Our bookstore sells a wide selection of manga volumes. They usually come tightly sealed in plastic wrap to keep them pristine.

Customer: “I’m looking for volume fourteen of [Manga].”

Me: “Our system says we have one left in stock. It should still be on the shelves. Would you like help finding it?”

Customer: “Yeah, I went there already, but you don’t have it.”

We go to where the volume should be, but he’s right; volume fourteen is nowhere to be found.

Me: “I’m afraid I can’t seem to find a copy of that book, sir.”

Customer: “You said you had one in stock!”

Me: “The system is telling me we do, but it’s likely that another customer has moved it. When we check the shelves later, I can call you if we come across wherever it’s been misplaced.”

Customer: “You’d better! I found a copy here a few minutes ago, and I don’t even work here!”

Me: “Wait, you found the copy of the book here already?”

Customer: “Yeah! I opened the plastic seal to check that it was what I was looking for, and it was.”

Me: “Then why didn’t you buy that?”

Customer: “Are you deaf? The plastic seal is broken! I want a new one!”

Me: “Where did you put the opened book?”

Customer: “I just tossed it on a shelf somewhere.”

Me: “…”

Customer: “So, are you gonna order me that book or what?”

Our library has a public cell phone number that patrons can use if they’d prefer to text in a query. The phone is in our office, and we all take turns checking it.

Me: “I’ve been getting a few texts recently confirming some appointments for a guy named Michael. I think he might be giving out our number by mistake.”

Manager: “Once maybe, but you said you got a few?”

Me: “Yeah, one for an eye exam, two restaurants, and a confirmation text for a ticket purchase to a football game.”

Manager: “Yeah, that’s weird. Sounds intentional.”

A couple of days later, we get a call on the public cell phone.

Patron: “Hey, I’ve been using your number for my appointments. Can I double-check if they changed my dinner on Thursday from six to seven as I requested in the app?”

Me: “You’re Michael?”

Patron: “Yeah.”

Me: “You’ve been using our number for all of your online appointments and reservations.”

Patron: “Yeah.”

Me: “Can I ask why?”

Patron: “Yeah, I need you to manage those for me. It gives me anxiety.”

Me: “No, we’re a library, not your secretary. We can’t manage your appointments for you.”

Patron: “But these are giving me anxiety! All you gotta do is just accept the invites that come to your number under my name and update my calendar for me. It’s so simple.”

Me: “If it’s so simple, why can’t you do that?”

Patron: “I get so much extra mail and calls when I give my number out.”

Me: “And why would we want our number to get that kind of unwanted exposure?”

Patron: “You’re a library! You guys need all the exposure!”

Me: “Sorry, but no.”

Patron: “So uncool, guys.”

The patron hangs up, but literally the next day, we receive a text confirming a dinner reservation at a fancy restaurant three months from now.

Me: “Are you serious? He’s done it again.”

Manager: “What came through?”

Me: “A dinner reservation for eight people at [Restaurant].”

Manager: “That place? That place is notoriously difficult to get into. I’m surprised they got a reservation for eight people.”

Me: “It’s three months out.”

Manager: “That explains it.”

Me: “What should we do?”

Manager: “Put it in our calendar, wait until the day before, and cancel the reservation.”

We applied that strategy to every appointment that Michael sent us. After the restaurant reservation, the texts mysteriously stopped coming in.

Related:
About To Be Dis-Appointed, Part 11
About To Be Dis-Appointed, Part 10
About To Be Dis-Appointed, Part 9
About To Be Dis-Appointed, Part 8
About To Be Dis-Appointed, Part 7

My youngest son worked at a glamping resort for a couple of summers. It was the kind of fancy where they had a helipad for guests who wanted to be flown onto the property instead of driving, surrounded by wilderness and beauty.

There was a French family staying there, booked in for a week or so, and it was nothing but complaints. They booked a suite that was above a stable and moaned about the smell. The paths through the forest were gravel instead of concrete or asphalt.

There was a myriad of endless complaints.

The father was ranting on about how terrible the resort was and how terrible Canada was and asking what Canada had ever done for France.

Son: “If it weren’t for Canada, you would be speaking German.”

They cut their trip short and tried to get a refund for the last days. The owner refused.

Related:
Blame Canada! Part 15
Blame Canada! Part 14
Blame Canada! Part 13
Blame Canada! Part 12
Blame Canada! Part 11

I have a giant tumor in my abdomen and pelvis. I’m also fairly slim, so it’s noticeable. At this point, I’d had a biopsy, but they sent me for a CT scan to see if it had spread to my chest.

When you get a CT scan, they have all the little boxes you have to tick to say whether you’re pregnant or not because it could harm the baby. But also, I was there literally because of the giant tumor in my abdomen. I ticked the boxes that I was definitely not pregnant, date of last period, etc.

I went in and laid down on the table thing. The doctor looked at my face, at my abdomen, and at his papers, and then started shuffling through them. Again, he looked at my face, at my abdomen, and back at his papers…

I lay there thinking, “Please don’t. Surely it says it on there. Please don’t do this.”

And sure enough…

Doctor: “Are you sure you’re not pregnant?”

Me: “It’s a tumor.”

He looked horrified and apologized profusely, but I burst out laughing because it was so awkwardly funny. I felt terrible, so I kept apologizing back, but it was so hard trying to stop laughing at the absolute horror on his face.

I’m 100% sure that poor man will remember me for years to come, and I’m very sorry.

This has become a common theme in my life right now: people thinking I’m pregnant and me word-vomiting, “Actually, it’s a tumor.” It’s getting awkward, but if they’d stop commenting on strangers’ bodies…?

Related:
¡Que Embarazada!, Part 4
¡Que Embarazada!, Part 3
¡Que Embarazada!, Part 2
¡Que Embarazada!

I’m pretty much the only geek in my grade, so whenever a teacher needs help, they come to me. This one teacher insisted on showing the IT guy her computer instead of me as the Wi-Fi wasn’t connecting.

Me: “You don’t need to show the IT guy your laptop.”

Teacher: “I will let the paid experts deal with my laptop instead of a student, thank you.”

I reached forward and simply switched the Wi-Fi switch from off to on.

The laptop connected to the Wi-Fi, and she gave me a detention.