Absolutely Despicable, Horrendous, And Dreadful, Part 2

, , , , , | Learning | September 16, 2020

I’m the author of this story. This story is not about that witch, but rather a giant whom I have the displeasure of fighting in ninth grade. I have fairly severe ADHD, and that leads to me “stimming” or using up my excess energy in various ways, such as foot-tapping, crochet, and writing ciphers.

Most teachers tolerate this because I still work hard and get decent grades. This teacher, however, thinks that if I am stimming, I’m not working, so things I do to stim are rapidly banned until all I have left is tapping my feet.

On the day of this particular incident, I have gotten these wonderful new boots that are shiny and go click-clack when I walk. I love them.

I’m sitting in the lesson, trying my best to pay attention without stimming, when my knee starts bouncing, the heel going “click-click-click,” not particularly loudly. My teacher, on the other hand, stops his lesson and turns around.

Teacher: “If you don’t stop tapping your foot, I’m getting the sponge.”

Me: “Sorry, sir!”

He goes back to the lesson. I’m quiet for about five minutes, and then my knee starts bouncing again. 

He doesn’t even say anything; he just goes and fetches a bright pink sponge and puts it under the foot that was tapping.

This happens with my other foot, as well. I’m embarrassed and I can hear the people in the class whispering about me, so my feet start bouncing again, hard enough that the sponges aren’t stopping the noise.

My teacher turns around again, glaring at me.

Me: “I’m really sorry. I just need to move and I’m trying not to make noise, I promise; it’s my shoes!”

Teacher: “Boots off, then. It’s annoying.”

So, I took off my boots and planted my feet on the sponges and started bouncing my knee again. Somehow, he could still hear that, and I ended up with three sponges under both my feet by the end of the class.

In his defence, I suppose the shoes were overkill, but at a certain point, I just needed to not sit still for the double-length math/science class. There had to be something he could do other than stacking sponges.

Related:
Absolutely Despicable, Horrendous, And Dreadful

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There’s No Patching This One Up

, , , , , , | Working | September 10, 2020

On a major roadway, I drive over something in the middle of the lane that looks like a piece of ribbon at first, but I feel a bump when I go over it. A couple of kilometers later, other drivers start yelling out their windows that I’m leaking gas, so I pull into the next gas station.

I call my roadside assistance company and they tow me to one of their recommended mechanics. They’re closed when we arrive, so my sister drives me home and I phone first thing the next morning.

Me: “Hi there. Something punctured my gas tank so my truck was leaking gas everywhere last night. My truck is on your lot; I was wondering if you could take a look and tell me how much you think it will cost to fix.”

They agree but I don’t hear anything, so I phone again the next day.

Me: “Hi. I called yesterday about the red truck?”

Representative: “Oh, yeah! That one! Yeah, it’s the fuel tank. It’s punctured.”

Me: “Yeah, I know. How much will it cost to fix?”

Representative: “Well, I’ll have to look into it and get back to you.”

I wait for a few hours and call again that afternoon.

Me: “Hi. I’m looking for a quote on my truck.”

Representative: “Well, I told you. You need a new fuel tank.”

Me: “Okay, but do you know how much it will cost?”

Representative: “Let me take a look here and see how much that part would cost… plus labour… You’re looking at about $600 for a new tank with a one-year warranty.”

I take a few hours to talk to people close to me who know more about this stuff than I do and call them to tell them to go ahead with the new tank. Two or three days later, they leave a message on my phone late in the afternoon.

Message: “We’re calling to tell you that the tank we ordered arrived but it is the wrong tank for your truck and we can’t find one that fits, so our next step is to use a special material to patch the hole in your fuel tank.”

It’s too late to phone them when I hear this message, so I plan to phone them the next day after talking to the same people as before. This is a rough week, because I lose my phone that evening. After two days of searching with no luck and being advised by my boss and dad that the patch job will be too temporary to be worth it, I ask my mom to phone the mechanic to tell them to forget about it. To our horror, they inform her they’ve patched it up and are waiting for me to come get it.

Mom: “Well, how much are you going to charge?”

Representative: “We agreed on $600.”

Mom: “The $600 was for a new tank. Why did you go ahead with the work? We never consented.”

Representative: “It doesn’t matter; we’ve done the work so now you need to pay.”

Mom: “But you didn’t have a work order! She agreed to a new tank.”

Representative: “How about we do $500?”

Mom: “That’s too much money for a patch job! We never would have agreed to that and you didn’t have a work order!”

Representative: “Listen, the truck costs us money every day it’s up on the hoist. We can rip the patch off and you come get the truck, but it’s still gonna cost you a few hundred dollars.”

Mom: “Why didn’t you just put it back on the lot? We’re not paying $500 for a patch.”

Eventually, we managed to negotiate that they would fix a vandalized keyhole which I had been working around for months, and I would pay them $500 total. When I signed the paperwork, we learned that the patch job only had a six-month warranty instead of the original twelve months. 

