(I work at a local grocery store. My job is usually handing out samples of products, and today there is a new brand of cookies we will be stocking in our bake shop. My sample table consists of a tray of the product and some pamphlets about it. Behind the table, about ten feet high, taped to a wall, are large custom refillable balloons that have our store logo and “SAMPLES” written on them that we use to bring attention to the sampling table. I’ve run out of product and have gone to fetch a few more packages. Upon my return, I see a man, standing on top of the sample table, ripping the balloons from the wall.)

Me: “Sir! Please get down from there!”

Customer #1: “What? I’m just getting my kids some balloons!”

Me: “Those balloons are not for sale, they’re for display.”

Customer #1: “Well, how the f*** am I supposed to know that?!”

Me: “They’re attached to a wall, above customers’ reach! Now, please get down off the table!”

(The customer jumps down off the table, causing it to snap in half. My manager comes over to the area. A nearby customer, [Customer #2], walks over, as well.)

Manager: “[My Name]! Are you okay? What happened!”

Me: “I’m fine, this customer—“

Customer #1: *interrupts* “She put those balloons too high for me to reach! I could have been killed trying to get them! Then she yelled at me!”

Customer #2: “Sir, I saw the whole thing. This young lady wasn’t rude or anything; she was only telling him to get off that table. He was standing on it, pulling down that display. He broke the table when he jumped off.”

Manager: *to [Customer #1]* “Is that true, sir?”

Customer #1: “I just wanted some f****** balloons!”

Manager: “Those balloons were clearly not for sale, and you’ve damaged both them, and this table. You’ll need to pay for the damages you’ve caused.”

Customer #1: “Fine!” *throws a dollar at my manager*

Manager: “Sir, the table is $100 and those balloons are $15 each, and you’ve ruined three of them.”

Customer #1: “THAT’S LIKE A HUNDRED AND FIFTY F****** DOLLARS! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! I’M NOT PAYING THAT!”

Manager: *sternly* “Well, then we’ll just have to have you arrested for destroying store property.” *takes out his phone*

Customer #1: “No, wait. Don’t call the cops; I’ll pay!”

(After going to the back to do the money and paperwork, my manager then comes back over to me.)

Manager: “You handled everything perfectly. Good job.”

Me: “Thank you.”

Manager: “Go next door to [Hardware Store] and get a new table. When you get back, I think we’ll have an employee pizza day!”

I have the fun combination of vasovagal syncope and orthostatic hypotension. In layman’s terms, I faint. A lot. I’ve gotten fairly good at knowing and avoiding my triggers, or at least being able to recognize the onset of an episode early enough to mitigate it. That said, I do still actually faint at least once or twice a year, and it’s gotten to the point where it’s honestly more annoying than distressing.

Understandably, though, the people around me are less nonchalant about it. It probably doesn’t help that according to witnesses, my eyes don’t close when I faint.

My favorite example of this is the time I went to the optometrist after many years without seeing one. He used what is apparently either an outdated or just very intense test for glaucoma, because everyone I’ve ever described it to says they’ve never had anything of the sort done. It involved placing my chin on a rest inside this terrifying-looking contraption while he very slowly pressed a little rubber stopper against the surface of my eye. As it turned out, this was a trigger that I did not previously know about — because I don’t make a habit of pressing objects into my eyeballs for minutes at a time — and I passed right out.

When I woke up, I was on the floor with a very flustered nurse keeping watch over me. This was where it got funny, as often when I faint there will be people who simply will not accept my insistence that if they just leave me alone for a few minutes, I’ll bounce right back. The nurse was one of these sorts, and she insisted that she should get me some water, or an ice pack, or anything. I consented to a glass of water more for her sake than mine, but she wasn’t placated. She insisted that she should get my dad from the waiting room. Now, my family is just as used to my little spells as I am, so I warned the nurse that he was not going to be as comforting as she thought, but if she really wanted to, she could go get him.

She came back minutes later, and as soon as my dad saw me lying on the floor in a dark exam room — because the nurse also insisted on turning out the lights for some reason — he just gave a long-suffering sigh and informed me, and I quote, “You’re such a wuss.”

I cracked up laughing. The nurse was horrified.

I got up and walked out under my own power five minutes later. I now warn my optometrists before any and all glaucoma tests, but sometimes they don’t listen and I get to relive the whole situation over, though unfortunately without my dad’s commentary.

(I spend a summer in college working as a tour guide for my school, and I like everything about it except for some of the parents. One day when I am manning the front desk of the Visitor’s Office, I get the following call around 9:50.)

