(My husband and I have just picked up our son from his dance class, which released a bit late due to rehearsals. We decide to go into a popular food chain for dinner. We have no trouble ordering at the counter, and I follow my son to the table he’s picked out while my husband gets our drinks. Other than a couple enjoying the last of their meal, the only other occupants of the lobby are two employees, probably in their early 20s, sitting around, talking quite loudly. I don’t get it, since they’re clearly understaffed in the kitchen, but I brush it off as them being off the clock and waiting on a ride. Everything’s fine until we settle down.)

Employee #1: “Man, I tell you what. I hate that manager! I hate him so f****** much. Why the h*** they gotta hire these a**holes?”

Employee #2: “Nah, he’s not as bad as [Other Manager]. That b**** signed me up for a whole extra shift this week! Like I’m not already busting my a** with two a week. I hate this stupid, worthless, f****** job. I hate this whole f****** company.”

(The cashier we ordered from joins them at this point, and hubby brings the tray over. The “chat” continues in a similar vein between the three for a bit, swearing all the while. More than once, I’m tempted to speak up, but I just bite my tongue and ignore their rants, figuring it’s not worth it. That is, until about halfway through our meals:)

Cashier: “These customers are the d*** worst! I mean, seriously, what the f*** is their problem? This guy sent his food back three times yesterday!”

Employee #2: “Why didn’t you just spit in his food?”

Cashier: “Too many cameras, man. I would if I could.”

Employee #1: “Doesn’t stop me. I know how; I’ll show you.”

(At this point, my husband is hurriedly gathering everything back onto the tray and goes to stand up, but I stop him.)

Me: “I got this.”

(I gather the tray, and head for the counter, walking straight past the oblivious trio. I am NOT a confrontational person. My husband usually handles complaints because I get tongue-tied and flustered. Not so this time.)

Me: *to another employee* “Can I see your manager, please?”

Employee #3: “He’s with an order. Can you wait just a few minutes?”

Me: “No. No, I really can’t. Manager. Now.”

(In retrospect, I AM sorry for scaring her, but at the time, I wasn’t really thinking about it. It should also be noted that, due to all the noise in the back, the employees can’t really be heard above a low rumble at the counter.)

Manager: *handing off drive-thru headset* “Can I help you, ma’am?”

Me: “Yes, you can. Your employees, there, are talking about spitting in customers’ food. Well within earshot of my family.”

(The man’s eyebrows jump up and he turns extremely pale.)

Manager: “I… completely understand, ma’am. Let me just remake that for you…”

Me: “I’m not done. They’re also griping about hating their shifts, their managers… [Other Manager] was one they mentioned… and how much they hate working here and with your company. And swearing like sailors, to boot.”

Manager: “Well, let me get this remade for you, and I will certainly be taking care of this severely.”

Me: “Thought you’d like to know. Can we get that to go? I think the other people have left already, and I’m not going to hang around with them anymore.”

(He nodded and came back with our order completely remade, as well as a card with his name and number on it, with instructions to call if any of us got sick. As we drove away, all I could see from the road was the lobby sign suddenly flipping to closed. I’m willing to bet I’m glad to have missed out on the complete a**-chewing that likely followed, and on subsequent visits, none of those employees were in sight.)

(A mother and her child come to the registers. She’s yakking on the phone the entire time, absently piling stuff on the counter for me to ring. At some point, her kid tries to get her attention over something he’s spotted. She ignores him. He scowls, huffs loudly, and crosses his arms. She doesn’t respond. He huffs even louder and recrosses his arms, starting to tap his foot.)

Son: *takes a big breath and bellows* “WHAT THE F*** DOES IT TAKE TO GET SOME SERVICE AROUND HERE?!”

Mom: *flushes a brilliant red, hangs up* “I have no idea where he learned that.”

Me: *perfectly straight-faced* “Uh-huh.”

My husband had a falling-out with his former best friend after the guy cheated on our other best friend. (She found him in bed with another woman and immediately left him.) Then, the woman he cheated with got pregnant. My husband has described this woman as “crazy,” “abusive,” and “manipulative.” He’s 99% sure she got pregnant just to keep her boyfriend from leaving. She drank alcohol during her pregnancy, and was seen in public with her baby, clearly under the influence.

At one point, she threw something heavy at her boyfriend’s head, giving him a black eye. She’s also a pathological liar, constantly telling everyone that she and her boyfriend got together after he had already broken up with his ex when everyone knows what really happened — the guy admits it.

Now this couple has decided to get married even though the guy clearly doesn’t want to be with her and had tried to get back together with his ex several times.

It’s the day before their wedding, and my husband asks him, “So, are you really going through with it?”

His reply: “Oh, yeah, she’s acting okay now.”

What a touching proclamation of love! Just what every bride wants to hear her husband say!

I’m past due with my second child by a week when I wake up around 4:00 am and find fresh blood in the toilet after urinating. I wake my husband, get the toddler ready, and grab the bags, and we get to the hospital a little before 7:00 am. At this point, I am beginning to feel contractions coming on. The intake takes several minutes before I’m placed in a pre-check room — essentially a small department of eight beds, divided by curtains, where they do cervix checks, blood pressure, and first-step inductions. I’m placed in the last bed on the far side and hooked up to a fetus monitor while a new nurse checks all my vitals. I come to hate this woman immediately.

