I work in a big box store. As with many of these stores, we have a Loss Prevention Officer — someone in plain clothes, not a uniform, whose job it is to keep an eye out for theft and shoplifters.

One day, I am called upstairs to the manager’s room. Our LPO has caught a teenager attempting to steal several items, and, per store policy, they need an employee to sit with the LPO and the would-be thief while we await the police.

The young man is quite upset and is begging and pleading with the LPO to not call the police.

Young Man: “I’m a good kid ordinarily! This was just a momentary lapse in judgment! I’ve never done anything like this before, and I swear I never will again!”

The LPO and I both stare at him, unable to understand why he would even attempt this as a defense with the two items he attempted to steal lying on the table in front of him.

The items in question? A crowbar and bolt cutters.

I have a coworker who is just gross. He is an old fashioned good-ol-boy who makes crude jokes to the men in the office and asks the women inappropriate questions, guffawing at the discomfort he causes.

He comes to me at my desk one afternoon. I am overwhelmed with a sudden quick deadline and a headache growing above my eyes. As he starts his leading question, I jam my hand out at him, palm up, and bark:

Me: “Pay me!”

Gross Coworker: *Startled pause* “What?”

Me: “If you’re going to treat me like a whore, pay me.”

The whole bullpen of six women and two men freezes, all eyes on us.

Gross Coworker: “I’m not… What?”

Me: “A dollar a word; ‘a’ and ‘the’ count as words. Numbers count as words, too.”

I am laying the rules out off the top of my head, hand out and never wavering.

Gross Coworker: “I wasn’t—”

Me: “Okay, then, what?”

Gross Coworker: “Well, nothing now.”

He storms away.

Two days later, [Gross Coworker] comes to me to ask if I know why the printer isn’t printing his work. It’s a legitimate question, as I’m the coordinator of the department where the printer is located, even though it is used by many departments, including [Gross Coworker]’s. As he talks, I’m mouthing numbers.

Gross Coworker: “What are you doing?!”

Me: “I’m counting words.”

Gross Coworker: “What? No! This is work-related.”

Me: “I’ll decide what’s work-related and deduct it.”

[Gross Coworker] stormed away, back down the hallway. I went over to check the printer; it was out of paper, so I refilled it and it hummed back to life.

The next week, our floor was pulled into an HR meeting about creating a hostile work environment. I stood up after the presentation, when the floor was opened for questions, and thanked them for their concern but explained that the hostile work environment had died down the week before; heads nodded around the table along with murmured agreement.

Weeks later, [Gross Coworker] was gone but only from our floor. He’d been promoted to a higher floor where he would no longer be interacting with us — well, me, mainly, I guess.

Putting up with him for years, we got nothing but a hatred of gross men. He then squeaked his wheel and moved up the ladder.

Because my Crohn’s Disease has decided to rear its ugly head again after a long period of remission, I am having a conference call with my gastroenterologist and another doctor, both personable young women. The connection is, unfortunately, rather sketchy. The doctors have taken turns gathering information from me and discussing treatment options.

At one point, I can’t quite believe what I think my gastroenterologist has said.

Me: “I’m sorry, could you please repeat that?”

Gastroenterologist: “I said we need to get a handle on this, because you’re still so young.”

Me: *Laughing* “I thought you said, ‘Because you’re still so dumb.’”

All three of us cracked up for a bit. I’m sixty-three and being called young was rather refreshing.

I work at a small, family-owned cafe on the beach. We serve basic things like hotdogs and burgers, and we only have a few basic selections of ice cream.

Me: “Hello, welcome. What would you like?”

Customer: “What are your ice cream flavours?”

I point to the sign with flavours displayed.

Customer: *Not looking at the sign* “Do you have liquorice ice cream?”

Me: “No.”

I point to the sign again.

Customer: “Do you have orange? Or at least mango sorbet?!”

Me: *Pointing to the sign* “We have strawberry, vanilla, or chocolate.”

Customer: *Angry* “Well, you need to have raspberry! I mean, why don’t you have raspberry?!”

I try to explain that, because we are such a small business, we don’t have fancy ice cream flavours.

Customer: “Unbelievable!”

She stormed off.

I’m wandering around the massive expanse of a Swedish furniture and home decor store with my partner when I hear this over the loudspeaker:

Loudspeaker: “Code Adam in kitchen section. Code Adam in kitchen section.”

We are in the kitchen section, so I look around to see a distraught woman surrounded by three employees. Ah, well, all seems to be handled, I figure, so my partner and I continue to the next section… where I see the toes of some little running shoes sticking out from behind a cabinet.

Me: *To my partner* “Hold on a second.”

I break away from him and find a young boy, maybe three years old, crouching behind the cabinet. He is grinning and he keeps peeking around the corner toward the kitchen section. I move beside him and slide down the cabinet to sit beside him — on the far side so I’m not blocking his view of the kitchen section.

Me: “Are you playing hide-and-seek?”

He looks at me excitedly and nods. I nod back.

Me: “With your mum?”

He nods again enthusiastically.

Me: “Does she know?”

The nod comes WAY slower and is very hesitant.

Me: “Okay. What say we go tell your mum that you’re playing? Then she’ll be ready to play and it’ll be more fun.”

Boy: “Okay!”

He leaps up and we walk side-by-side back into the kitchen section. When his Mum sees him, she breaks away from the group of employees and races to her boy. I nod at her and walk away, back to my partner, who’s flabbergasted.

Partner: “What happened?”

Me: “The mum lost her kid. I just brought him back.”

Partner: “What? How did you know?”

Me: “A freaked-out woman and some kid’s feet? I just figured that they’ve gotta be connected, you know?”

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