Not Being Very Grown-Up About It

, , , , | Right | November 2, 2019

(A nervous-looking 30-something comes up to the till.)

Me: “Afternoon, can I help you with anything?”

Nervous Guy: “Um… I’m looking for some toys.”

Me: *laughing* “Well, we are a toy shop!”

Nervous Guy: “Yeah, I’m looking for toys for… grownups.”

Me: “There’s no age restriction for toys here. I’ll show you around and see what we can find.”

(I take the customer around the shop, asking about what he needs and whether its for a friend or child, but all he comes out with is “grownup toys” and is getting more frustrated by the second.)

Nervous Guy: “No! I need grownup toys!”

(The shop is starting to fill up with families and they notice his behaviour.)

Me: “I’m sorry, but if you can’t tell me specifically what you are looking for, then I can’t help you.”

Nervous Guy: “Grownup toys! You know! Vibrators! Things that go buzz!

(He starts to make a buzzing noise, and I’m really trying hard not to laugh. The parents aren’t so reserved and burst out laughing, causing the guy to turn bright red.)

Me: “Sir, do you know what kind of shop you are in?”

Nervous Guy: “Yes.”

Me: “A toy shop… A children’s toy shop…”

Nervous Guy: *looks like he is going to explode* “YES, I KNOW!”

Me: “And you think that we would stock adult toys?”

Nervous Guy: “You don’t, do you?”

Me: “Nope. Might I suggest [Well-Known Adult Store] a few towns over? I hear they stock a wide selection of adult toys, marital aids, and lingerie that might suit your needs?”

Nervous Guy: *turns ten shades of red and mumbles* “Ah… Yes. Thank you.”

(I have never seen one person bolt so fast from my shop, ever! It took me hours to get over it and some of our regulars still ask about the “grownup” man.)

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Reaching A New Tea Total

, , , , | Right | November 1, 2019

(I work in a tearoom in York. We sell coffee, cakes, light lunches, and that sort of thing. Late one Sunday, a woman comes in and, after going through the menu, asks:)

Customer: “Can I just have a teacake with cheese?”

(The request is a bit weird, but it’s what the lady wants, so I’ll try and be accommodating.)

Me: “Do you want the cheese to be, like, a little melted on top?”

Customer: “No, just cold, as it comes.”

Me: “Butter?”

Customer: “No, just the cheese.”

Me: “Untoasted… with cheese?”

Customer: “Yes.”

(So, she wants an untoasted toasted teacake, with cheese. Sure, some people are funny, but we can do that. I take the order up to the kitchen, explaining that yes, it is definitely what she wants. A short while later, I bring her an untoasted toasted teacake with cheese. It’s the saddest, most depressing thing I’ve seen. I set it down in front of her and she says, in a voice of aggravated bewilderment:)

Customer: “What. Is. This?”

Me: “Teacake with cheese.”

Customer: “I wanted just a teacake with cheese.”

(My cool is evaporating. I fix my face with the rictus grin all waitstaff use when the customer is, quite obviously, wrong.)

Customer: “Why is this so hard for you? I just want a teacake; this isn’t a teacake. Who would eat this?”

Me: *calmly* “Madam, would you like to speak to the manager?”

Customer: “No, just bring me a teacake, a normal teacake, with cheese.”

Me: “Madam, these are the only teacakes we have.”

Customer: *indignantly* “No, they aren’t!” *other people are starting to stare* “You have teacakes in the window; bring me one of those.”

(Now, I know we don’t have teacakes in the window display. We’ve got cakes, cream buns, and… then it occurs to me what she is pointing at.)

Me: “A bread roll? You want a plain bread roll with cheese?”

Customer:Yes! Finally. Why would this place hire such a moron?”

Me: “Of course, madam.”

(I walk over to the glass case, remove a bread roll, take it into the back to have them put some cheese on top, and walk back out and give the woman her “Teacake With Cheese.”)

Me: “Here you go, madam. I hope this will be to your liking.”

Customer:Finally! I really don’t see why it was so difficult to get a simple teacake with cheese!”

