My grandfather worked in Human Resources for forty years and freely shared his stories about his work. As a result, by the time I’m about ten, I have a visceral loathing of all Human Resources workers and am fully convinced their sole job is to f*** over good, hard-working employees. 

I make it very clear to my manager when I am hired that I will never, ever speak to Human Resources about anything unless TWO other witnesses — preferably managers — are present. If HR wants to contact me about something that isn’t life-threatening, they can send me an email. 

Most of HR is cool with that, but one HR person views it as the worst insult possible. They demand an in-person meeting. I tell them it will be held in my manager’s office. 

My manager, another manager, and I are waiting for the crazy HR person. 

HR Person: “Why do you insist on us sending you emails? It’s so much easier to talk!”

Me: “Emails leave a written record. You can’t mishear an email.”

HR Person: “But it’s so much work to type out an email!”

My Manager: “For the length of a typical work email, it takes one minute to type.”

HR Person: “But I’m used to just talking!”

Manager #2: “You’ll get used to typing really soon.”

[HR Person] stood up and kicked a hole in the wall. [Manager #2] typed a quick email and snapped a photo of the damage. [HR Person] was escorted out of the building ten minutes later. My opinion about HR being psychotic, evil scumbags was confirmed.

I am fixing some disorganized shelves in the bookstore when I overhear my female coworker talking to a male customer.

Customer: “Actually, you should have these programming books in the science section, not electronics. It’s a very complicated profession and involves good math and science skills. You have to be very intelligent.”

Coworker: “Yes, I’m studying programming at college.”

Customer: “Oh… really? Well, maybe you haven’t got to the hard stuff yet. Y’see, in programming, when—”

The customer then goes on a long-winded explanation of what it “takes” to be a programmer.

Customer: “And that’s what a programming language is.”

Coworker: “That’s amazing!”

Customer: “And I had to learn all of that in a year.”

Coworker: “Wow! You’re so smart! Good job.”

The poor customer has no idea she’s being sarcastic. She finally gets him to finish and buy the d*** book. I walk over to the counter after the customer is gone.

Me: “What an obnoxious mansplainer!” 

Coworker: “Oh, I like it when men try to explain the most simple components of the subject I’m about to get my degree in. I kind of treat them like toddlers. ‘Good job, little guy! You’re so smart!’ Only one of us is being condescending, and it’s not him.”

I’m currently job hunting in Brazil, and I get lucky and am able to score an interview in a lab. I arrange with the professor in charge to interview on a certain day, but she warns me that things might have to change as her father is going to have surgery. I say that of course that is not a problem and I hope I will see her soon.

The day before my interview, I get an email from the professor saying that her father “faleceu”, which I understand to mean that there have been some complications and she needs to be there to take care of him, so she needs to reschedule the interview. I send an email back saying it’s not a problem and wishing the best of luck to her father.

Later at lunch, I mention this to my boyfriend, and he asks to check the email. He is a native Portuguese speaker, while I am still learning but at a decent level. He then turns to me with a look of complete horror.

Boyfriend: “[My Name], her father didn’t worsen. He died! Please tell me you didn’t wish for him to get better!”

Me: “Not exactly. I didn’t wish him the best of luck, though.”

Cue frantic scrambling by both of us to draft an email begging for forgiveness and asking if I could start again. Luckily, it was clear from the CV I had submitted that Portuguese wasn’t my first language

I got the first interview, and I don’t think I did too badly as I got a call back for the job. Lesson learned, though: always double-check unfamiliar words before replying to emails.

I have my mom’s small, deep veins. I still try to donate blood and plasma if I can, and I’ve had some ongoing health concerns for years. I’ve gotten very used to being turned into a pincushion whenever I need blood drawn. Usually, the techs get the vein after a few attempts, but it’s not uncommon for me to be in pain and/or bruised following bloodwork. Remarkably, I have yet to faint or develop a phobia.

I have some lab work scheduled and need a blood draw. I offer the arm I’ve been told is better, look away, and start taking deep breaths. I’m focused on breathing, but eventually, I realize I don’t feel anything, so I look over at the nurse. She’s wrapping my arm and has the filled vial next to her!

Me: *Incredulously* “How’d you do that?! I’m used to people sticking me a bunch of times!”

Nurse: *Without missing a beat* “That’s ‘cause they suck.”

I work in a high-theft area, and we often have issues with people trying to pass counterfeit bills. In my counterfeit bill training, the first thing I learned was that $100 bills from before 1996 are out of circulation due to not having any of the modern security measures, and if, for some reason, someone still has one, accepting it as payment — even if it’s not counterfeit — is against the law.

I’m helping a customer refill a prepaid card. She hands me a stack of hundred-dollar bills, and I take them and mark them and then check for ghosts, as I was taught. Out of habit, I check the dates on all of them, and I do a double-take.

I speak in a friendly “I know this isn’t your fault, but there’s an issue” voice.

Me: “Oh. I apologize, but I can’t accept this bill.”

Customer: “Why not?”

Me: “Because it’s from 1988 and should have been removed from circulation years ago. We can’t accept anything from before 1996.”

Customer: “Really? But I just got it from the bank!”

Me: *Trying not to laugh* “Oh! Well, I would like to know which bank is breaking federal law! You should change your bank!”

Customer: “I mean, I got it from the ATM!”

Me: *Holding back tears* “Well, then, you should take it to the bank, and they’ll sort this out for you!”

Customer: “Are you sure you can’t…”

Me: “Sorry, but I like my job. But I’m positive that if it’s all just an innocent mistake, then the bank will definitely be able to help you.”

After she leaves…

Coworker: “You know that’s probably fake, right?”

Me: “Oh, most definitely.”

Coworker: “You know the bank doesn’t replace fake bills, right?”

Me: “Oh, I know. But I’m not telling her that. She lied to my face twice. ATM? Really? When was the last time you got anything larger than a twenty from an ATM?”

Coworker: “Now that you mention it…”