Caller: “I’m trying to find your office for the 10:00 free tour, and I can’t find it anywhere! Our daughter needs to be on this tour. We’re at the right address.”

Me: “Well, that’s odd. Just to confirm, you’re at [address]?”

Caller: “Yes, [address], North Haven. And we’ve been looking all over!”

Me: “Ah, that explains it. We’re in New Haven, not North Haven.”

Caller: *yelling at the other person in car* “You idiot, we’re in the wrong town! Put in the address for New Haven, and you’d better hope we get there on time.” *to me* “Do you think we’ll get there on time? [College] is our daughter’s first-choice college, and she needs to be on this tour!”

Me: “Well, I’m not sure, ma’am, but I hope to see you soon!”

Caller: *degenerates into unintelligible bickering with the driver as she hangs up*

(At 10:30, the family of three bursts into the office, husband and wife sniping at each other. They stride up to my desk:)

Caller: “Has the tour left yet?”

Me: “Sorry, at this point it would be difficult to catch up to them.”

Caller: *looking stricken* “Our daughter has her heart set on your school! Is there any way we can get a tour today?”

Manager: “Well, you can pay $100 for a private tour.”

Caller: “Yes, thank you, we’ll do that! Anything for our girl.”

(As they paid my manager and arranged the tour, I looked down at their daughter. She looked back up at me — from her stroller! The girl was clearly two or three years old, and I doubt she could even say the word “college” yet, let alone have a first-choice school.)

(My name is Molly. For as long as I can remember, I have always hated it. Passionately. One of the most annoying reasons is that as a child, whenever I was introduced to adults, they would sing “Good Golly, Miss Molly” at me. And they always thought they were the most funny and clever person for thinking to do it. One day, I’m at my favorite cafe and one of the waitresses who knows me spots me and smiles.)

Waitress: “Good Golly, Miss Molly… Sure like to ball!”

Me: “DON’T!”

Waitress: *still smiling* “Aw, why? It’s fun.”

Me: “I’m just soooo sick of it. Please, I know you’re trying to be funny and welcoming, but it’s just really grating on the nerves. You, of all people, should understand.”

Waitress: “What do you mean?”

Me: “You really expect me to believe that every Christmas customers don’t see your nametag and start singing your name at you?”

(She looks pensive and confused for a moment before I start singing…)

Me: “The First Noel, the angels did say…”

(The waitress’s eyes go wide with understanding. Her name is Noelle.)

Waitress: “Oh, God! Never again! I’m so, so sorry!”

(I’m at a banquet with my mom, seated next to a husband and wife my parents’ age that I know, but not very well. I’m a biology professor and I’m pretty sure they’re aware of that. I’m wearing a sleeveless dress and I have a large mole that my dermatologist is not concerned about, so I haven’t had it removed.)

Woman: “Oh, you need to get that taken care of.”

Me: “What?”

Woman: “That mole. That’s cancer.”

Me: “No, actually, it’s okay. My dermatologist says it’s fine. I could have it removed if it bothers me, but I haven’t gotten around to it.”

Woman: “Nope, that’s cancer.”

Man: “You know, our daughter’s husband had a mole just like that. He didn’t even know it was there! It was on his back. Our daughter didn’t even notice it! But one day he got out of the shower and she said, ‘Hey, what’s that?’ And he got it checked. And you know what? The doctor sat down and said, ‘You have six months to live.’ It looked just like yours.”

Me: “No, really, I’ve had it looked at; it’s not cancerous.”

Woman: “You probably have six months to live, too.”

Man: “When the doctor finally looked at it, it had met… med… What’s the word? When it spreads?”

Me: “Metastasized?”

Man: “Yeah, that. He was a goner. It was everywhere. Lungs, brain. Everywhere.”

Me: “Yeah, skin cancer’s weird like that; it has its places it goes.”

Woman: “Do you know about cancer?”

Me: “Um, a little? We just covered it in my intro cell bio class last week. I use breast cancer as an example.”

Woman: “Are you going to apply to med school?”

Me: *completely taken aback* “No? I mean, I thought about it years ago, after I started my PhD, because it would have made more financial sense to get an MD/PhD at the time, but those programs are hard to get into. And really, I didn’t want to pursue an MD; I wanted a PhD.”

Woman: “But think of all you could do! You should apply to med school.”

Me: “No, really, I’m happy with my PhD. I like my job.”

Woman: “You should apply to med school.”

Me: *later, to my mom* “Why did you make me sit next to them?!”

(For the record, I was probably going to get that mole removed next summer, but now I don’t want to, just out of spite!)

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