I get a call from my mother-in-law:

Mother-In-Law: “My Outlook is no longer downloading my emails!”

Me: “What is it doing?”

Mother-In-Law: “Nothing! Come and fix it!”

Me: “No messages or anything popping up?”

Mother-In-Law: “Nothing! Come and fix it!”

I sigh and once again curse the fact that my family sees me as free tech support because I helped install someone’s printer once.

I go to my in-law’s house and ask my mother-in-law to show me what she’s doing. There was an error message as Outlook started, but she dismissed it before I could read it.

Me: “Okay, restart Outlook and this time don’t click the ‘OK’ button so I can read the message.”

The message said that her version of Outlook was no longer compatible with Gmail and would not be able to connect, as well as what steps to take to continue to use Gmail with Outlook.

I just gave her a disappointed look and walked away, with the error message still on the screen.

Mother-In-Law: “Don’t you give me that look!”

Me: “Why? That’s the look you always give me.”

Mother-In-Law: “I asked you for your help!”

Me: “I already did, by making you read the message on screen, the one you said wasn’t popping up. It literally told you it wasn’t going to work and told you how to fix it, and you ignored it.”

I went home after that to fix dinner for my kids. Apparently, she called my husband after I left because he came home laughing, saying, “So you made my mom mad by forcing her to read?”

This story reminded me of my own.

If the weather is good, I go to the Chicago Botanic Gardens at least once a week, usually on a Wednesday after work. It’s open until eight in the summer, and I get there just after five, so I have almost three hours to myself in the beautiful gardens.

One day, I’m debating where to go, and I’m heading through the entryway, when I’m stopped by a middle-aged woman with a walker.

Woman: “Excuse me, can you help me? I’m trying to find the Sensory Gardens.”

Me: “Sure thing! I was just heading in that direction myself.”

Woman: “Oh, no need, just point me in the right direction, I’ll get there. Eventually.”

She waves at the walker and tells me some of her muscular and neurological issues. A little TMI, but having had a stroke at a very young age (and having family with issues much like hers), I feel responsible to help.

Me: “Nonsense. I’ll walk with you.”

At one point, we’re trudging, and she says her hands are going numb, which leads to her arms going numb, which leads to her legs going numb.

Me: “How can I help? What can I do?”

Woman: “Is there a bench nearby? If I rest for a few minutes, I’ll be fine.”

Me: “Certainly! Let me see… There are a few benches a little up that hill. Do you want me to bring one down for you?”

Woman: “Oh, yes.”

Me: “You got it!”

Woman: “No! I was kidding! You don’t have to drag it down here! Please. How DARE you make my life easier!”

Me: “Hey, I try! You okay if I run off to the Train Exhibit for a minute? I just want to take a look. I’ll bring back photos!”

We then spend the next three hours together. She’s in her mid-60s, I’m in my late 30s, but we have so much in common anyway that it’s hard to speak with our laughter.

She does go very slowly, and she apologizes almost every two minutes. I tell her to stop apologizing and to look at those trees! Look at these flowers! Do you want to get a photo over there? How about by this wall?

We end up in the Sensory Garden (eventually), but we’ve made friends, we’ve taken pictures, I’ve shared my life with her, and she has shared her life with me. At the end, we hug, and we promise to go again next week.

That was the last time I saw her at the Gardens – because the Wednesdays we’ve planned have been so blasted bad! We’ve been getting dinner instead. Last night we had ramen, and I introduced her to croquettes!

I work in a fancy-ish chocolaterie. All our chocolates are individually made in small batches and sold in small bags.

Customer: “Oh! What are those? They look nice.”

Me: “They’re our take on peanut butter cups. We grind the peanuts ourselves into a fine paste and then coat it in chocolate. It’s very simple.”

The customer looks disappointed.

Customer: “Uh… that’s it?”

Me: “Well, there’s a pinch of salt too, but yeah, it’s pretty much just roasted peanuts. That’s how most organic peanut butter is made.”

Customer: “Can I try one?”

Normally we don’t do samples, but I figure this person needs to know what simple peanut butter can taste like.

Me: “Sure.”

They try one, and their disappointment intensifies.

Customer: “These taste nothing like peanut butter cups!”

Me: “Well, the mass-produced ones include added sugar, emulsifiers, and preservatives.”

Customer: “Exactly. Make some of these with some of those things, and maybe I’ll come back.”

Me: “Well, the beauty of small batch chocolate making is that we don’t need any of that.”

Customer: “Hmm. Whatever. What are those?”

Me: “Chocolate wafer bars. Our take on KitKats.”

Customer: “Is everything here just “your take” or do you sell actual candy bars?”

Me: “There’s a 7-Eleven two blocks down that sells those.”

Customer: *Leaving.* “Finally! You tell me something useful!”

They walk out, talking about “finally getting some good food.”

So tonight was a little slow. We’re not the type of place that you go for St. Patrick’s Day. But when I say slow, it was still busy, just slow by our standards… we’re one of the busiest restaurants in town (we’re a national chain, one of the busiest locations in the company).

I was the Manager On Duty tonight. We close at 11 PM, and by 9:30 PM, we had just our closers working (two cooks, a dishie, a bartender, and three servers… one for each section).

At around 10:30 PM, I come out of the office and look towards the lobby, where I see a very large group of people gathering. I immediately head in that direction. The conversation that I walked into the middle of went something like this:

Leader Of The Group: “We should have a reservation.”

Bartender: “I’m sorry, we don’t take reservations. How many in your group?”

Leader Of The Group: “A lot.”

Bartender: “We can’t put anything together for you until we know how many you have.”

Leader Of The Group: “Okay, it’s probably about seventy.”

Bartender: “I’m sorry, how many did you say?”

I arrived at the podium just at that last part. 

The bartender’s reaction (basically your classic jaw-drop), along with my blank stare, made an impact. Before I could speak, the bartender said:

Bartender: “You do know we close in about thirty minutes?”

Leader Of The Group: *To his group.* “Come on, guys, let’s just go to [restaurant next door].”

He turned around, and a bunch of them followed, but not all. I let them go without dispute.

Now faced with a much smaller group, who were willing to break into sub-groups, we got around to seating them. We ended up with about thirty-five to forty of them, and spread them around among the three servers, and I headed immediately into the kitchen to alert the guys.

Unhappy, they stepped out for a quick smoke before the chaos, so I manned the line. The orders started coming in before they returned, so I started cooking, and the guys came back just before all the main orders came in.

The three of us pounded out all of the food quickly, then I ran around to expo the trays up and help run food… then jumped out on the floor to help bus tables (the ones that were lingering when the group arrived had now left).

We got the entire group in and out within about forty-five minutes.

Amazing teamwork got the job done. Unfortunately for the cooks, the late rush reversed most of the cleanup they had done, so we all got done late, but I was proud of the job they all did.

But seriously, who brings seventy people into a restaurant thirty minutes before close?

A little old lady comes waddling past me at the checkouts, empty-handed, and leans over to say something to me as she passes. She looks like she’s about to whisper, but then she blurts out loud enough for everyone nearby to hear:

Customer: “I clogged the toilet.”

Me: “Oh… uh…”

Customer: “But don’t worry! I used more paper to cover my poo!”

She continues waddling out, happy as anything.

Me: “Thank… you?”