Unfiltered Story #137045

, , , | Unfiltered | January 19, 2019

(I am working one of the front desks, checking in patients and answering questions. A girl who barely looks sixteen, but is holding car keys approaches the desk.)
Me: “Hi, are you here for an appointment?”
Teen girl: “No, my aunt told me to make her an appointment with you.” (she hands me a sheet of information about her aunt. (Neither the name, address, or phone number come up in the system.)
Me: “Hm. Okay, do you know which doctor she usually sees?”
Teen girl: “Um, I don’t think so.”
Me: (figuring I can narrow it down) “That’s not a problem. Did she say what she needs an appointment for? What’s been bothering her?”
Teen girl: “She said she wants to see her doctor because her veins are too close together or something.”
Me: (perplexed, still trying to get a firm answer) “Has she been diagnosed by a different doctor? Does she have a prescription or anything to help her? Like a cane or orthotic shoes?”
Teen girl: “I guess, it’s not like, pills but she wears special socks for it.”
Me: (putting the pieces together) “Okay, so she needs to see someone about the veins in her legs? We have a lab downstairs that’s just for issues like hers, or there are the primary care doctors on this floor for general appointments.” (I begin to reach for a printout of our primary care staff, but she interrupts me)
Teen girl: “No, no she said she has to see a special vein doctor. She told me she only wanted to come back here because a woman doctor was in charge. My aunt doesn’t trust man doctors, I dunno, she’s old so she doesn’t like anyone.”
Me: (lightbulb goes on, there is only one female doctor in our lab, the other females being lab technicians and nurses) “Okay, then she wants to see Doctor ‘Name’. I’ll put in a request in to the lab, they should give you a call later today.” (Still trying to get a more specific answer, I catch her attention before she leaves reception.) “Just to make sure, under ‘Reason for Visit’, she’s having circulation problems in her legs?”
Teen girl: “Yeah, they should know that. I mean, they saw her before. My aunt just said to come here and make her an appointment with the vein doctor. I don’t know what kind of problem she has. Like, I asked her why, but she was trying to hurry me so she kept saying she has very close veins and the doctor can fix it.”
Me: *blinks and keeps a straight face* ……Ah, okay. I’ll send the request to the lab, and someone should call you in a few hours with the time of the appointment.”

(Although “very close” veins could become an issue, I don’t think varicose veins are caused by circulatory snuggling.)

Meeting The Family Went By In A Haze

, , , , , , | Related | January 12, 2019

(My relationship with my current girlfriend has progressed to the point that I feel comfortable introducing her to my family over dinner. In the days leading up to the meeting, I run around cleaning most of the house — nothing too major, just touch-ups mostly. However, I elect to leave the back hall untouched, despite it being separated from the kitchen by only a door, for two reasons. First, it’s the winter. There are only two reasons anyone, besides my father, would go into the back hall: to get something out of the refrigerator or to go outside. So long as I get all of her drinks and we make sure there are no emergencies necessitating an evacuation, she’ll have no reason to go into the back hall. Second, my father would muck it up five minutes later. He’s a carpenter, and since the hall is mostly unused, it’s become his storage area for materials. It’s never organized, always changing, always a wreck, but has never been a safety hazard, so I don’t bother cleaning it. The day of the meeting, I finish work and then bring her home. My mother intended to do the cooking, but upon my return is immediately more interested in interrogating my girlfriend, so I take over the cooking. Before my mother can get to discussing anything more than my girlfriend’s job, or even make a snide remark, I try to remove her from the situation.)

Me: “Mom, how about you get us some drinks from the fridge? Between our car ride and you working all day, I’m sure we’re all thirsty.”

Mother: “Oh, sure. What would you like?”

(She stands up and crosses to the back hall. I intend to use this moment to start a conversation and try to refocus her energy. However, just as she opens the door:)

Mother: “Wow! Who cleaned the back hall?”

(My mortification chases away any conversation ideas I had. My mother’s tone is getting less friendly, and I’m still without any ideas. As if in answer to my prayers, the front door opens and my brother walks in.)

Me: “[Brother]! How was work?”

Brother: “Just fine.” *notices my girlfriend* “Who’s this?”

Me: “[Girlfriend]. The one I mentioned would be joining us for dinner tonight.”

Brother: “Oh, yeah! Chinese food, every Thursday! We love those leftovers [My Name] brings home!”

(During this rant about how my family swipes all of our leftover date food, he crosses the kitchen, evidently hoping to get a drink.)

Brother: “We were all excited, and you go and ask for pizza fro— Who cleaned the back hall?”

(So, now, my brother’s not my buffer. Lacking any other ideas, I throw the dice.)

Me: “So… where are [Sister] and [Father]?”

Mother: “Your father’s downstairs working on something, and your sister’s still asleep.”

Brother: *glances the clock and notices it’s nearly five* “That’s got to be some hangover!”