Seven months later, the patch started falling off and I tried to submit a complaint about the mechanic to my roadside assistance company, as I was reminded of the terrible service and as frustrated as ever. They reached out to the mechanic, who claimed that they had never even heard of me or my little red truck.

We decided to pick our battles and just sold the truck for parts and bought a different one.

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Unfiltered Story #207906

, , | Unfiltered | September 9, 2020

We have a product coming out from a new vendor and need to identify which internal forms use it. I suggest a small image of the vendor’s logo beside the link in our forms list, and we email our Legal department for their opinion.

Legal: There is a small risk here but since it’s an internal website it should be fine.
Coworker (who was CCed on the email): I don’t think we should risk it.

My boss decides that it would be easier to make our own graphic, and a couple of us are huddled around a coworker’s desk as she uploads it to our forms list.

Coworker: You guys are all going to jail for fraud!
Me: I made a custom graphic. It’s company property.

We’re sitting in a team meeting the next week and that vendor’s product comes up.

Coworker: You’re still committing fraud!

Unfiltered Story #207081

, , , | Unfiltered | September 1, 2020

I work in the electronics department of a major big-box retailer. We’ve had a string of successful and attempted thefts recently, frequently involving backpacks and other bags, leading management to push us to be more vigilant. While making my rounds of the department, I see a woman placing a small package in her purse. For emphasis, this is in a department full of small packages with high values. Even though I can’t see what the package is, the color of it is quite similar to one of the store’s in-house brands.
Me: “Excuse me ma’am, what was that you just put in your purse?”
Woman: “It was just my cigarettes.”
At this point, considering I have no real evidence, I’m prepared to back off.
Me: “I’m sorry, it just looked like something else from where I was standing.”
Woman: “Do you want to look in my purse?”
At this point, I’m under the impression that she’s making the offer in an attempt to clear up the misunderstanding, so I lean forward to see inside the purse that she has opened and held out in front of her. I can clearly see a pack of cigarettes on top of the items in her purse. At this point, I apologize for the misunderstanding again as I straighten up, ready to forget that anything had ever happened. Clearly, I was the only one thinking along those lines…
Woman: “I want to speak to your manager right away.”
Me: “Sure, not a problem.”
I then walk away to put out a page for any available member of management to come to the department, first over our walkie-talkies, and then multiple times over our intercom. During the ten to fifteen minutes it took for a member of our over-extended management team to show up, I continue helping other customers in the department while she stands glaring at me and talking on her cell phone to who I assume from the bits of conversation I overhear to be her husband. As the minutes pass, I can hear her making increasingly blatant exaggerations, including that I accused her of stealing and demanded to search her purse. When a manager finally arrives, she makes a bee-line for him while I am busy ringing through another customer. I hang back and listen quietly while she tells him the same inflated story she had given during her phone call. My manager then asks me to come with him and leads me down to the end of an aisle so he can hear my side of the story. I’m in the middle of telling him when the woman comes around the corner from the next aisle over and launches into a rant about how she’s never been so offended in her life, that I (again) accused her of theft and demanded to search her purse, and informing us that she would be contacting a lawyer while demanding that my manager give her my personal contact information. Any attempt to interject or defuse her by either of us is immediately shouted down until my manager decides that he and the woman would need to continue the conversation on their own at the front of the building. The woman takes this moment to exclaim that her husband (who, may I remind you, was not present for any of the events leading up to this) will be joining them, and that was the last I saw of her. My manager eventually came back to get my side of the story in a more sedate environment, and that was the last I’ve heard of it. But I’m also writing this on the same day it happened, so who knows if that’s the last I’ve seen of her particular brand of crazy?

A Most Unreceptive Receptionist, Part 5

, , , , , | Working | August 31, 2020

As a medical receptionist, it’s my job to phone patients to set up appointments. After trying several times to reach one patient to set up a new consult appointment, with no answer, I notify the referring doctor.

Me: “I’ve tried several times to phone this patient, but I get no answer.”

Receptionist: “Did you try her cell number?”

Me: “We don’t have record of a cell number, just the home phone number on the referral letter you sent us.”

Receptionist: “Oh, well, it’s here in her chart.”

Me: “But the referral letter you sent doesn’t have that number, just the home phone number.”

Receptionist: “But it’s in her chart, right here.”

Me: “But you didn’t send us that information when you sent the referral letter.”

Receptionist: “Well, we have a cell phone number. Do you want the number?”

Me: *Inner sigh and facepalm* “Yes. Please give me the cell number.”

Upon reflection, as soon as she said cell number, I should have just asked for the number instead of arguing with her, but still…

Related:
A Most Unreceptive Receptionist, Part 4
A Most Unreceptive Receptionist, Part 3
A Most Unreceptive Receptionist, Part 2
A Most Unreceptive Receptionist

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