I work in a factory, and because others that make similar products to us closed for the health crisis and we stayed open, we’ve received a LOT of business. The problem is that it’s caused many of us to pull up to seventy-two-hour weeks — twelve hours a day, six days a week — for the entire year so far.

When I overwork like this, I start having stress dreams about work. After a particular one, I go in the next day to talk to my coworker who works just before me on the line.

Me: “I had the weirdest dream last night.”

Coworker: “Yeah, so did I.”

Me: “Mine was a work dream. Like, I dreamed that I woke up this morning to get ready to come in, and I couldn’t remember coming in at all yesterday. Then, I realized I’d been a no-call-no-show and freaked out, ‘Oh, man! [Coworker] is gonna kill me!’”

He looks stunned.

Coworker: “That’s f****** weird.”

Me: “How so?”

Coworker: “I had a dream about work, too. You just didn’t show up, so it was just me running all three machines by myself with no help, while [product] kept piling up, and I was ready to kill you.”

We need a day off.

In the office where I work, we have “kitchen weeks,” which means we take turns to be responsible for keeping the communal break room and kitchen clean, wiping down the counters, running and unloading the dishwasher, cleaning stinky things out of the fridge, etc.

It works pretty well, except for one coworker who seems to have appointed herself as the kitchen week police. She always finds something to complain about.

It’s my kitchen week, and I’m sitting in the break room hurrying to finish my lunch since I have a meeting in a few minutes. Just as I’m done eating, the dishwasher, which I started a few hours ago, has run its program and beeps to signal that it’s finished. I pop it open to let it cool down, hang a towel over the hatch — this means the dishes inside are clean and waiting to be unloaded — and prepare to go to my meeting.

Unfortunately, my coworker happens to be in the break room at the same time as I am and immediately descends like a hawk.

Coworker: “It’s your kitchen week, isn’t it? Aren’t you going to unload that?”

Me: “I will, but right now I have an online meeting with [Important Client] to update them about [important project]. It’ll take thirty minutes at most. I’ll unload the dishes when I’ve taken care of that.”

Coworker: “Well, don’t expect me to do your job for you!”

Me: “I don’t! I’ll take care of it as soon as my meeting is finished.”

I leave for my meeting, which goes well, and then hurry back to the kitchen to unload the dishwasher. Once I get there, I find that someone has already done it for me. I have my suspicions about who it is, and they are confirmed when I get called into the Human Resources manager’s room the next day. 

The HR manager and I are on friendly terms, and I know I haven’t done anything wrong, so I’m not worried.

HR Manager: “I got a complaint about you from [Coworker]. She claims you refused to unload the dishwasher even though it’s your kitchen week and forced her to do it instead.”

Me: “Oh, really? What actually happened is that I prioritized a scheduled meeting with [Important Client] over unloading the dishwasher, and when I got back to the kitchen, she had already done it herself, completely unprompted.”

HR Manager: “Yeah, I figured it was something like that. You’re not in trouble; I just have to follow up on all complaints I get.”

Me: “Um, not to be that person, but [Coworker] is due to retire soon, right?”

HR Manager: *Sighs deeply* “Not soon enough.”

As a result of a childhood accident, I have steel rods fused to my spine. I’ve been this way for over thirty years and am quite used to being in continuous low levels of pain. However, if the barometer shifts dramatically (such as with thunderstorms or blizzards), my pain levels amplify.

It is February 2016, and the local weather forecasters are predicting a minor snowstorm at the end of the week, with every news outlet assuring us that we shouldn’t expect more than two or three inches. The storm is expected to hit on Saturday, but as early as Tuesday, I can tell that something is very wrong. I don’t normally feel a storm THAT far in advance, but my pain levels are steadily creeping upwards and I just know that they are wrong.

I plan my own weekend accordingly — getting in some extra supplies, taking care of any chores that require leaving the apartment, and making sure I have a full tank of gas — and meanwhile keep urging my friends, coworkers, and customers at my store to ignore the forecast and brace for something really bad. Some of them take me relatively seriously.

The universal response I receive from those who don’t is, “But all the weathermen agree it’s going to be a little thing! You’re exaggerating/overreacting!”