Me: *fighting every urge to beat up my brother* “How about you two go get them and let them meet [Girlfriend]?”

(Thankfully, that works. They disperse almost immediately. I’m too ashamed to look anywhere but the stove, or to say anything, so there’s dead silence until my brother and sister enter the kitchen.)

Sister: “If it’s not ready yet, then why the f*** am I up?” *notices my girlfriend* “And who the f*** are you?”

Brother: “It’s [Mangling of Girlfriend’s Name], [My Name]’s girl. She’s staying for dinner.”

Sister: “Oh.”

(That’s right. No greeting. No apology. Nothing. She just walks across the kitchen like nothing happened.)

Sister: “Who cleaned the back hall?”

(Once she comes back with a beer in each hand, my parents come up the stairs, oblivious to the double-homicide that should have happened.)

Me: “It’s almost ready, Dad. How about you say hello to [Girlfriend] while we wait?”

Father: “Sure, just let me get a drink. Oh, hey! Did you all see how great I cleaned the back hall?”

(And so starts the first meal with my family. The only remaining thing I can post at all is what happens when my father sees how uncomfortable my mother’s questions are making me.)

Father: “So, since you’re all old enough to drink now, I figure you’re old enough for the dirty jokes!”

(No matter how dirty the jokes got, I couldn’t even blush hard enough to pass out. And after taking her home and yelling at my family for an hour, I was able to confirm this was not some form of hazing. Two miracles have since occurred. The first, my family has not been murdered. The second, that girl somehow agreed to marry me.)

You Have Her Cornered

, , , , , , | Romantic | January 9, 2019

(When my wife and I are still dating, we usually stop by her parents’ place when we finish working on Fridays. On this particular Friday, we are going to have a barbecue. However, before we get there, my future father-in-law, who is doing the cooking, desperately needs the bathroom. Given that his wife is busy working on dessert and his other daughter is fast asleep, he trusts his son to man the grill while he runs in to do his business. This is his son who, despite pushing 30, has never cooked anything without a microwave. By the time we walk in the door, the whole meal is charcoal.)

Wife: “How about we just get some sandwiches from [Irish Name]’s?”

(We all agree and write down our orders.)

Wife: “I’ll help them clean up. Why don’t you go get the sandwiches? Follow [Her Street] to [Major Street]. [Irish Name]’s is right on the corner there.”

(Off I walk. When I get to the intersection, I am directly in front of a barbershop. Across [Her Street] from the barbershop is a Western Union. Across [Major Street] from the barbershop is a gas station and body shop. Across [Major Street] from the Western Union is a condominium. There’s not one place called [Irish Name]’s. Without a clue, a pop into the barbershop to ask if any of them know of [Irish Name]’s. The two barbers have never heard of any such place. I know I didn’t mishear which street I’m supposed to stop at. Even if I did, following her street the other way to the next major street would take me to a church, a cemetery, and two private houses. So, I walk up this street until I get to the next intersection. There’s a mini-mart — no sandwiches — an apartment building, a florist, and a dentist. I walk back the other way. A bakery — no sandwiches — a Chinese restaurant, a cab depot, and a realtor. Out of ideas and having wasted a fair bit of time, I walk back to her parents’ house.)

Wife: “Where have you been? And where are the sandwiches?”

Me: “Where am I going?”

Wife: “[Irish Name]’s!”

Me: “Where is it?”


Me: “There is no [Irish Name]’s on any corner.”

Wife: “Of course there is! I got my lunch there just last week!”

Me: “Well, the barbers down the corner said they’ve never heard of it. How about you show me where?”

(The two of us walk back down to [Major Street]. She leads me across towards the gas station… and then continues walking past it.)

Me: *pointing behind us* “You said it was on this corner.”

Wife: “It is!”

(She walks into the building directly behind the gas station.)

Me: “This isn’t the corner. The gas station is on the corner.”

Wife: “Gas stations don’t count. This is the corner.”

(Unwilling to continue this discussion, I just roll my eyes. As I do, I glance at the name of the place we’ve walked into.)

Me: “This also isn’t [Irish Name]’s. This is [Italian Name with a completely different starting letter and more syllables]’s.”

Wife: “This place is always being sold and renamed. We don’t bother following. It was [Irish Name]’s when we first moved here, so we just call it [Irish Name]’s.”

Me: “And you expected me to know that?”

Wife: “It’s on the corner!”

Jesus Only Pays For Your Sins

, , , , , , , | Working | December 31, 2018

(While the mail itself isn’t delivered on Sundays, there’s still work that needs doing in the post office. Among my managerial duties is writing and posting the schedule for the week, including Sundays. I’m quick enough to have a schedule posted by Thursday, which is about mid-week given that the union contract specifies that the week starts on Monday. Normally, the worst we have is the occasional groan about Sundays. This time, however, one of my recent transfers takes offense.)

