(I volunteer with my dog at a rest home. We go around all the rooms and common areas interacting with the residents, especially those who love dogs. Because it’s a rest home, the residents are elderly and often ill; I am getting used to old friends passing away and new ones coming in. As I’m nearing the end of a corridor, a lady is standing in her doorway. We haven’t met her before.)

Resident: “Is that a drug dog? Are you here looking for drugs?”

Me: *jokingly* “No, why? Have you got some?”

Resident: *big, deep sigh* “Only the ones they give me, sadly.”

(Later in that same visit I accidentally walked in on two of the residents canoodling. I left that day reminded that age is no indicator of mischievousness!)

(I work in the dining room of an assisted living home as a waitress. My manager is a super great guy who trusts his employees and is usually laid back. This all changes whenever he has to work the line though, which is fortunately a rare occurrence. One night the head chef calls out sick, so the manager works the line. He comes by me, carrying a stack of 20 incredibly heavy plates.)

Me: “Whoa! Hey, those are really heavy. You should probably limit yourself to ten at a time, at most.”

Manager: “They are not that heavy, and I’m out of plates. I need as many as possible! This saves me time!”

Supervisor: “[My Name] is right; you—”

Manager: “Just because you two have trouble lifting things doesn’t mean the plates are heavy! Now grab your dishes and go!”

(My supervisor and I share a look, but we both silently decide to drop it. We grab our plates from the line and drop them off at the tables. As I’m walking back, I hear an enormous crash and I run back to see what happened. The entire kitchen floor is covered in shattered pieces of ceramic. My manager is standing in the middle of it, staring down at the broken ceramic, completely flabbergasted. My supervisor rushes in behind me.)

Supervisor: “What happened?”

Manager: *sheepishly* “The plates fell…”

Supervisor: “How many were you carrying?”

Manager: *looking like he wishes he could disappear* “Twenty…”

Supervisor: *sighs* “[Coworker], go grab the brush and dustpan, and clean this up. [My Name], go get [Manager] some plates from [Dishwasher]. [Manager], go back to the line and don’t leave until service is over.”

Manager: *muttering while sulking off* “But the plates aren’t that heavy…”

(He wasn’t allowed to carry plates after that.)

(A woman and one of our residents come back from an outing, and the woman comes up to my desk.)

Me: “Hello. Welcome back, [Resident].”

Woman: “Do I need to sign the thing saying she’s back and…” *trails off*

Me: “Yes, just put down the time next to where you signed her out earlier.”

Woman: “Okay.” *walks away*

Me: *blinks* “Orrrrr I could do it…” *writes time in*

Woman: “Oh… did you want me to…” *turns back for a second and then walks off again*

Me: “Am I speaking English?”

(I take a job in a home for the developmentally disabled as a habilitation tech, someone who helps the residents with daily living. I am filling in a chart at the nurse’s station while my supervisor, with whom I don’t really get along, stands nearby. A resident bounds out of the TV room and goes up to my supervisor, who isn’t doing anything.)

Resident: “Hey, [Supervisor], would you tell me what DNA is? We just saw it on TV and none of us knew what it was.”

Supervisor: “I can’t tell you. You aren’t smart enough to understand.”

(I stare at my chart, appalled at the insulting response, until my supervisor leaves and goes into an office. When I look up, the resident is looking at me, much subdued.)

Resident: “[My Name], could you tell me what DNA is?”

Me: “Well, did you know that your body is made of tiny cells?”

Resident: “Yeah, I understand that.”

Me: “Inside each of those cells, there is something like a tiny book that has instructions about how to make you. It tells your body to make your eyes brown, your hair brown, and how tall you should be. Those instructions in every cell are called DNA.”

Resident: *now smiling* “Thanks for explaining it.”

(As the resident walks away, I look back to where my supervisor had gone. She is standing in the doorway glaring at me. I look back down at my chart without a word.)

Resident: *in a clear, bright voice to the others in the TV room* “[My Name] is much smarter than [Supervisor]! She told me what DNA is!”

(I know I cringed. My supervisor moved into openly hating me after that. I quit not long after. The home closed a few years later.)

(My husband’s grandmother has sent me a birthday card with cash in it and I’d like to call and thank her. However, I’ve got a new phone with no contacts in it, my husband is busy at work, and we don’t really talk to any of his relatives, so I decide to call the retirement home to see if they’ll help connect me or pass along a message. They connected me the previous year with no hassle. I explain my problem and ask if they can connect me, or give me her number, or pass along a message).

Receptionist #1: “I don’t know. I’ll put you through to [Receptionist #2].”

Me: *explains again*

Receptionist #2: “She’s not in my department. I’ll connect you with [Manager #1].”

Me: *explains again*

Manager #1: “I don’t know. I’ll put you through to [Manager #2].”

Me: *explains again*

Manager #2: “It’s illegal to give out someone’s number.”

Me: “Oh. Last year they did. Can you connect me directly?”

Manager #2: “No, they didn’t. You’re lying. I can’t connect. That’s illegal.”

Me: “Oookay, well, they did give me her number last year and then proceeded to connect me.”

Manager #2: “Stop lying.”

Me: “Woah, there’s no need to be rude. It happened. Legal, or otherwise, it happened. Can you leave her a message?”

Manager #2: “I’m not being rude. You’re lying. We can’t transfer calls on our phones. No i won’t leave her a message. She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

Me: “You can’t transfer any calls?”

Manager #2: “No. It’s a single line.”

Me: “At all.”

Manager #2: “No. And it’s illegal and you’re lying.”

Me: “Okay, now you’re being rude and ridiculous. I was transferred three times today before speaking to you. And I was helped immediately last year. And, even if they weren’t supposed to do it, it still happened. Shouting at me that I’m lying doesn’t make it so.”

(She started to speak, but I hung up. I later got the phone number from my husband and called to thank his grandmother for the card.)

Husband’s Grandmother: “Why didn’t you just call reception, they could have transferred you!”