I work at a call center for one of the largest appliance manufacturers in the United States. I get a call from some old guy in Florida.

Caller: “There is a quarter stuck in the tub of the washer. I need a service to come out for it. This isn’t the first time this has happened to me.”

Me: *As I’m scheduling his service* “You need to make sure you search your pants thoroughly to ensure there is no loose change or other items when they go in the washer.”

Caller: “If the d*** engineers weren’t so f****** stupid, then the machine would be designed to collect my change in a tray for me and allow me to extract them on my own.”

I almost asked if he wanted the machine to roll his change for him and, while we’re at it, wipe his a** for him, too. Unfortunately, this was before I stopped caring about that job.

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17 Outrageous Tales Of The “Florida Man”

This takes place around 2007. I am a freshman in college. I’m a fairly introverted girl who literally just turned eighteen. I’m studying in the student lounge between classes when I notice a much older man walking back and forth, staring at me. I go back to my notes, but he continues doing it, getting closer every time.

I am contemplating what to do when a tall, intimidating-looking guy in his early twenties plops down across from me.

Guy: *Loudly* “Hey, you’re in my Statistics class, aren’t you?”

Me: “Um… maybe?”

I’ve never seen him before in my life.

Guy: *Loudly* “What did you think of that exam? I think I passed, but man, it was tough. What are you reading now? Mind if I hang with you until my next class?”

Me: “I, uh…”

Guy: *In a normal voice* “Okay, he’s gone.”

I look around and realize that the creepy man has vanished.

Guy: “I was sitting on the other side of the lounge, and he’s been eyeing you up for a while. Gave me the creeps. Sorry to startle you.”

Me: “No problem. Thank you for that. How did you know I was in Statistics?”

He points at my Statistics textbook sitting next to my bag and we both laugh.

Guy: “Are you a freshman?”

I nod.

Guy: “Me, too. I did the military thing for a couple of years and now I’m here. My name’s Wilson, by the way.”

I introduced myself. We chatted for a while and then went to our respective classes. I saw him in passing a couple of times during the semester and we always waved at each other. I didn’t see him after that.

Wilson, if you read this… thank you! I still appreciate what you did.

I create usernames and passwords for a program that is needed for supervisors to monitor their agents on the phone. The system is a bit finicky as it requires you to update the password on their website before you can use it in their native application. You cannot change the password in the application.

I send an email to a user with their username and their temp password. I include this message, Giant, Bold, and Underlined.

Message: “YOU MUST CHANGE YOUR TEMP PASSWORD ON THE WEBSITE. [LINK]. Do not open the application until you have changed your password.”

I then provide instructions on how to change your password and basic troubleshooting for the top three questions I have gotten:

• “Why won’t my password work?”
  • Please ensure that you have changed your password on the website. To change your password, go to [link].
• “Why won’t my username work?”
  • Please ensure that you are using the correct username; this can differ from your system username. See username above.
• “It won’t let me change my password in [Application].”
  • You are unable to change your password in the application. To change your password, go to [link].

I get an instant message from the user within five minutes.

User: “It’s not letting me change my password in [Application].”

Me: “Do you have the email I sent you?”

User: “Yes.”

Me: “Look at bullet point number three.”

User: “Okay.”

Five minutes later…

User: “My username isn’t working.”

Me: “Look at bullet point number two.”

User: “Okay.”

Note: I set people’s temporary passwords to “ReadEmail123!”.

Related:
The Final Word On Passwords, Part 14
The Final Word On Passwords, Part 13
The Final Word On Passwords, Part 12
The Final Word On Passwords, Part 11
The Final Word On Passwords, Part 10

I’m a senior in high school. I’ve been in chorus since I was a freshman. We are having our annual Broadway-style revue, and everyone is running around like crazy backstage getting ready. There are several stage moms helping with makeup.

One of my friends warns me that one stage mom in particular is walking around with a tube of lipstick and putting it on the girls that she deems “not made up enough.” I have very sensitive skin, so I do my own makeup with my own products. I have done this every year with no issues.

