In 2006, I started working for a large nationwide mortgage company. When I went to the interview, they gave the impression that it was an easygoing, fun place to work. That day happened to be “nerd” day. Many of the employees were dressed like stereotypical nerds. I had just come from a company with a similar atmosphere, so I thought this was the place for me.

We had eight weeks of training. My job was to help people who already had loans with the company by answering questions or sometimes taking loan payments over the phone. What I didn’t know was that we were also expected to get them to agree to a transfer to a sales agent so they could talk them into refinancing, getting a home equity loan, or even better, getting a whole new loan. We got a bonus if the person we transferred agreed to one of these.

After a few months, I realized that, despite their claims of high ethical standards, there was something sleazy going on. I was making more money than I ever had before, we had a party and/or theme day at least once a month, and we had every holiday off with pay. But still, something wasn’t right.

After nine months, I found another job at less pay but closer to home, and it had no sleazy feeling, so I quit. Within a few months, the mortgage company was in big trouble for their loan practices, the CEO went to prison, and the company was dissolved.

I was never happier that I had left a job with great pay. If you are wondering, the company was Countrywide Home Loans, a primary contributor to the housing price collapse in 2007.

CONTENT WARNING: Potential Animal Abuse/Neglect

I work in a veterinary clinic, and I have almost this exact conversation at least once every. Single. Monday.

The phone rings.

Me: “[Clinic], this is [My Name]. How can I help you?”

Client: “Hi. [Cat] has an appointment for Thursday because she hasn’t been eating well, but she stopped eating after I scheduled with you on Friday, and I’m getting worried. Can I bring her in today?”

Me: “Well, as I said when we spoke on Friday, [Cat] is fifteen and has kidney disease, so not eating can get dangerous very quickly. Did you call [Emergency Clinic] like I recommended if she stopped eating over the weekend?”

Client: “No, I want only [Vet] to see her.”

Me: “[Client], we don’t have any openings between now and your appointment, and after going so long without food, [Cat] needs emergency care. Please call [Emergency Clinic #1], [Emergency Clinic #2], or [Emergency Clinic #3] to have [Cat] seen ASAP, and let them know to call me for [Cat]’s records.”

Thankfully, most of them do actually take their cats to the emergency clinic at this point, but I always wonder, are they this nonchalant about their children refusing to eat for multiple days? What about their geriatric parents?

Related:
Not Everyone’s Cut Out To Have Pets

A customer in her late teens or early twenties and a woman who I assume is her mother are in the store.

Customer: *To her mom* “It gets colder in Europe because it’s further from the sun. I need a thicker jacket.”

Customer’s Mom: “Let’s ask if they have winter jackets.”

Customer: “Oh, Europe has a winter, too?”

Customer’s Mom: “Uh… are you serious, dear?”

Customer: “I thought America invented the seasons, so why would we let Europe have them?”

Customer’s Mom: “Have you been watching the news with your father again?”

Customer: “News? Ugh, so gross.”

The customer comes over to me.

Customer: “I need a jacket for Europe.”

Me: “I can help you with that. Will it just be for casual walking through a city, or are you going to be outdoors a lot?”

Customer: “I’m gonna be drinking!”

Customer’s Mom: “No, dear, you’re not.”

Customer: “Yeah, I am! The legal drinking age is younger there!”

Customer’s Mom: “It might be, but you’re still on a school trip, so they’re not allowing the students who have turned eighteen to drink. I signed the permission slip that said as much.”

Customer: “I’m an adult! They can’t stop me!”

Customer’s Mom: “Maybe, but then they’ll lose their insurance and I’ll be fined, which means you’ll be fined. The places you’re going to will know not to serve alcohol to the American students.”

Customer: “I won’t tell them I’m American. I’m more Amazonian, anyway.”

Customer’s Mom: “No, dear, you’re Arizonian.”

Customer: “Whatever, geology is for mids.”

Customer’s Mom: “Just stop.” 

Related:
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 14
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 13
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 12
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 11
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 10

My husband, my brother-in-law, a few of their friends, and I decide to go a concert at the Amphitheater. The tickets to see three bands on the lawn are like $25 each with free parking. It starts at 6:30 pm, and my brother-in-law decides to show up late since he doesn’t like the first band. 

My husband and I decide to get there on time and get food beforehand; while we don’t care about the first band, either, we can park and take our time. They don’t end up coming on until 7:00 pm, and they play for roughly forty-five minutes. Then, there is another forty-five-minute break for set up for the second band.

Halfway through the break, my husband texts his brother to see where he is. He replies that he is just leaving. To only his surprise, he hits Phoenix rush hour traffic and doesn’t end up making it until halfway into the hour-long second set. I assume all is fine.

Afterward, he starts b****ing about how bad traffic was and how the parking attendants didn’t seem to know what they were doing and there wasn’t enough parking, so he had to park in the back. Whatever. It is a problem of his own making, so I roll my eyes and ignore him.

My gracious husband points out that at least he saw two really good bands. Oh, no! That sets him off on another tangent about how bad the sound quality is and how the main band kept messing up. (The singer just had throat surgery and couldn’t scream at a couple of parts but was otherwise really good, all things considered. The only complaint I had was them figuring out his mic level for the first couple of songs.) 

He then whines about how the drinks were “as much as the tickets”. (They were $12-19 and appropriately priced for the amount of liquor in them — really, prices you would expect at a restaurant.) The kicker is that he is supposed to be the designated driver among his friends, so why he cares about what the drinks cost, I will never know. He whines about how crowded it was. He whines about literally everything. You would think the band killed his entire family and s*** on their corpses with the way he is complaining.

Eventually, my husband and I just leave in mid-tantrum. I am not even sure he notices.

To this day, I am convinced he is still in that parking lot b****ing.

Toddlers have more maturity than my twenty-seven-year-old brother-in-law. It doesn’t help that he has the case of youngest child syndrome and thinks everything should be handed to him.

My husband and I are walking the dog Saturday evening.

Me: “I noticed [Friend #1] was online last night. Did you end up playing [Co-op Game #1] all night?”

Husband: “[Friend #2] also showed up. It seemed like both of them already had plans to play [Co-op Game #2], and I was really down for that.”

Me: “Sounds like a lot of fun.”

Husband: “I was really excited for it, and then [Brother-In-Law] jumped in and said he wanted to play [Co-op Game #3], instead. Apparently, he had a really bad experience where [Friend #2] beat him really badly at [Game #2], so he has a lot of ‘trauma’ associated with it.”

Me: “So, basically, he threw a fit because he lost to his friend.”

Husband: “Yeah, pretty much.”

Me: “Well, what did he play instead while you played [Game #2]?”

Husband: “I ended up not playing with them because he would’ve gotten pouty.”

Me: “So, you gave into his tantrum.”

Husband: “He would’ve ruined the night by sulking.”

Me: “Sounds like he already did.”

Husband: “Yeah… I guess.”

Me: “How about next time we just let him throw his man-trum and stop giving into his hissy fits?”

Husband: “I know…”

When I relayed it to a friend, she scoffed at my husband’s “big little brother”. And I have to say, that is exactly what he is: a giant baby.