(I’m helping one of our more high-maintenance employees set up their computer. I’m also visibly pregnant, a week and change from my due date.) 

Me: “Okay, you’re all set. Let us know if you need anything else.” 

Employee: “Can I get your extension? I want to call you in case I have issues.” 

(We’ve been trying to discourage people from calling us techs directly and to use our ticketing system, instead, so it can be documented. Oh… and because their favorite techie may be out for silly things like being sick or having a baby.)

Me: “Oh, just call the general number or put in a ticket. Any one of us can help you.”

Employee: “Well, I’d like to get your extension, anyway. You’re the best tech I’ve worked with.”

(At this point, I’m exhausted. My ankles are swelling, the baby is kicking my ribs, and I need to eat. I just want to chill in my office for a bit.) 

Me: “Okay, it’s [number]. But I’m going on maternity leave in a couple of weeks, so you’ll need to call the general number or make a ticket.” 

(The baby arrived a week early. When I came back, I found out my officemate had turned off my phone’s ringer, partly because that employee called my extension several times a day for computer issues, and they complained because I wasn’t “more available” to help her. They complained enough that my employer considered asking if I’d be willing to come back early. They didn’t.)

Years ago, I worked in the liquor department of a national chain and the assistant manager called me on my day off to see if I could work.

“Nope,” I said gleefully. “I’m on my third beer; you know the law.” He grumbled, but he understood.

The next day, I was talking to one of the non-liquor clerks and told her about it. Her face lit up and she said, “That’s great! I’m using that the next time they call me!”

I work as a bartender in a busy bar and restaurant. The bar is set up two-sided; one side has all the beer and lager taps with the liquors as well as fountain drinks. The other is strictly fountain drinks as it is meant as a quick station for servers to get refills for people.

I get an order from the restaurant for about ten people, all fountain drinks but different because two of the party are diabetic. I start on the drinks, getting glasses and filling them with ice, generally doing them two at a time and placing them on a tray.

I am the only one working on the bar itself.

Every time I get another glass, I notice that my drinks order has gone. One by one, every soda on the tray has vanished.

The man who has ordered has his back turned and is in conversation, but none of his party have their drinks.

I start the process again, and with each new glass, the same thing happens.

Frustrated, I move my tray, collect all the glasses, and do all the drinks at once.

As I am moving across the bar to deliver what seems to be the most difficult order I have ever filled, one of the new servers stops me and tries to pluck a soda from my tray.

I give her a “WTF” face and she brazenly states that it is my job to pour her drinks and that her table needs the sodas.

It turns out that she has been stealing my drinks orders whilst my back was turned, with no regard for preference — diet, zero-calorie, etc. — and giving them to her tables.

I finish serving my now angry customer, apologise, and then have to explain to the waitress that she actually has to tell me what her tables are drinking so I can pour them, not just steal drinks from other customers.

I show her the fountain station on the other side of the bar, even though I personally watched her being trained on this.

She is soon let go when she is found doing the same thing on other shifts, too lazy to get her own drinks for customers or to write orders down.

That evening, I filled 25 glasses for an original order of ten. The definition of madness is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.

(I work at a group home for adults with cognitive disabilities. Part of my job, among other things, is laundry, cleaning, and cooking. Two of our clients are gluten-free. My coworker is making fried chicken for dinner. It is important to note that this coworker is new and not generally liked as he mainly sits around talking to girls on his phone all day or generally being lazy.)

Coworker: “This plate is the gluten chicken, and this is the gluten-free chicken.”

(My coworker heats up the oil on the stove, and then starts putting the gluten chicken in the oil.)

Me: “Oh, you should have put the gluten-free chicken in first. Now you’re going to have to make a whole new pot of oil because this oil is cross-contaminated.”

Coworker: “I know what cross-contamination is! Besides, the flour is gluten-free, so the breadcrumbs will protect it.”

Me: “Are… are you saying you didn’t use gluten-free breadcrumbs for the gluten-free chicken?”

Coworker: “There’s no gluten in breadcrumbs!”

Me: “What are you talking about? Breadcrumbs are made out of bread; of course, they have gluten!” *takes out gluten-free breadcrumbs* “See?”

Coworker: “Whatever! The oil will burn off the gluten, anyway!”

Me: “That’s not how it works at all! If that was true, people who were gluten-free could just eat fried bread!”

Coworker: “Well, they’ll just have to deal because this is all we have. They’ve had my fried chicken before and no one died!”

Me: “Yeah, their stomach just really hurt after. That’s what happens when they eat gluten. You’re lucky no one here is severely celiac because people can die from eating gluten if they’re allergic enough.”

(My coworker mumbled and went back to cooking. Later, he tried to give coffee with sugar to our diabetic client and then got mad that “no one told him” the client couldn’t have that.)

(I am three weeks into my new job. My colleagues have gone on their morning coffee break and I join them when I finish what I’m doing. My boss is sitting at a table with another manager, one of my colleagues, and someone I don’t recognise. I sit down.)

Boss: “Hey, [My Name], this is [New Colleague].” *gestures to the colleague I don’t know* “He just started this morning!”

Me: *pretending to be upset* “But, but does this mean that I’m not the new guy anymore?”

Other Colleague: “Yep, you don’t get to be the new guy anymore!”

Me: *laughing* “Right, so I’m guessing that means I can no longer use ‘I’m the new guy’ as an excuse for not knowing what I am doing?”

Other Manager: “Yes, and it also means that we can start blaming you when things go wrong!” *grins*