded diatribe about how this Harold owed them money, they were going to go after him, etc.

At first, I ignored them, reasoning that someone had made a mistake. When they persisted, I hit zero to talk to a human, and I explained (nicely) that they had the wrong person. I remember chuckling and saying, “Now, I know that is exactly what a deadbeat would say to get out of paying money they owe, but I assure you, I’m not the guy you’re looking for. I’m not even a guy. Plus, I’ve had this number for a very long time. Harold must have given you the wrong number.” The person I talked to apologized and said that they’d make a note, and we parted on good terms.

Well, the calls kept coming. I did everything I could think of, including reporting them to the Better Business Bureau. (Yes, yes, I know, that doesn’t do anything. But I was desperate!)

The calls stopped, I thought, “Hooray!”, and I went on with my life.

Fast-forward to 2023. I once again got a robocall for Harold, demanding that I pay what I owed. I couldn’t believe it. After all that time, it was happening AGAIN. I hit zero once more and had this conversation.

Me: “I need you people to stop calling me. I am not Harold Rasmussen. I have never been Harold Rasmussen. I don’t owe you any money!”

Employee: “I’m sorry—”

Me: “I’m not finished. I’ve been getting these calls for over a decade. Do you understand why I’m upset?”

Employee: “Yes—”

Me: “And are you going to stop calling me?”

Employee: “Yes, ma’am. I’ve made a note—”

Me: “Oh, no. I was fed the ‘note’ bulls*** in 2012, and it didn’t do any good. I need more than a ‘note’. I need you to promise that I will never, never get a call from you people again. Otherwise, I’m going to raise all kinds of h***. Do you understand me? Do you?”

Employee: *Meekly* “Yes, ma’am. I’ve removed your number from our records. Uh… it will take a day for the change to take effect, so you might get another call in the meantime, but that will be the last one.”

Me: *Calming down* “You promise?”

Employee: “Yes, ma’am, I promise.”

Me: “Okay. I’m sorry that I yelled at you. I know it’s not your fault. I got frustrated and took it out on you. Again, I’m sorry.”

Employee: “That’s okay, ma’am.”

I wasn’t proud of myself for losing my temper with that employee, but it seems to have done the trick. It’s been over a year and no more calls. Fingers crossed.

I used to have a coworker who was a nice lady but a little naïve and sometimes slow on the uptake. One morning, I came into work yawning.

Me: “I didn’t sleep well last night. [Husband] was snoring, and it kept me awake.”

Coworker: “Was he lying on his back? That often causes snoring.”

Me: “Yes.”

Coworker: “Then there’s a simple solution to that. Just attach something to the back of his pyjamas, like a tennis ball. That way, when he tries to flip onto his back, it’ll be uncomfortable.”

Me: “Uh… thanks, [Coworker].”

She noticed my hesitation and got a little defensive.

Coworker: “Seriously! My mum did that to my dad. Problem solved! Why don’t you want to try it?”

Me: “It won’t work for my husband.”

Coworker: “Why not?”

I was thinking, “Why did I start this conversation?”

Me: “He, um, doesn’t wear pyjamas.”

Coworker: “Huh? Everyone wears pyjamas!”

Me: “He doesn’t.”

Neither do I, but I wasn’t about to say that.

Coworker: *Uncomprehending* “I don’t understand. If he doesn’t wear pyjamas to bed, what does he wear?”

Me: “…”

Comprehension finally dawned. She went beet-red and changed the subject.

One week later:

Coworker: “You seem tired today.”

Me: “Yeah, my husband was snoring again.”

Coworker: “I bet he was sleeping on his back. You know what you should do? Attach something to the back of his pyjamas, like a tennis ball!”

Me: *Sighs*

My coworker and I are in a meeting room, waiting for the other meeting attendees to arrive.

Me: “Just to let you know, I’m taking next Monday off.”

Coworker: “Oh?”

Me: “Yes, it’s my wedding anniversary on Sunday, and my husband and I always celebrate with a big bottle of champagne. I’m anticipating being a bit worse-for-wear on Monday morning—” *laughs self-deprecatingly* “—so I decided it’d be best if I didn’t work that day.”

Coworker: “Is that so?”

She screws up her face as if she’s sucked a lemon.

Coworker: “And here I didn’t know that you were a drinker.”

Me: *Slightly stunned* “Uh… I wouldn’t have put it quite like that, but I do enjoy a drink every now and again, yes.”

She looks me up and down, lips pursed.

Coworker: “Hmm. You hide it well, I’ll give you that.”

Me: “…”

That coworker was always cold to me after that. I’m pretty sure that she thought I had a bottle of Scotch hidden in my desk or something.

My dad could be a strange man, and once he got an idea into his head, it was next to impossible to get rid of it.  

He and Mum lived in a different province. We spoke on the phone every Sunday, but on this particular occasion I was calling on a Saturday, because I had good news that I wanted to share. This is how the conversation went down:

Dad: “Hello?”

Me: “Hi, Dad! I’ve got news! Can you ask Mum to get on the extension so that I can tell you both at the same time?”

Dad: *Immediately suspicious.* “What’s wrong?”

Me: “Nothing! It’s good news, honest. Now, can you put Mum on the extension?”

Dad: “Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

Me: “Nothing is wrong, Dad!”

Dad: “I don’t believe you. You wouldn’t be calling on a Saturday unless you were in trouble of some kind. Now tell me what it is, and I’ll tell your mother.”

We went back and forth like this for a few minutes, with me insisting with increasing desperation that there was nothing wrong, and Dad refusing to go get Mum until I ‘fessed up. Finally, almost in tears from frustration, I snapped:

Me: “Oh for God’s sake! [Boyfriend] and I got engaged last night! I wanted to tell you and Mum together, and now I can’t, because you wouldn’t let me! Happy?”

There was a stunned silence, followed by a meek: 

Dad: “Oh… I’ll go get your mother.”

I was shopping at a Canadian department store back in the 1990s. There was an entire floor for men’s clothes. I think there was a cash register at each stairwell, and customers were supposed to pay when they left the floor

I picked out some clothes to buy and went to the cash register. There was nobody there. Not a big deal. I headed to another cash register and kept an eye out for somebody stocking shelves.

There was nobody at the second cash register either. I thought, “Salespeople must be out on the floor. I will just have to find somebody to take my money.”

Eventually, I realized I had spent a lot of time wandering around the menswear floor, carrying around some clothes, and trying to find somebody to take money away from me.

I eventually started to get frustrated, but at that point, I had invested a lot of effort in these clothes and I didn’t want to abandon them.

I eventually noticed that there were other men on the floor doing the same thing — desperately searching for somebody to take money from us.

Finally, it was spontaneous. We all just threw the clothes in a pile on the floor and left.

The very worst customer service is not being there to take the customer’s money.