I come out of the bathroom in full costume with several minutes to spare.

Stage Mom #1: “[My Name], you look so nice.”

Me: “Thank you, Mrs. [Stage Mom #1].”

Stage Mom #1: “What makeup brand do you use?”

Me: “[Brand known for sensitive skin].”

Stage Mom #1: “Really? I didn’t know it could look that nice. I’ll have to check into that for next year!”

I smile and thank her again. She walks off to help another kid with his costume.

I head back to my stuff to grab my water bottle when [Stage Mom #2] walks over with lipstick in hand. I don’t get along with her daughter, so she’s never been nice to me.

Stage Mom #2: “Are you wearing any lipstick?”

Me: “I have my own, thank you!”

Stage Mom #2: “[My Name], that is not enough lipstick.”

Me: “I’m going to add some more right before I go onstage. That way, it’s totally fresh.”

Stage Mom #2: “No, you’ll add some right now.”

She opens the lipstick and attempts to put it on me. I dodge out of the way.

Me: “I have my own!”

I reach into my bag and pull out my lipstick, along with my shimmer gloss.

Me: “I’m all set.”

Stage Mom #2: “No, you need this stuff.”

She comes at me with the lipstick again and I step back.

Me: “I’m not wearing that. One, that’s not my color. Two, I have sensitive skin and I can’t wear that brand. Three, you’ve been using that on everyone. That’s germy.”

Stage Mom #2: “You’re going to look washed out on stage. Stop being disrespectful and let me help you!”

She has a smug look on her face as she opens the lipstick again. In one smooth motion, I grab my makeup bag, step back, and bolt for the nearby single-stall bathroom. I lock the door in record time. [Stage Mom #2] bangs on the door.

Me: “Mrs. [Stage Mom #2], I am putting on my lipstick and more gloss.”

Stage Mom #2: “You’ll be sorry! Just wait until [Director] hears how disrespectful you are!”

She stomped off. I added more lip gloss and cautiously slipped out of the bathroom with just a minute to spare. Our number went well, and I did not get in trouble with our director. However, half the girls in the class ended up sick a couple of days later.

I’m checking out at a big box store. Since the customer ahead of me is taking a while, I have the time to load my items onto the belt in groups: frozen items together, toiletries together, etc. The cashier seems new, so I want to make it easier for her — and for me to unpack my bags.

It’s finally my turn. The cashier eyes my reusable bags nervously.

Cashier: “Did you… did you want everything in these bags?”

Me: “If it fits! Anything else, plastic is fine.”

She tosses my reusable bags down to the end and starts scanning… slowly. As my items accumulate in a heap, I pick up one of my bags and start packing it.

Cashier: “No… Wait… I was going to put these in that one.”

Me: “It’s fine, really. I don’t mind bagging my own stuff!”

Cashier: “NO!”

She grabs the bag and begins awkwardly shoving some frozen meals into it.

Cashier: *Looking nervous* “These will go in here.”

Me: “Okay, sure.”

I take the other bag and start putting some toiletries in it.

The cashier then takes those OUT of the bag and methodically stuffs them in the first one.

I’m a bit taken aback and too tired to argue. I figure she has a method to her madness. She’s looking around nervously, so I wonder if a manager has yelled at her for letting a customer bag their own items.

She continues scanning and bagging, but in the most bizarre order: reaching for items of various sizes to play Tetris with the bags. She completely ignores my item groups, putting cleaners in with frozen meals, canned goods in with random lemons or potatoes, cosmetics in with juice, etc.

And she does all of this very slowly… while the line behind me gets longer.

I try a couple of times to help pack things, but she glares at me and ends up rearranging things. Finally, she’s done.

Cashier: “There you go. Got it all in your bags.”

That’s not what I asked, but okay. I paid and lifted the (extremely heavy) bags into the cart.

I’ve never had a cashier fuss at me for trying to help bag. And when I got home, I regretted not insisting on bagging my own items as the bags were difficult to unpack!