(I have Celiac’s, so I eat a gluten-free diet. I recently learned that a nearby restaurant serves gluten-free toast, so my husband and I decide to go for breakfast and try it out.)

Me: “I’ll have the [meal] with gluten-free toast, please.”

Server: “Oh, I don’t think we do that anymore. I’ll just bring you the pancakes.”

Me: “[Restaurant] has gluten-free pancakes now, too?”

Server: “Yep! Well, whole wheat, so it’s pretty much the same thing.”

(We stared at her for a few seconds before politely asking to speak to someone else. The next server took my order and brought my toast with no problems at all.)

Related:
Gluten Out Of Ten For Ignorance, Part 3
Gluten Out Of Ten For Ignorance, Part 2
Gluten Out Of Ten For Ignorance

(I am the manager of a 144-unit apartment complex. One of my long-term — ten years plus — residents, confides in me that his elderly uncle, whom he lives with, hid from him that he has bedbugs in his room. Very soon thereafter, I have my professional exterminator go into his apartment to do a thorough inspection. Yes, indeed, he has bed bugs. The exterminator and I then call the resident to report the findings and to discuss the treatment plan. The exterminator is telling the resident how to prepare for treatment, and he asks the resident:)

Exterminator: “Does anyone living in your home have any respiratory problems?”

Resident: “No, but my mother can’t go anywhere without her oxygen tank.”

Exterminator: “She will have to be out of your home at least overnight, and not just the normal four hours.”

(Later on that same day, the resident comes into my office to pick up the “preparation list” of what to do. As he’s reading it over, he says to me:)

Resident: “About my mother, it says we only have to be gone for four hours?”

(I stare at him for a puzzled moment, and then I remind him that the exterminator asked him is anyone in his family had respiratory problems. He looks frustrated and repeats to me:)

Resident: “No, she just can’t go anywhere without her oxygen tank!”

(I stayed calm, did not laugh, and told this 47-year-old man, father of two, that the reason his mother has an oxygen tank in the first place is because of respiratory problems.)

(I have a somewhat short haircut that falls mostly to my left side, which has a tendency to cover my left eye, especially when my hands are full and I can’t fix it. I keep this particular style because my eye is a bit lazy and I like to cover it up.)

Customer: *seemingly rather annoyed and in a rude tone* “How can you stand your hair blocking your eye like that? It would drive me insane!”

Me: *taken aback by his tone* “Well… Um… I’m actually mostly blind in that eye, so I don’t really see much out of it, anyway.”

Customer: “Oh.” *obviously seeing the mistake in his assumption, quickly grabs his change and items and runs off*

(The minute my brother graduates from medical school, my family turns him into their private doctor. Every little ailment or problem is run by him, even if it’s something completely normal. Our grandparents especially tend to call him at the oddest times to ask about this thing hurting or this bit feeling weird. One day in my kitchen, I burn myself very badly all over my upper arm. I don’t have time or money to go to the ER or see a doctor, so I just treat it the way I learned in first-aid class. It heals fine, except the area of skin is now a darker shade than the rest, and rougher.)

Brother: *noticing the dark, scarred areas a few weeks later* “[My Name], what’s that? It looks like burn marks.”

Me: “Yep. I burned myself with boiling water, but I treated it this way–” *explains everything I did*

Brother: “Okay, luckily you did do everything properly, but I’m still angry. You’re literally the first one in the family to actually need my medical expertise, and you didn’t ask for it?!”

Me: “I didn’t want to bother you like the grandparents do all the time.”

Brother: “You had second degree burns! Maybe even third! You should’ve seen a doctor, like your own brother.”

(I agree now that I was young, naive, and quite dumb not to call him. I’m planning to cover the scars with tattoos, anyway. My brother has requested at least one tattoo dedicated to him to remind me of my own stupidity.)

(I have just gotten over a bad cold and am working as cashier with a slight cough when I help cash an older woman out.)

Me: “Were you able to find everything all right, ma’am?”

Customer: “Yes, I found everything fine.”

Me: “That’s good!”

(I cough as I finish putting things in her bag. Mind you, all day, almost every time I’ve coughed I have broken into a small coughing fit from an itch in my throat; however, this one gets rather bad and I can’t stop coughing.)

Me: *coughing and trying to talk* “Would y-you like to donate to [Organization]?”

Customer: “No…”

Me: *eyes watering and still coughing while customer is paying*

Manager: *over headset* “Are you okay? Do you need water?”

(I’m coughing for the rest of the story, and for about three minutes after the customer leaves.)

Me: *crying* “I’m with a customer right now; I’ll be fine.”

Customer: “You’re sick; why are you here? It’s people like you who make people sick. You should be at home.”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am. I have a tickle in my throat.” *hands customer her bag of items*

Customer: *glares at me with an evil look while taking bags and leaving*