Unfiltered Story #118230

, , | Unfiltered | August 16, 2018

I’m stocking lunch meat in the meat department. A customer comes over

Customer: Can you help me find natural cheese?

Me: I’m not familiar with the dairy department. I don’t know any more than you do. I suggest looking at the ingredients.

Customer: Can’t you help me?

Me: (believing she left her reading glasses at home) I could read the ingredients to you.

Customer leaves to go back to dairy

Your Teacher Is Fuming

, , , , , , , | Learning | August 15, 2018

(I am part of the Gifted/AP program at my school. This conversation happens in fourth grade, with my Gifted teacher for that year.)

Teacher: “Well, kids, this weekend I learned a very important home safety lesson. I was deep-cleaning my bathroom, and after I used [Ammonia-Based Cleaning Product] on the floor, I decided to bleach the tub–”

Me: *gasps* “Are you okay, Mrs. [Teacher]?!”

(She stares at me.)

Teacher: “Um, yes, [My Name], I’m just fine… I started feeling lightheaded, so I stopped cleaning. We opened all the windows and ran the fans…”

(She then explained to the class that she read the cleaning product label, and when ammonia and bleach are used together, it can create toxic fumes. I was the only kid who knew. The teacher asked me later how I learned that, and I told her my mother taught me. I’m pretty sure that teacher thought we were a family of mad scientists.)

Already Has A Big Baby To Look After

, , , , , | Friendly | August 11, 2018

(I’m chatting on the phone with a friend. I recently told her I was pregnant.)

Friend: “So, how far along are you now?”

Me: “Uh, about 26 weeks.”

Friend: *in a disgusted tone* “Ew, no. Don’t do that. Don’t go by weeks. Go by months. Gross.”

Me: “Developmentally, there’s a difference. My doctor and my tracker app say 26 weeks, so I’ve been going by that.”

Friend: “Ew. That’s just too much. Months. How many months are you?”

Me: *internally sighing* “Well, if you can’t do the math, six and a half months. “

Friend: “That’s better. So, when you have your baby, I was planning to take the next day or two off from work and come over and hang out, and stay the night. But I’m not changing any diapers or nothing. So don’t ask.”

Me: *looking for a polite way to tell her no* “Um, I’ll probably be in the hospital for a couple of days.”

Friend: “So? I can sleep in your hospital room.”

Me: “Well, it’s just that we all know how you feel about hospitals. I wouldn’t think you’d be very comfortable.”

Friend: “Huh. Good point. I can just stay at your apartment, then. You’ll have to send me your address, though. I don’t know how to get there. Ooh, and I’ll need a copy of your key. And I’ll make you a copy of mine, so we can hang out whenever, and since you’ll have a baby, you won’t have to get up to answer the door or let me in or whatever.”

Me: *not having the energy for this* “Well, we’re doing some renovations right now, so we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

(When I hang up, I make a mental note not to tell her when I go into labor. We meet up for a girl’s night at her place three weeks later. Unfortunately, I go into labor in the middle of the night, and end up slipping out during the wee hours of the morning to go to the hospital. She blows up my phone all day, wanting to know what’s happening, did I give birth yet, is it “real labor,” etc. I don’t respond until dinnertime, and when I do, it’s just to get her to stop calling and texting so I can rest. I simply text her:)

Me: “Yes, they were contractions. I need to rest.”

(She then tells me she’s at the hospital, in the parking lot, and starts bugging me for my room number, whining that she wants to see the baby. Out of patience, I respond:)

Me: “I was just in labor for twelve hours. My baby is in intensive care, covered in wires and lines. I am exhausted. I’m not feeling social, and I don’t want visitors. Nor is my baby having any visitors because she has little to no immune system. Go home. We’ll talk later.”

(She finally did, but that night, I saw she had posted about becoming an aunt, my child being born two months early — even though it was closer to three, but remember, she believes in months, not weeks, and as far as she cares, I was seven months — while tagging me in said post, along with an ultrasound picture. She did this even though my husband and I had never “announced” that we were expecting, nor had either of us said anything publicly about the birth or pregnancy. I immediately told her to take the post down, as my husband and I fully planned NOT to plaster our daughter all over social media. She removed the post without responding, and the next morning asked what the f*** I was talking about, as she had no recollection of posting anything of the sort. Over the course of the next couple weeks, I ended up ignoring her begging to see the baby, wanting me to send her pictures, etc. She also didn’t seem to understand the seriousness of an eleven-week premature baby in the NICU, and continually asked if she was still in NICU, and, “When the f*** is she going home?” This friendship may need to go on the back burner for a while. Is it really any wonder that I didn’t tell her I was even pregnant until I was already 21 weeks? Whoops, I mean five months.)

