Cucumboincidence

, , , | Working | June 25, 2017

(We usually serve jugs of tap water with ice and a slice of lemon. I notice that the manager has put a slice of cucumber in one for a table. I go over to get it.)

Me: “Why did you put cucumber in it?”

Manager: “Why not?”

Me: “What if they’re allergic?”

Manager: “Who’s allergic to cucumber?! They’re more likely to be allergic to citrus.”

(I take the jug over to the table.)

Customer: “Can we get one without the cucumber? I’m allergic. The lemon’s fine, though!”

Getting Hysterectical

, , , , | Healthy | June 25, 2017

(I got a hysterectomy because I hate my period and never want to have children. When I wake up from the anaesthetic, there’s a nurse standing over my bed.)

Nurse: “Don’t you ever want kids?”

(That was literally the first thing she said. I thought of so many responses later, but at the time I was too stunned and groggy to say anything. Also: period-free life is awesome. 10/10 highly recommend.)

Needs An Express Delivery Of Compassion (non-dialogue)

, , , , , | Right | June 25, 2017

I was injured on my postal job, and have a broken foot. I’m on crutches, an important point. Since I can’t do my regular job, the postmaster puts me on the customer service window where people pick up their hold mail and things like that.

It’s late, things are slow, like they usually are at that time, and a guy hands me two slips to pick up certified mail. Our station covers six ZIP codes, so we have a LOT of mail. And I mean a LOT.

I take the slips and go look for them. He has one letter that came in the previous day, and another that came in a couple of days before that. We have one area where the previous day’s mail (usually) goes, and then another place where we keep the older mail. They’re in a rough order, by a number in the street address. I find the first one quickly. The other, I have to go through over 400 letters to find, and then I have to go through them again, because his letter has a forwarded mail sticker that got stuck to the letter ahead of it while leaving the old address exposed. I finally see the sticker and realized what had happened.

I go to the window, and the guy sneers, “You took four minutes to get my mail. That’s unacceptable. I want to talk to your postmaster.”

I don’t get mad. I don’t even drop my jaw at a guy getting upset about someone ON CRUTCHES being a little slow. I smile. Because I STILL HAVE HIS MAIL IN MY HAND. I tell him I’ll be glad to get the postmaster, shut the dutch door, and hobble away. Our station is pretty big, as a station with six zip codes would be. It takes me a while to find the postmaster.

I find him on the dock, and he says, almost in one breath, you look tired, what’s up, are you okay, you shouldn’t have come back to work the day after an injury like that, and I know you’re dying for a cigarette (this was back when I smoked), so have one and tell me what’s up.

So I tell him while I smoke the cigarette. Then we go back.

The postmaster opens the dutch door while I handle scanning the mail and getting the signature, off to the side, not saying anything. The guy is FUMING by this point. The postmaster lets him have it for timing someone who had broken her foot only the day before — I could have taken time off, but I am there, serving petty jerks like him, while I am in pain.

And then the guy makes the fatal mistake. He tells the postmaster that he has a bad attitude for a taxpayer paying his salary.

Hint to all of you Americans out there: NEVER — EVER — throw the scum taxpayer argument in a postal worker’s face. Don’t even hint at it, because your tax dollars DO NOT PAY for one fricking cent of a postal worker’s salary. That stamp or postage on the front pays our salaries. NOTHING ELSE. Bring it up, and you deserve to get your head torn off.

When that jerk resorted to the taxpayer argument, that’s when the postmaster went after the guy with both guns, informing him that he was all wrong, why, and finally that he had his mail. He could leave now.

The guy couldn’t believe the postmaster wasn’t firing me on the spot. “You’re not doing anything about how slow she is?”

“Why would I? I’m proud of her for needing so little time to find your mail, when she has a broken foot.” Then my boss turned to me with a grin, and said, “He’s all yours.”