Me: *walks to the back to slam my head into the wall several times*

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Working At This Dentist’s Is Like Pulling Teeth

, , , , , , | Working | November 1, 2019

(My first job is as a dental nurse working with the city’s university dental hygienist course. I love the job, and I get on well with the students and the tutors. However, I quickly start to find that I don’t get on so well with the other nurses. The majority of nurses have worked with each other for a long time, know each other outside of work, and have the same interests. At first, this doesn’t matter, but slowly, things start to get unfair. I often find myself on the crappy end of jobs, and one of them causes me do serious damage to my right wrist; I tear the tendons and am signed off work for a long time. This is where things get super bad, as my manager never reports the accident, which is something she gets in a lot of trouble for. When I eventually return, I am on very light duties, spending more time as a glorified receptionist than a nurse. The other nurses double-down on their disdain for me. I suddenly find myself even more left out than before, and any slight mistake is blown out of proportion. One of the nurses actually yells at me in front of trainees because I haven’t signed a cleaning sheet. When I complain to the head nurse, she says that I was in the wrong so tough, despite the fact I admitted to the mistake, but I am angry about the way it was handled. I cannot describe the misery I feel for the next six months, but luckily, I am able to find another job in a field that is as far removed from dentistry as possible. On the Monday morning after I get the contract for the new job, I approach the head nurse on clinic first thing before clinic starts.)

Me: “Morning, [Head Nurse], can I have a quick word with you?”

Head Nurse: “No, I’m going up for breakfast break now. It can wait.”

Me: “It can’t really; I won’t get time to talk to you about this before clinic starts, otherwise.”

Head Nurse: “Sorry, not happening.”

Me: *shouting across the clinic as she walks off* “Okay, I’ll leave my resignation letter here, then!”

(She d*** near sprinted back to me, asking if I was joking. I smiled, told her no, and handed her the letter before turning and going back to my duties. I was, at that time, the one who made all of the department appointments, organised clinics, and knew the brand-new booking system better than anyone else. That next month as I served my notice, watching the panic slowly dawn on them was the best!)

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When They’re Disabling Themselves

, , , , | Right | October 31, 2019

(I work as an advisor at a bank. It is Halloween and we are all dressing up. Due to an accident as a child, I had to have my right leg removed just below the knee. I use this to my full advantage and usually dress up as a pirate, with an actual peg leg instead of my usual prosthetic. I am waiting for my two pm appointment when I hear a lot of shouting outside my office. I hobble to the door and open it.)


(She turns to me and looks at my peg leg. She stares at it in horror before running out of the building.)

Me: “Wow, I wish I could run that fast… What’s going on?”

Manager: *who is dressed as one of the Village People* “Your two o’clock.”

Me: “What’s the problem?”

Manager: “She said she had a disability and demanded a wheelchair.”

Me: “We don’t have wheelchairs.”

Manager: “That’s what I told her, and offered her a seat instead. She took offense to it and started shouting. Then you came out and—“ *looks at my leg* “—scared her away.”

(She made another appointment a week later and came in in a wheelchair, with smugness the likes of which I had never seen before. She couldn’t navigate herself into my office — despite it being wheelchair friendly — and in frustration stood up, picked the chair up and threw it across the room, cracking several of the floor tiles. She refused to pay for the repair work because again, we refused to accept her disability, before running out of the building again. She finally did pay, but made one final appointment to close her accounts. Her reason: for the third time, we refused to accept her disability. We still don’t know what her disability was meant to be, but after all of this we suspect it may have been mental.)

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Dying To Not Work With You

, , , , , | Working | October 30, 2019

(My job, as well as my team’s, is to assist companies across the UK and Ireland. We’re split into groups of two per region. I have accidentally inhaled the tiniest bit of liquid and I’m coughing.)

Regional Teammate: *in mock disdain and zero concern* “Honestly, dying in order to get out of work.”

Me: *between coughs* “Better hope I don’t die or you’ll have to deal with [Notoriously Difficult Contact at company] alone.”

Regional Teammate: *freezing* “Does anyone know CPR?!”

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