Transfer: “[My Name]? You have me working next Sunday?”

Me: “That’s right.”

Transfer: “I never work Sundays!”

Me: “You do in 11 days.”

Transfer: “I don’t work Sundays!”

Me: “[Transfer], no one likes working Sundays. I try to be fair and only schedule those who volunteer. If I’m still short, I rotate who fills in based on who hasn’t worked Sundays. Since you got here, everyone else has worked at least one Sunday. I don’t have enough volunteers, so it’s your turn.”

Transfer: “But… are we allowed to trade shifts?”

Me: “Certainly. If you can find someone to trade shifts with you, and both of you submit a form requesting the shift trade, I’ll approve a trade.”

Transfer: “Thanks!”

(I say this knowing with confidence no one is going to trade with her. And I get confirmation the following Monday in my office.)

Transfer: “[My Name]? I’m feeling a little feverish. Just in case I need to see a doctor, can you tell me how much paid sick leave I have left?”

(One read of her file later:)

Me: “You have nothing until next month.”

Transfer: “Thanks.”

(Come Tuesday, among the forms on my desk are several requests for overtime work from [Transfer]. While it’s not unusual for her to request overtime, it is unusual for her to request so much. I do a little math, and I figure out why she wants so much overtime. Among the conditions in the union contract is a listing for the maximum number of hours the union workers are allowed per week. The maximum is calculated with both regular hours and overtime. And as I said earlier, the week starts on Monday. If I grant all of these requests for overtime, I’d have to give her Sunday off, as well, or else she’d be over the maximum and the union would be coming after me. I handle it probably the best way possible, if my meeting with her on Friday is any indication.)

Transfer: “[My Name]? You denied my overtime request for today?”

Me: “I did.”

Transfer: “But I need the money.”

Me: “Well, we only have so much. Someone else put in for overtime tonight, so that’s where it went.”

(This is completely true.)

Transfer: “I put in on Tuesday with the rest of the requests! The ones you approved and I worked!”

Me: “And this request came in Monday, asking only for today. I approved the rest of your requests because you put in for them first.”

(This is half true. The request for Friday actually came in Thursday. And I got to a few requests for overtime the rest of the week before I got to [Transfer]’s, but I chose to give those hours to her instead to ensure she works the maximum this week, as she had intended.)

Transfer: “B-But…”

Me: “But now you won’t be over your maximum hours by Sunday and I can schedule you to work the whole Sunday shift?”

Transfer: “It’s Sunday! The Lord’s Day! The day of rest!”

Me: “And you’ll spend it here working. Just like the rest of us.”

Transfer: “It’s the Sabbath! That day goes to Jesus! Not you!”

Me: “And?”

Transfer: “‘The Bible says we don’t work on Sundays!”

(For the record, I was raised Catholic and could very easily resolve this with Bible verses. However, it’s no secret to that I’m now an atheist. Experience has taught me Christians don’t like hearing Bible verses from atheists, particularly if they work in my favor. Instead, I handle this on my own.)

Me: “Then don’t come in. Go with Jesus.”

Transfer: “Really?”

Me: “Absolutely. We have free will and laws that protect it. I can’t force you to be here.”

Transfer: “Thanks!”

Me: “Before you go back to work, just remember something: I asked you to be here. I asked for your day. But you’re choosing to give it to Jesus, instead. So, when you get your next paycheck and notice you’re missing a day’s pay, take it up with Jesus. Jesus got your Sunday, so Jesus is responsible for your Sunday pay.”

(Unsurprisingly, she showed up Sunday. And she’s been grumbling at me ever since.)

Checked Yourself Like So Many Other Customers Don’t

, , , , , | Right | December 10, 2018

(In this instance, I am the stupid customer. I am at the grocery store till and the clerk has just finished scanning through all my items.)

Clerk: “That will be [price].”

(I reach into my back pocket only to find that my wallet is not there.)

Me: “Oh, my God.”

(I start pulling things out of my coat pocket looking for it, including my checkbook.)

Me: “Oh, my God, I left my wallet at home! Can you hold this?”

Clerk: “What about your checkbook, ma’am?”

Me: “What about it? I used it to pay daycare yester— Oh! Do people still pay for groceries with checks?”

Clerk: “Not often, but yes.”

Me: “Okay, my ID is in my car, though; do you mind holding this here while I run out and get it?”

Clerk: “Not a problem.”

(I run out, get my ID, come back, and finish the transaction without any more hiccups.)

Me: “I am so sorry about that. I’m just usually not so scatterbrained. Thank you for being patient with me!”

Clerk: “Ma’am, you didn’t yell at me once, and you apologized even though you didn’t have to. Believe me; I’ve had worse customers.”

(As if on cue, I hear the sound of raised voices from customer service.)

Me: “I can imagine; have a great day!”

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