(I work at the front desk in a hotel. One fine morning, just before dawn, we get a call from one of the rooms plaintively asking if we could please call an ambulance. The voice on the phone is rather weak, but is very apologetic, and keeps saying she’s sorry to be such a bother, etc. I send my coworker down the hall to see if he can help her any while I make the call. The ambulance arrives quickly and the woman is bundled off, with my coworker coming back to the front desk.)

Me: “How bad is she? She going to be okay?”

Coworker: “Yeah, but you wouldn’t believe the mess in the bathroom. Whatever hit her, it was bad.”

Me: “How bad is it?”

Coworker: “Trust me when I say you wouldn’t believe me. It’s really bad in there.”

(Gentle readers, I have insufficient words to describe the mess in that bathroom. Apparently, whatever illness had the guest in its grip had her expelling from both ends, with great force. Further, she had been gripped with dizziness and vertigo, so there wasn’t any aiming for a proper target. There is vomit and fecal matter over everything — and I do mean everything — in that bathroom. A bit later, the head housekeeper comes in, and I get to practice my Spanish:)

Me: “Ah, [Housekeeper]? Por favor… 104 no es bueno.” *Please, 104 is not good*.

Housekeeper: “¿No?”

Me: “No. Es baño.” *No. It’s a toilet.*

Housekeeper: “¿Baño?”

Me: *handing her the key* “Si… Lo siento mucho.” *Yes, I am very sorry.*

(She took the key with a skeptical look; as a housekeeper, she’s seen it all. A moment later, I heard a loud “¡Ay-yi-yi!” from down the hall.)

(I work as a barista in my local grocery store. Often times when I’m getting stock and don’t have my apron on, or when I’m just somewhere else in the store, I still get asked questions by customers asking where things are. Since I don’t work as a clerk or checker, I don’t know as much about the store as they do, but I always try to answer to the best of my ability, or direct them to someone who knows more. One day, I am on my lunch break with my apron off, walking to the break room, all while texting on my phone. A couple approaches me. It should be noted that the man is a huge, muscular man roughly in his fifties, while I am a very tiny woman of 23.)

Woman: “EXCUSE ME!”

(I realize that she is talking to me and decide that I’ll be nice and help, rather than pointing out to them that I am on my break.)

Me: “Uh… yes?”

Woman: “Shouldn’t this product be on this aisle?”

Me: *confused* “What?”

Man: “Shouldn’t this product be on this aisle?” *points to aisle while shoving a newspaper in my face with a laundry detergent circled* 

Me: “Yes, this aisle is for laundry and detergent, so it should be on this aisle or the next aisle. If you still can’t find it, a manager will be happy to help you find it.”

Man: *gets super close to me and into my face* “You do not say, ‘What?’ to a customer. You are in customer service! That is very rude, young lady. You do not say, ‘What!’ You say, ‘How may I help you?’!”

Me: *resisting the urge to say that I’m not even on the clock, since in our store all employees are supposed to act with proper conduct while in uniform, even on breaks* “Okay, I’m sorry, sir.”

Man: *as he walks away* “YOU DO NOT SAY, ‘WHAT?’ IN CUSTOMER SERVICE!”

Me: *dumbfounded*

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(I’m in line today behind a father and his daughter, who appears to be a teenager. Even though the store is an electronics store, they have a small display right before the register with candy bars and bottles of soda. As the father puts his purchase on the counter, the daughter grabs two candy bars and a bottle of soda. The father gently takes the candy and soda from her and sets it back.)

Daughter: “That was mean!”

Father: “You know you’re not allowed that stuff at my house.”

Daughter: “Mom buys it for me!”

Father: “I’m not Mom. I don’t allow junk food.”

Daughter: “I hate you!” *kicks him in the leg*

(By now the transaction is complete. The father takes his purchase and his daughter’s hand.)

Father: *as they leave* “No, you don’t. But that’s not a nice thing to say.”

(As someone raising a teenager myself… good luck, Dad.)

(We have lost two coworkers in the last three weeks, leaving us severely short-staffed. My manager has been riding everyone about their work but in a manner reminiscent of a dog barking at shadows; it’s ineffective and annoying at best. Shortly after I clock on for the final closing shift of the day, she approaches me.)

Manager: “When was the salad case last vacuumed?”

Me: “Well, at worst I did it the last time I worked the final shift last week. I don’t know about [Other Coworkers] since I leave before they do.”

Manager: “Oh, really?”

Me: “Yes?”

Manager: “Well, I was told the vacuum was broken.”

Me: *baffled* “If it’s broken, I had no idea about it. It’s been working fine.”

Manager: “Well, one of the service-clerks up front said it was broken.”

Me: “Huh. I’ll check it out.” *retrieves the mini shop vac in question, plugs it in right in front of her*

Manager: “This was like two weeks ago.”

Me: “Oh, heck no. I just used this in the last four days.” *flips the power switch and fires it up just fine, turns it back off* “Seems fine to me.”

Manager: “He said it had no suction.”

Me: *flips the vacuum back on and proceeds to show it has perfectly fine suction by sucking my glove visibly away from the palm of my hand while looking her dead in the eye* “Yep, still working.”

Manager: “Maybe he was wrong.”

Me: “Eh, maybe the hose was clogged, but I’ve cleared and washed it a few times in the last couple of weeks.”

Manager: *walking off* “Well, the case wasn’t vacuumed last night.”

(It wasn’t until hours later after she left that I realized she had called me out in front of my coworkers, expecting to catch me in some two-week cleaning lie, and was disappointed it backfired. This is made all the more ridiculous by the fact that I had only worked the final shift requiring the shop vac four times in those two weeks.)

(This guy and I have been flirting back and forth for a bit and we decide to go see a play. This story takes place in the middle of the performance. Mind you, it’s NOT intermission but during the performance. I’m silently watching the show and suddenly feel something on my leg.)

Guy: “Hey, psst.”

Me: *whispers without looking away* “Yes?”

Guy: “You want a PEZ?”

Me: *shocked* “What?!”

Guy: “You. Want. A. PEZ?”

Me: *looking down at the PEZ dispenser on my leg* “Is that BB-8?!”

Guy: “Yeah. It’s orange flavor.”

(I then proceeded to laugh through the next song. At intermission, I told my friend who told me he may have gotten the idea from “Seinfeld.”)