If Only He Could Hear Himself

, , , , | Right | August 23, 2017

(I have “Deaf friendly” on my nametag. After a customer, who is maybe in his fifties, and I have an ENTIRELY VERBAL conversation, at the end of the transaction he stops me directly in the middle of my “have a good day,” and we engage in the following:)

Me: “Okay, have a good da—”

Man: “Can you hear me?”

Me: “Wh… what?”

Man: “CAN YOU HEAR ME WHEN I AM SPEAKING? DO YOU HEAR ME TALKING RIGHT NOW?”

Me: “What?! I can hear you, yeah…”

Man: “You’re not deaf?”

Me: “What?”

Man: “ARE YOU DEAF?”

Me: “Uh, no, I’m hearing. I can hear you right now.”

Man: “But your nametag says ‘DEAF friendly.’ You’re not deaf?”

Me: “No, I know ASL and am also an interpreting student.”

Man: “Well, that’s not right; you should specify you’re hearing. That way people won’t think you’re a… deaf person.”

Me: “I’m confused, I’m sorry.”

Man: “You should write ‘hearing’ on your nametag so people don’t misunderstand your confusing nametag.”

Me: “So you want me to publicly announce my hearing status on my nametag, rather than have me keep my current one, which indicates I can communicate in another language if needed?”

Man: “Well… I don’t know. So you’re NOT deaf, right?”

Me: No, sir.”

Man: “Ok, see ya!”

(This… this is a horror story to put in the books. He was rude about it and was serious about my nametag suggestion… Too funny to NOT share!)

A Sickening Amount Of Competition

, , | Friendly | August 20, 2017

(I know someone who seems to think that any illnesses are like a competition. She’s rung me and I’ve croakingly answered the phone.)

Friend: “Oh, my God, [My Name], what is wrong with your voice?”

Me: “I’ve been sick all weekend.”

Friend: “Oh, no. Does it help that I’ve got a bad back today?”

(WTF? Does it help? No, I’m not in some sort of competition. She does this all the time.)

With Pregnant Women You Really Have To Crack The Whip

, , , , , | Right | August 18, 2017

(I work at a self-serve frozen yogurt shop, where customers can serve themselves cups of yogurt with various toppings, and weigh it at the end. The one topping we offer that is not self-serve is whipped cream, because customers would have to touch the nozzle to serve themselves, and that’s unhygienic. Employees are the only ones who can touch the nozzle, because we wash our hands with sanitized water frequently. This story happens as a heavily pregnant woman comes in with her husband.)

Woman: “Can I get some whipped cream, please?”

Me: “Of course!” *holds can over her cup* “Tell me when.”

Woman: *grabbing for the can* “No, I’ll do it.”

Me: “I’m sorry ma’am, but I can’t let you. It’s due to the health code; only employees can touch whipped cream cans.”

Woman: “That’s ridiculous. I’ve never heard that in my life!” *continues to try and snatch the can away from me* “Just let me do it. I’m pregnant!”

Man: “Come on, just let her do it. She’s eight months pregnant. Let her do what she wants.”

Me: “Really, I am sorry. It can seem like a silly rule, but we can’t be sure that customers’ hands are totally clean, so we can’t let anyone else touch the nozzle.”

Woman: “Oh, so now you’re calling me dirty?! Give me the can, you little b****!!” *she slaps the can out of my hand and proceeds to put whipped cream on her yogurt herself* “There, was that so hard?”

(I have to throw the can away at this point, since there’s no way to properly sanitize the nozzle, and we can’t risk other customer’s safety in the case that the woman’s hands might have been dirty. The woman rages when she sees me do this.)

Woman: “What the f***?! You just throw it away?! Because I touched it!?”

Me: “Yes! Like I tried to tell you, it’s unhygienic! I can’t keep using a can that someone else has touched—”

(The woman slams her yogurt down on the scale, which causes it to splash up and go everywhere, including all over herself. She starts screaming in frustration, before stomping out, leaving her husband behind.)

Man: “See what you did? This could have all been avoided! She’s pregnant!”

(They left without their yogurts.)

English And Math And Sex, Oh My

, , , | Learning | August 17, 2017

(I am 22, and have made the decision to go back into education and finally get some A-Levels. The course requires me to pass some basic GCSE’s in English and maths. I already have these and so should not have had to take the classes. I come in and show my results and GCSE certificates. These are scanned and copied to the relevant people and I am told “thanks, you don’t need to attend the maths or English classes now.” Fast forward a few months and my group tutor pulls me aside:)

Tutor: “[My Name] I have no idea why I’ve been given this message but apparently you haven’t been to a single maths or English class. I told them you already had GCSEs but they said they were told no such thing.”

Me: “But I spoke to the head of the English and maths department… She took copies of the results.”

(My tutor decided to take copies of them himself and return to her. We thought everything was okay but a few weeks later I am asked to attend a meeting with the deputy principal of the college to “review the status of my admission and the future of my placement.” My tutor and I go to the meeting armed with both the email chain he had with the head of the department and my results. The deputy principal agree that I should never have had to attend these classes and the matter is closed. However my torture is not to end. It turns out I have to attend an alternative class in this time slot. The first class I go to a teacher tries to have me apply for my provisional drivers license. That ends when I pull out my driving license and car keys. Following that I am sent to a class on ‘Personal Health’… This is a sex education class. Five minutes in I stood up and addressed the teacher.)

Me: “Umm, sorry. I know I have to be here but… I’m 22; there really isn’t much I’m going to learn here.”

(After that I was just given the hour slot off.)

Their Security Procedure Needs A Shot In The Arm

, , , , , | Working | August 16, 2017

(I’m waiting for my pneumonia shot. A woman comes in with a hypodermic.)

Woman: “I can never get these computers to work!” *types, mutters* “So hard to log in — there! Now… okay, there we are. Now let’s get your shot!”

Me: “Um, you’re not wearing any sort of ID.”

Woman: “Oh, I guess I’m not. Another nurse needed to borrow it.” *moves towards me to give shot*

Me: “I don’t think so. You’re a total stranger with no identification; we’re not doing this!” *and I’m thinking, she’s foolish enough to admit she gave someone else her ID?!*

Woman: “You’re exactly right. I’ll go get it.”

(She leaves, comes back, and waves an ID at me. I grab the ID and carefully check that the photo matches the face, which it does.)

Woman: “Let’s get this over with, because I have to get my ID back to the other nurse. She still needs it.”

Me: “No, thank you.”

(I filed a formal complaint against her at the front desk. I’ll get my shot some other time!)

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