Courting Disaster

, , , , , , | Legal | September 18, 2018

(I have been called for jury duty, so I report to the small courthouse a few blocks from my home. We are checked in and shown an orientation video, then we’re basically just killing time while the legal wheels turn on the twelve cases on the docket that day. After a few hours:)

Court Worker: “Okay, everyone, eleven cases have pled out, but the twelfth will be going to trial. If you could all gather your things and follow me…”

(We troop along to the courtroom, but are halted at the door while several official-looking people whisper back and forth to each other.)

Court Worker: “Hang on, everybody; we’ve got some drama. Please wait here while we get it sorted out.”

(We exchange puzzled looks and are left standing around for a good fifteen minutes before she comes back.)

Court Worker: “So, the defendant in the case decided to threaten one of the witnesses, in front of witnesses, while we were in recess in order to get you guys. He’s been re-arrested and will need to go through processing on that charge, soooo you can all go home now. Have a nice day!”

(I guess some people never learn?)

Stuck In The Twilight Calzone

, , , , , , , | Working | September 18, 2018

(There’s a small Italian restaurant and bar just down the street from my apartment that offers dine-in or takeout. My roommate, who’s lived in this area longer, raves about the place, commenting about the fresh ingredients that aren’t chemically preserved, the brick oven for baking the pizzas, the friendly staff, and more. One day after work, I finally decide to try it. I drop into the apartment to ask my roommate what he wants, and after also getting input from his visiting girlfriend, we agree on two calzones and a pizza. With a knowing look, I tell him I’ll go alone so they can have the apartment to themselves for a bit, and that I’m walking over. Once I get there, I almost immediately place my order at the bar and specify that it’s a takeout order, and the waitress disappears before I can ask anything, such as, “How long until my order is ready?” Since it’s Friday and there’s a baseball game on, I elect to sit at the bar and enjoy the game and some bourbon while I wait. The bartender, the waitress, and I — along with a few other people in the area — chat for a while about bad decisions by the club and criticize the current game, all the while making sure my glass is full. After finishing my third glass, I tell the bartender I’ve already had more than I should and that my order’s probably almost done, so I’ll just enjoy the game until then. At that point, I casually glance at the clock, and I realize I’ve been sitting here for an hour and a half. I confront the girl at the counter about my order, and she disappearances into the back to check. Returning in her place is an older woman with a scowl on her face.)

Older Woman: “Why didn’t you come get these sooner?”

Me: “Why didn’t you notify me when they were done?”

Older Woman: “You didn’t leave your number!”

Me: “I’ve been sitting at your bar the whole time. The waitress who took my order has been by the bar repeatedly and spoken with me repeatedly. At no time did anyone tell me this was done.”

(Thankfully, the woman doesn’t seem to have a comeback. As expected, the items are stone cold. Despite the treatment I have received and the cold items she has presented, she’s genuinely amazed I don’t leave a tip. I share the whole experience with my roommate as we’re heating up the food, who seems genuinely surprised that the woman — who has apparently gone above and beyond for him in the past — behaved so negatively towards me. About a month later, when we both have our girlfriends over for a movie night, he decides he wants to try again, certain that things will be different this time. I bet him the price of the bill that he’s wrong unless he orders, and he bites. This time, I have my girlfriend place the order, from her phone, and have her specifically ask how long that should take before she confirms her order. The response is, “Forty minutes.” After timing it carefully to ensure she will arrive forty minutes later on the dot, I send her on her way and have her set her phone to record so we can play it back later.)

Girlfriend: “Hi. I placed an order about forty minutes ago. It should be under [Girlfriend].”

Hostess: “Sure, let me go check.”

(Seconds later:)

Bartender: “Miss? Can I get you anything?”

Girlfriend: “Just waiting on my order.”

(Roughly one minute later:)

Girlfriend: *hushed* “Still no sign of my hostess, but I think the bartender’s talking to the manager.”

(Moments later:)

Older Woman: “Y’know, these take a long time to cook!”

Girlfriend: “I know! My boyfriend had to wait an hour and a half last time he ordered this much from you! I’m so thankful you were able to do it in less than 45 minutes this time!”

(We subsequently agreed on two things. First, no matter how good the food is — and believe me, it was magnificent — we’re not going back ever again. Even my roommate joined the boycott now that he knows he was only special because he was a regular. Second, I’m not to let this girl go.)

