(My family and I are on vacation and visiting the national park, where my step-grandmother works at the ticket booth. Apparently, a lot of people think that the tour tickets you can purchase before entering will get you into the park for free. My step-grandmother is off work, and is in the back seat of the car. She decides to pull a little prank on her coworker and hands my dad the tour tickets.)

Step-Grandmother: “Hey, give these to the lady at the booth and say, ‘These will get us in for free, right?'”

(My dad decides to go along with the joke as we approach the booth.)

Dad: “Oh, we have tour tickets. They get us in for free.”

Coworker: *already irritated* “No they do not, sir.”

Dad: “What? Yes they do!”

Coworker: “No they do NOT!”

Dad: “Well I can’t believe this! They’re supposed to get us in for free! She said they’d get us in for free!”

Coworker: “Oh yeah? Who said?”

Dad: “[Step-Grandmother].”

Coworker: “[Step-Grandmother]… oh!”

(We roll down the back window to reveal my step-grandmother. The coworker sees her and cracks up, followed by everyone in the car as well as a coworker in the other ticket booth.)

Coworker: “[Step-Grandmother], that was mean! I was getting really mad!”

Dad: “I’m sorry! I hope I didn’t ruin your day!”

Coworker: “That’s alright; you just keep an eye on this one!”

(I used to work in a small, private courier/mail delivery company. My ex-coworker calls me at 6 am in the morning a week after I quit.)

Coworker: “Hi, I’m just calling ahead to let you know that there is double the amount of papers to deliver today.”

Me: “Um, what?”

Coworker: “We just got a new customer, and their stuff is going to be delivered today, too. I’ll be at your place to unload the papers in about 10 minutes.”

Me: “I quit last week. I’m not coming down to open any doors and I’m not going to be delivering anything.”

Coworker: “But boss has put you on duty for the next three months. He won’t let you quit before that.”

Me: “NO! I quit and won’t be working anymore.”

(I hang up and go back to sleep. Later, when I go downstairs I find loads of newspapers in the hallway of my apartment building. I call my boss and say there is no way I’ll deliver those since I’m not employed anymore. He says okay. A week later…)

Caller: “Hi, this is [Name] from [Company]. One of your coworkers will bring you some items to deliver later today. They need to be delivered by 7 pm.”

Me: “What the? I don’t work for [Company] anymore.”

Caller: “Yes you do. You are listed here for three more months.”

Me: “Oh no, I’m not working there. I quit three weeks ago.”

Caller: “You are listed, so you work here. Now when can we expect you to be home and ready to receive the items?”

Me: “For the last time! I. DON’T. WORK. THERE. I quit! I won’t be taking any of your stuff.”

Caller: “Well this list say work here, so stop messing about and tell me when we can bring these to you.”

Me: “If you bring that stuff here I will make sure our janitor throws all of it in the trash. I quit, and I’m done having you people call me every week about some deliveries that have nothing to do with me.”

Caller: “But we NEED you to do your job.”

Me: “It isn’t my job anymore.”

Caller: “But you don’t even have a good reason to quit.”

Me: “I’m not going to continue this any further.” *click*

(They keep calling me every week until I change my number. Why did I quit? They never got their delivery routes right, never had the work schedules right, and most of the time failed to provide a cart to help with the 500-1000 copies of newspapers and magazines I had to deliver twice a week.)

This story is featured in our “I Quit!” roundup!

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(On my 21st birthday, I go to a tattoo/piercing parlor run by a husband and wife to get my first tattoo. Having participated in theatre all through high school, it has become a habit to wear a plain black tank top underneath my regular shirts. Note that I’m also a rather well-endowed woman.)

Artist: “So where did you say you wanted this done?”

Me: “Somewhere along here, on my clavicle.”

Artist: “Well if it’s that far up, then you won’t be able to wear a bra for the healing duration. With the, ah, weight it bears, it could stretch your skin and distort the tattoo.”

(I indicate lower down toward my breasts.)

Me: “Well, how about here?”

Artist: “Ah, that’ll work. Now… hmm…”

(He fusses with my shirt a bit, which is getting in the way, and finally he just tugs the collar down and rests his hand on my breast for a moment while trying to figure out if that would work.)

Me: “Oh, right, I’m sorry.”

(I sit up and start pulling my shirt over my head.)

Artist: “Whoa missy, whoa there!”

(I am sitting there with my tank top on, and my t-shirt off.)

Me: “Oh. I maybe should have warned you, huh?”

Artist: “Oh my god, give me a heart attack! I’m like, ‘My wife’s right here and you already paid.’ I appreciate the show and all, but, you know. Wait until the missus is gone.”

(His wife, the piercing artist, just sits back and laughs. I leave him a $10 tip.)