This is his code: You can get your dig in; just don’t swear at him. I am kinda notorious for not taking crap off customers, and he wants to see what I’ll say. That’s probably why he stands in a place where the customers can’t see him. The window clerks take a few seconds from doing their end of day wrapping up to listen in, too.

I finally hand the guy his mail, smile, and say, “Isn’t it great that we live in America where we’re civilized and expect all workers to be treated with dignity and respect? Have a nice day!”

And I shut the door.

They Tic’d All The Right Boxes

, , | Hopeless | June 23, 2017

(My friends and I, all in our late teens, all somewhat goth/punk looking, had gone to see one of the Final Destination movies in the cinema. For those who missed them, they’re basically movies about people dying in the most ridiculous ways possible. Afterwards, we decide to grab some dinner and go to a nearby pizza place — a bit more fancy than we usually frequent, but open late and tasty. There is only one other group of people at a nearby table, and one of the men seems to suffer from tics. It is impossible not to notice since one involved him randomly shouting “HA!” every few minutes. The first time that happens we look over, but realizing that his friends seem to take it as normal, we ignore them. I happened to have watched a documentary on Tourette syndrome just the night before, so I figure we shouldn’t ruin his night by staring. My friends and I never discuss it, but simply pay attention to our own conversation. As the other group gets up to leave, the guy with the tics and a woman come over to our table. We shut up immediately, realizing our conversation had become quite loud and rowdy (what with being in high spirits and discussing all the ways in which people could die in the middle of a restaurant…) and we think they are about to tell us off.)

Man: “Hey, guys, I just wanted to thank you for leaving us in peace tonight and not making a big deal of my tics.”

Friend #1: “Oh, but you shouldn’t thank us. It’s common courtesy, isn’t it?”

Man: “You’d think so, but most people stare at what they don’t know.”

Friend #2: “Maybe that’s it. I watched a show about Tourette syndrome just the other night, and they interviewed several people who have it.”

Friend #3: “Wait, you watched that show, too?”

Me: “So did I… Wow, that’s odd. It was really interesting, though!”

(The man was looking increasingly happy listening to our exchange, but it was the woman next to him who started laughing. She gave him a little shove and he smiled sheepishly, then mimed polishing a shoe. How did we know what the movement meant? Well…)

Friend #1: “Hang on. That was you in the programme, wasn’t it.”

Man: “Um, yeah.”

Woman: “And he’s been so nervous about the show airing, you wouldn’t believe it. He was afraid people would make fun of him.”

(We all assured him that he had no reason to be nervous or ashamed or anything. It WAS a good show that illustrated the various tics people might suffer from and how it impacted all areas of their lives, and shame was a big part of it. As they left you could tell the guy was much happier, and we were simply stunned that without discussing it, we’d all happened to watch the same show and draw the same conclusions from it… AND happened to meet that guy that night.)

Allergic To Metal And Bad Customers

, , , , | Right | June 23, 2017

(I work for a large retailer. I have a metal allergy, and a necklace I wore the day before has given me a small red mark on the side of my neck. I didn’t think to cover it with make-up because of it’s size. A middle-aged woman comes to pay just as my supervisor is bringing me the change I have ordered. He waves me to ring her up first.)

Me: “Your total will be 9.72.”

Customer: *rather loudly* “Oh, my God.”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Customer: *to my supervisor, loudly enough for everyone in line to hear* “This GIRL has a hickey on her neck! How could you even let her ring me up?! She should be fired immediately!”

(She gives me a smug, snarky look before turning expectantly to my supervisor, who looks a little lost.)

Me: *finally realizing what she is talking about* “Actually, ma’am, what you are referring to is a reaction to my metal allergy. I wore a necklace yesterday made of nickel by mistake.”

(She stares at me for a good ten seconds, then huffs.)

Customer: “Well, you ought to cover it. It’s disgusting.”

(I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just finished her transaction as quickly as I could. After she left, my supervisor turned to me and smiled.)

Supervisor: “I’m glad you handled that. The things I would have said could have cost me my job!”

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