The Mother Of All Crazy Mothers

, , , , , , | Related | September 17, 2018

(My mother has OCD and is a narcissist. Growing up in a house run by that joyous combination motivated me out the door and into my own apartment very quickly. However, I’m still very close with my dad, so I do invite him over when the mood strikes. And though I only invited him, I obviously meant to invite my mother, as well, so she happily waltzes in before him without bothering to check first. And given that I’m her son, obviously my apartment is hers to do with as she pleases. So, by the time she’s gone, everything has been moved around. I don’t notice this right away because my head doesn’t recover from the earfuls of, “How dare you try to keep this a secret from me!” that preceded all of this. Eventually, my girlfriend and I get serious enough to live together, and not too long after, my dad swings by to celebrate my birthday, complete with my mother to show him the way. Despite my numerous explanations meant to avert this, among my birthday gifts is a shouting match between that two women on the concept of “boundaries” and “respect” that I thought would have answered why my dad and I try to hide these meetings from her. But then my mother insists that I’m an idiot since my apartment is never organized. The morning after, I get the bonus of explaining how my mother’s mind works to my girlfriend as we try to figure out what my mother did. It starts in the kitchen.)

Girlfriend: *groans* “Your mom was in the fridge.”

Me: “Look for the ketchup and mustard. She might have thrown them out.”

Girlfriend: “Why?”

Me: “She doesn’t like them, so obviously they belong in the garbage.”

(Thankfully, she didn’t throw them out this time.)

Girlfriend: “Does she not like turkey breast, either?”

Me: “Right side of the deli bin.”

Girlfriend: “But that’s where she put the cheeses. Shouldn’t it be on the left with the meats?”

Me: “She doesn’t read the labels; she just looks at the contents through the bags. Turkey breast is white, so it’s a cheese.”

(She finds the turkey breast was right where I said it was.)

Girlfriend: “Why are the Golden Grahams mixed in with all the different Cheerios?”

Me: “The box is yellow; therefore, it’s regular Cheerios. The actual Cheerios go bad sooner, so they’re on the left.”

(And later on, while she’s in the bathroom doing her hair…)

Girlfriend: “Why is my birth control in the trash?”

Me: “Probably down the toilet.”

Girlfriend: “What?! Why?!”

Me: “She wants to be a grandmother.”

Girlfriend: “Did she throw away your condoms before?”

Me: “No, she just poked holes in them.”

(Thankfully, I caught that one before any damage was done.)

Girlfriend: “She’s never allowed over again!”

Me: “She wasn’t allowed over last night. If you can keep her out, I’m on board.”

(Years later, we’re still not having any luck getting rid of my mother non-violently. And despite that, for some reason, this has girl still decided to marry me.)

Unfiltered Story #119559

, , | Unfiltered | September 6, 2018

I work in a large printing office, which also does shipping and other stuff. So, since this office is small and located inside of the hotel, our main customers are guests who come to workshops. Since we do other more important stuff, customers can print on their own by renting out our rental computers. The fee is usually $0.40 a minute. So, there was this woman, blonde, who refused to pay the fee but needed several pages to be printed for some event. I offered her to rent out and print from an email or get a USB and print at the printer.

She: I am not paying for that.

Me: Then get it on a USB and pay for the papers only.

She tried to open it at the printer, but her files were broken. She sent it to me, and I even couldn’t open her USB. She used our main computer, pulled that file and wanted to change the size. Our printer would print the same size file on a larger paper.

Meanwhile, the male customer walks in asking for his order. After we couldn’t find it, he showed me an email from a nearby store. I told him it would take him 5 minutes to walk here and that email was not from us. He argues the email was ours, and that he even saw it written on the door. I was about to check it, but the woman stops me and asks me to help her instead.

After the printer was jamming, I beg her just to pay and print out from the rental computer, but she still wouldn’t. After everything failed, she accuses me for everything.

Customer: Your printers wouldn’t even open my files

Me: Your files are broken, your USB is defective

Customer: You don’t know how to print!

Me: I was not even supposed to help you and waste my time, this is a self-service area. Just pay 40 cents and print on your own.

Customer: I won’t pay anything. you even didn’t help that customer!!!

Me: Excuse me mam, that customer is not your business! But then you stopped me when I was about to help him.

Customer: What’s your manager’s name?

Me: I gave it

Customer: Even your door had a wrong email address!!!

I ask her to leave, and she takes the papers and leaves, without paying.

I went to check what was written there. It said, after business hours please go that location which nearby, and included their phone number and their email address.

These people didn’t know how to read or print.