(I am at work on a particularly hot day, when my hands and ears start itching. At first I pay no attention to it, but eventually I start itching in other places, and I see welts appearing on my arms. Having never had an allergic reaction to anything, I have no idea what they are, but they keep getting worse and worse throughout the day, and then throughout the evening. Finally, my boyfriend drags me out to the car and takes me to the emergency room at the hospital nearby. The triage nurse appears very angry that another patient has showed up.)

Triage Nurse: “Help you?”

Boyfriend: “Yes, my girlfriend has these welts all over her, and they’re getting worse. She’s also having trouble breathing. I think we need a doctor.”

Triage Nurse: *without even looking at me* “It’s probably just heat rash. Fill out these forms and bring them back when you’re done.”

(She hands the forms to us, and I’m so out of it I have to have my boyfriend fill them out for me. He leaves me sitting in the waiting room to turn them in, and we settle in to wait. Nearly 45 minutes later, I’m gasping for breath and the welts have spread all over my chest, stomach, arms, legs, feet, hands, throat, and ears. Finally, we go up to the desk to see what’s going on; my boyfriend is practically carrying me.)

Boyfriend: “Look, my girlfriend is getting a lot worse while we’ve been sitting here waiting. How much longer is it going to be?”

Triage Nurse: *glaring at my boyfriend* “It’s just a heat rash; I don’t know why you two even came in—”

(Just then, a doctor happens to come out of the doors next to the desk. He takes one look at me, and then turns to the nurse.)

Doctor: “How long has she been here?!”

Boyfriend: “Almost an hour.”

Doctor: “Are you kidding me?!”

(The doctor calls to a couple of orderlies.)

Doctor: “Get her back here NOW!” *turns to the nurse* “What were you thinking, making her wait like that?”

Triage Nurse: “It’s just a heat rash!”

Doctor: “LOOK at her: does that look like a heat rash to you?! No, don’t answer that; I’ll deal with you once I’ve got her stabilized!”

(I’m taken back to be treated, and given several shots. At one point, I start to drift off to sleep and the doctor slaps me awake, telling me not to DARE go to sleep yet. Finally, I’m stable, and he sends my boyfriend in to sit with me while I’m recovering, and he goes to speak to the triage nurse. I can hear him yelling at her, and then he comes back in to us.)

Doctor: “Feeling better?”

Me: “Oh yes, much better. What happened? What were those welts?”

Doctor: “You had a really bad allergic reaction to something; those were hives. And your boyfriend saved your life. You wouldn’t have lived the night if he hadn’t brought you in, and to be honest with you, if that stupid nurse had made you wait longer, I’m not so sure we could have saved you, even in this short period of time! Next time you start breaking out in hives, take an antihistamine immediately, and then come see us right away if they get worse.”

(We thank him profusely, finish our paperwork, and leave. Ever since then, I’ve always been grateful to that doctor, and I always keep Benadryl on hand just in case!)

(I am working in a women’s clothing store. When an item is marked down, we put a red line through the barcode of the tag attached to the piece of clothing. A customer and her daughter in her 20s bring up a dress.)

Customer: “Hi, we found this on the sale rack.”

(I scan it. It comes up full price. Confused, I check the tag; there is a black line through the barcode, instead of a red one. Someone must have marked it down by accident, realized their mistake, and tried to correct it by drawing a black line over the red one, instead of just printing out a new tag for the dress. And then someone else misunderstood the black line and put it on the sale rack anyway.)

Me: “Ah. Okay, so I’m afraid this is actually full price—”

(The two customers’ eyes flash, and I know I’m in trouble.)

Customer: “But this was on the sale rack.”

Me: “I know. I’m so sorry for the confusion. I think what happened is, someone accidentally marked this down, but realized their mistake.” *I show her the tag* “See, we usually put a red line through it; this is black. It came up full price when I scanned it.”

Customer: “Well, that’s false advertising!”

Me: “No, no, it’s not. It was just a mistake someone else made when they put it back. I’m sorry about that.”

(The customer and her daughter exchange a look.)

Customer: “Well, it’s really your attitude that’s the problem.”

Me: *flabbergasted* “What attitude? I’m just explaining what happened.”

(The daughter laughs condescendingly.)

Daughter: “Come on. We don’t have time for—” *she gestures at me with a flick of her wrist* “—this little gnat.”

Me: “I was just—”

(Another customer at the other register chimes in.)

Other Customer: “It’s not you.”

(We all look over. The other customer is looking through her pocketbook for her wallet, but it’s clear she’s talking to me.)

Other Customer: “It’s not you.”

(My customer and her daughter shut up. They leave the dress on the counter and walk away. My manager walks up, and I wonder if I’m in trouble.)

Manager: “What was THAT all about?”

Other Customer: “It wasn’t you. Seriously, they were really mean.”

Manager: “Ah, okay. That’s what it sounded like. Don’t let them get to you.”

(To the other customer, thanks for putting in the good word for me! It made me feel less like a gnat!)