Saturday morning rolls around. I wake up and my spine is on fire. I make it to the door of my first-floor apartment and slowly open it to find that there is at least six inches of snow on the ground and blizzard conditions are in effect. I turn on the local news to find that most area businesses, including my store, are closed or in the process of closing, and a state of emergency has been declared. My boss calls to thank me for convincing him to prepare for the storm, and I have quite a few apologies waiting when I log into Facebook!

By the time the storm ends on Sunday evening, we have gotten close to thirty inches of snow. A week later, one of my coworkers returns after a trip and asks us about the storm, which she completely missed while visiting her daughter down south.

Other Coworker: “It was terrible! And the worst part is that absolutely no one knew how bad it was going to be — except for [My Name]. She tried to warn everyone that she felt it coming!”

Worst superpower ever.

There is a small bulk store near me that sells a wide array of damaged, returned, or near expiry products. The food is often super cheap but needs to be eaten quickly. Sometimes it was cheaper to buy a multipack than it would be to buy a single serving from a normal store, so I would often bring it to work and share it for free.

I noticed one of the new guys would often help himself with no word of thanks, not even a good morning. There were days when I hadn’t even taken off my coat before he was expecting food.

It annoyed me. Sure, I was just giving it away, and it didn’t really cost me anything, but some basic gratitude would have been appreciated.

It was getting toward the end of the year and I needed to use up some holidays. I had Monday off. When I came back from lunch on Tuesday, [New Guy] was sitting in my chair.

Me: “Can I help you?”

New Guy: “Where were you yesterday?”

Me: “Holiday, why?”

New Guy: “Hmm… Okay, then.”

I sit at my desk and unpack my things. [New Guy] stands there and watches me awkwardly.

Me: “Did you need something?”

New Guy: *As though it’s obvious* “Well, yeah! The food!”

Me: *Playing dumb* “Food? What food?”

New Guy: “The food you normally bring in!”

Me: “Well, I have my lunch, but I need that.”

New Guy: “Oh, for… No, the crisps and biscuits and stuff.”

Me: “Oh! That food! Yeah, didn’t bring any.”

New Guy: “But why?”

Me: “Didn’t feel like it.”

New Guy: “What am I supposed to eat, then?”

Me: “Unfortunately, mothering you isn’t part of my job description.”

He sulked off. He came back the following Monday but could see no big bag of food for him to take — I had left it in my car for later — so he sulked off again!

When I was twenty, I was working in a restaurant as a waitress. The chef was a strange guy with many really disturbing stories to tell. I did my best to keep things civil despite him creeping me out and him having a very short fuse.

One particular night, we were short of staff so I was the only waitress. We were under the pump and I was running to and from the kitchen to get food out and dirty dishes cleared away. He was well aware that I was doing everything I could but chose that moment to go on a power trip.

The chef had a bell that he rang every time an order was up. I, like many in the service industry, was Pavlovian trained to get my a**e to the kitchen quick smart when I heard the bell. This particular night, he was giving it a pounding, which was starting to get on my nerves because I was only humanly capable of so much. I hit my limit when, at some point, I was stuck dealing with a customer for a minute and he just went to town on that bell, dinging it repeatedly every few seconds until I could make it back to the kitchen.

It was a rowdy restaurant and the kitchen was a bit separated from the tables, so the customers probably didn’t register the bell but I was acutely tuned to it.

I was absolutely fuming but knew no good would come from a discussion as I’d already told him that I was doing everything as fast as possible, not that he couldn’t have noticed that himself. So, in the red haze of fury, I somehow managed to finish up with the customer and very calmly walk into the kitchen, pick up the bell, and walk out with it. I walked over and placed it behind the bar. Then, I attempted to head back to the kitchen to get the food out.

The chef stormed after me, demanding the bell back from the confused barmaid, and came barreling toward me like he was going to punch me. I calmly told him again that I was doing my job as fast as humanly possible and that overuse of the bell could not make things move along faster. I truly thought he was going to hit me that night, but having the barmaid and drinks staff nearby made him think twice.

I returned to the kitchen and served the food that was waiting to go out. We didn’t speak for the rest of the evening, but he took it easy with the bell after that. And I spoke to one of my bosses later who, luckily, took my word for things, and I never saw that chef again.