A Shower Of Disagreements

, , , , , , | Related | August 24, 2018

(I am about ten. The furnace in my parents’ house has a problem in it. For some reason, it diverts hot water away from our showers if we run any other water, and what we get when nothing else uses water isn’t too much. Should we take a low-flow shower with warm water, the heat lasts about seven minutes. Once the water runs out, showering is tantamount to being pelted with ice. It takes at least thirty minutes to recover. As a result, even though we have two showers, we never use the one in the basement, no matter the rush we are in. My mother, the main breadwinner, insists that we don’t have the money to fix it. I am able to figure out that if we play with the nozzle just right while we shower, we can draw it out to about 15 minutes, which makes the situation manageable for my dad and me. My mother, however, can never figure out the trick, even after I draw little marks on the shower wall indicating which way the nozzle should point. Instead, she elects to soak her hair in cold water from the sink and scrub in the shampoo before she turns the shower on. However, our sink is not made for washing hair, so the lengths it takes to accomplish that stunt increases her bathing time to about twenty minutes. I am enrolled in a study program on Saturdays that meets at nine am. The school is about a fifteen-minute drive away, so my dad and I work out a schedule for Saturday mornings. I wake up at six am, have breakfast, and shower around seven am. That gives him the opportunity to shower at about 7:45, and we’re on the road at 8:30. We figure we don’t have to talk to my mother about this due to her work schedule. Monday through Friday every week, she has to be awake at four am so that she can get to work at seven am while still having breakfast, and she keeps to these hours even on the weekends. On said weekends, she usually does one of two things: she lounges around the house before showering at 11 am, or jumps in as soon as she wakes up like it’s a weekday. Either way, we should be covered. The very first Saturday of this program, my dad and I work our butts off to have a nice pancake breakfast and eat up the whole hour. At seven, I find the bathroom door locked. Figuring my mom just needed the toilet and this won’t take long, I go to sit on my bed for a moment. That “moment” lasts over ten minutes, and ends when she turns the shower on.)

Me: *knocks*

Mother: “Yeah!”

Me: “Why are you showering now?”

Mother: “I wanted to shower!”

Me: “Let’s go! I have to get to [Program] today!”

Mother: “You’ll have to wait!”

(Just to put this into perspective, her shower doesn’t end until about 7:20. I can’t shower until 7:50, so my dad won’t be able to shower before he drives me to the program.)

Dad: “[Mother]? Could you drive [My Name] to [Program] today?”

Mother: “It’s my day off!”

Dad: “But I haven’t showered. I’d rather not drive him while I stink.”

Mother: “I worked hard all week! I deserve a f****** break!”

(My dad sighs and agrees to drive me, despite the fact that, due to the divorce settlement of his previous marriage resulting in him owing alimony and child support, he actually works longer hours than she does, even before factoring in that he also works Sundays. After the program, we finally talk to my mother about the schedule we need to keep. She continuously insists that she understands, but this weekend plays out again every weekend for the first month of the program. For some reason, she suddenly decides to change her schedule, and refuses to make allowances for either of us. At that point, I get creative. Rather than a big breakfast like we’ve been trying, I just have scrambled eggs one weekend; it’s quickly made, quickly eaten, and I can do the whole thing myself. As a result, my dad instead showers at 6:00 while I make breakfast for myself alone. At 6:45 on the dot, I jump into the shower. As expected, I immediately hear banging on the door.)

Me: “Yeah!”

Mother: “GET OUT!”

Me: “I’m washing!”


Me: “I’m using it!”

(This exchange continues for a while until she finally figures out I am going to use every last second of those fifteen minutes. She won’t speak to me for the rest of the day, but I figure it will send the message across. Boy, was I wrong. My dad and I try for a big breakfast again next week, and next week my mother decides the bathroom is hers at 7:00. So, the following week, we go to back to scrambled eggs and fighting. And we do that every week if we determine she hasn’t showered before we woke up. Amazingly, it never occurs to her that she could avert the whole thing by simply showering when she wakes up at 4:00. Even more amazingly, we suddenly have the money to fix the boiler, with some left over for those shower caddies most people buy when they go to college.)

Mother: “From now on, we’re going to carry our own soaps, shampoos, and other personal stuff out of the bathroom and only have communal stuff like toothpaste and mouthwash in each bathroom. Now, who has which shower will be decided on first-come, first-served.”

(It was an agreeable arrangement, so I had nothing to say at first. However, the very first Friday night of this deal, after my mother went to sleep, I noticed her toothbrush was by the sink. Upon closer inspection of the shower, I also found her shampoo, conditioner, soap, and razor. First-come, first-served, indeed. Naughty person that I am, the following morning I had scrambled eggs. It wasn’t until she ran into this shower that she even realized I had refilled her caddie. Every Friday until the program was over, I’d find the bathroom restocked with her stuff, and every Saturday until the program was over I’d pull the same stunt. Never once did she use the basement shower. Never once did she think to shower as soon as she woke up.)

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