With A Mother Like That, Pain Tolerance Is Through The Roof

, , , , , , , , | Healthy | August 10, 2018

I am seven months pregnant, and my friend picks me up for a girl’s night. We watch movies, eat junk food, etc., until she falls asleep about one am. At two, I’m still up, unable to get comfortable. I’ve been having Braxton Hicks contractions for the last couple of days, but tonight they’re just relentless.

I consider waking my friend up to take me home; however, she has epilepsy, often triggered by exhaustion and lack of sleep. She’s a bit of a worry-wort, and I don’t want to have her be tired, panic, and end up having a seizure, especially while we’re on the road.

About six am, I get a hold of my mother, and she agrees to come get me. By this point, the contractions hurt, and I can’t really sit or stand. But I don’t want to make a mountain out of a molehill, so I just grit my teeth and breathe until they’re over. Once there, my mom tells me that she doesn’t really know how to help me, but that she’s going to take me to the hospital, just in case there’s a problem.

When we get to the hospital, I have to stop every couple of steps to breathe and crouch over. My mother comments, “You don’t have a very high pain tolerance, do you? You’ve never really been able to handle pain.”

I ignore her comment because she’s been saying this since I was a kid. Once we finally make it to labor and delivery, the nurse — who has a really cool tattoo sleeve — tests for leaking amniotic fluid, and checks my cervix. She makes a less than promising face, then tells me that she’s going to grab another nurse for another opinion.

She comes back with an older lady that doesn’t even look at me. They go to the counter and I hear the nurse with the sleeve showing her the amniotic test. “It’s faint, but I definitely see a line.” The older nurse glances at it and quickly dismisses her, “No, no. It’s definitely negative.” The sleeved nurse says, “No, I think it’s positive for fluid. Can you at least check her cervix? I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but I think it’s close.” The older nurse rolls her eyes, “It isn’t close to her due date, but fine.”

The older nurse then turns to me and goes to check my cervix. Her eyes widen, and she turns back to the nurse with the sleeve. Unfortunately, I have another contraction and only manage to catch a couple key words of their conversation. Then, the older nurse leaves. The sleeved nurse gently talks me through the contraction, and then tells me what’s going on:

At 29 weeks, I am in labor, already eight centimeters dilated, though my water hasn’t broken. The baby could come at any time now, but they are going to try to give me some medications to slow it down. She says that she is going to call the doctor to get approval on some pain medication for me.

Six hours later, I give birth to a healthy baby girl, who is rushed off to the NICU. I silently labored for almost 12 hours, and almost had my baby at my friend’s house. After everything calms down, I am bewildered at my mother’s “low pain tolerance” comment, and I wonder what would’ve happened if I had only seen the older nurse and not had the sleeved nurse to stand up for me. The sleeved nurse was the most amazing healthcare professional I’d ever had, because for the first time, she took what I said seriously. My daughter is doing well, and will hopefully be able to come home soon. My mother still believes that I’m over-dramatic and wimpy when it comes to pain, but at least I can say I went through most of my labor without medication or complaint.

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Never Too Old For A Tantrum

, , , , , , , | Friendly | August 9, 2018

(While walking down an aisle in a supermarket, I come upon a bedraggled-looking mom who is trying — but failing — to quiet her four-year-old in the middle of a loud and teary, “BUT I WANT IT!” tantrum. I impulsively decide to lend the mother an assist. As I pass by, I bend down so that the kid and I are face-to face, and with my most sincere-and-saddened voice and expression, I solemnly confide to her:)

Me: “You know, when I cry, my parents never buy me what I want.”

(The girl’s eyes immediately shoot wide open and she goes dead silent in mid-scream. I’m not sure if it is due to finding out that she is not, in fact, invisible, or just the idea of a sixty-year-old man crying because his parents won’t buy him something. As I continue down the aisle, I am concerned at first that the mother might not approve of my intervention, but I am reassured when a few seconds later, I hear the mother announcing to her daughter:)

Mother: “YUH SEE?

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