She tells us first that my toddler can’t be in the room with us, to which my husband and I both say we are trying to contact nearby family but no one’s answering yet, plus we have yet to be moved to a birthing suite and I cannot carry all those bags myself at this time. The nurse relents after two more tellings, but says snippily that the toddler can’t be there for the birth. We both know and inform her that we have no intention of having my toddler in the room at that time. She leaves and my husband goes back to calling family repeatedly.

A second nurse comes in, checks everything and suggests maybe I go home, stating that it’s probably too early for anything to happen. I tell her I don’t want to — that the contractions are starting to hurt badly — so she takes me into the birthing wing and sets me up in the jacuzzi. I’m there for twenty minutes. The first half, I’m starting to feel better, but then the contractions double. I count through the pain that I’m in a contraction for about a minute every two minutes.

Cue the b**** nurse. She comes in at 8:00 am and says I shouldn’t be in the tub — yet doesn’t help me climb out — and that my contractions can’t possibly be coming that fast, and has me walk back to the intake wing. Everything hurts! I’m trying not to cry and to do the breathing exercises, etc., all while the nurse hooks me back up to the fetus monitor, berates my husband for still having our toddler here, and then leaves. She only returns once, to snap at me, saying, “You need to keep it down! You can’t be screaming or crying; you’re upsetting other patients here!”

For context, I was induced in my first pregnancy due to the possibility of preeclampsia, stayed four days in the hospital, and was so completely loopy between lack of sleep and the epidural that come the birth, I did it half-dazed. I have never experienced the pain before this, but I’m trying to soldier on and muffle any screaming and tears due to my toddler being in the room. I finally convince the nurse to check my cervix next time she’s in, which she does, only to say I’m not even dilated. That’s a lie, because I was nearly two centimeters dilated when I saw my OB three days ago. I ask for the doctor and she says he’s not there and leaves. My husband leaves at this time to pass our toddler on to family. Out of desperation, I call out for a nurse until another one comes a few minutes later. I immediately ask to see the doctor and she goes to fetch him. He comes in at 9:00 am with the b**** nurse, who’s talking to him, “She’s not dilated… Didn’t do labour classes… Not breathing right…”

I want to punch her.

The doctor takes off the fetus monitor devices and checks my cervix. He goes, “She’s four centimeters dilated! Get her to the birthing suite now.” Then he vacates the room.

The nurse looks at me. “Okay, let’s go.”

A second nurse asks if she should grab the wheelchair, to which b**** nurse says we don’t need it and proceeds to have me walk out of the intake wing and into the labour side. That’s a distance of seven hospital beds and past three birthing rooms.

I’m leaning against the wall, trying to walk through crippling contractions, while she’s telling me I need to hurry up and I shouldn’t take so long. I hiss at my husband that if she doesn’t stop talking at me, once I get closer I’m going to rip her throat out. Unfortunately, she says nothing by the time I shuffle to the door and disappears.

No thanks to her, I can’t receive any pain medication because I am too far dilated by this point, and I deliver my healthy baby a few minutes after 10:00 am.

(In Australia, or at least, in Sydney, cigarettes can’t be on display; generally, they’re in white cases which have doors that you push up. In my particular store, we’re phasing out the selling of cigarettes and have very few left. I’m not a smoker and know very little about cigarette brands. Because we’re phasing them out — and have advertised this — my employer has told me not to bother learning all the different brands.)

Customer: *walks up to the tills and barks out a brand of cigarettes I’m unfamiliar with*

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, what was that?”

Customer: *repeats the name and then, in response to my slightly blank look* “Cigarettes, you f****** idiot. I want my cigarettes!”

Me: “My apologies, sir, I’m a non-smoker and we’re phasing out cigarettes in this store, so I don’t know all the brands.”

(I unlock the cabinet and start looking for the brand he wants. It’s hard since most of the cabinet is empty and we only have about three packets left.)

Customer: “You’re taking too f****** long! Give me my f****** cigarettes!”

(The owner comes behind the counter to figure out what the commotion is.)

Owner: “Can I help you, sir?”

Customer: “This b**** is taking too long with my f****** cigarettes. I want my f***–“

(He can only get half the word out because the owner interrupts him.)

Owner: “You need to leave my store, now!”

Customer: “But my—“

Owner: “No. You’ve been incredibly rude to my cashier, when she has been nothing but polite to you. In two more days, we will no longer be selling cigarettes here, and you’ll be lucky if we serve you for anything else after your rudeness today.”

(The customer left, swearing under his breath about my incompetence. The owner made sure I was okay before going back to what he was doing and I kept serving. I understand that it can be frustrating when someone doesn’t know what you’re talking about, and had we been fully stocked and continuing to sell cigarettes, I would have learned the brands, but regardless, there’s no need to be so rude to your cashier! Thanks to my awesome boss for being so protective of me.)