(I work at a hotel as a housekeeper; at this hotel I clean rooms and a couple of the main bathrooms. My manager asked me out on a date a month ago and I turned him down; since then, he has been on my case, trying to get me in trouble in whatever way possible. He slips in to inspect a bathroom after I have cleaned it. I have also used this bathroom and I am having that time of month. During my period, I have to use a pad AND a tampon. I put them into the feminine hygiene box, clean my hands, and take my paper towel with me back to my cart. He sees that the feminine box has stuff in it and that there is no trash. He assumes I didn’t change the bag out. He comes up to me while I’m also talking to a coworker.)

Manager: “You didn’t change the bag in the feminine box; you really need to do that. You haven’t been doing it lately!”

Me: “I have been changing the bags, and I also changed them today.”

Manager: “No, you didn’t! The hygiene box in the lobby was full of stuff!”

(I hesitate, but decide to admit to my sin of having a vagina that bleeds occasionally.)

Me: “Well, I am a woman, as you can see. Like most women, I bleed once a month. I changed the bag, but then had to change out my pad and tampon.”

Manager: *he goes red but then tries to redeem himself* “Why did you use the bathroom after you cleaned it?”

Me: “I had to use it after because my blood was starting to stain out.”

(He walks away like a dog with his tail between his legs.)

Coworker: *sarcastically* “Have you no shame?”

Me: “Nope, I also give zero f***s.”

(I have been called to the nurse’s office. Earlier this month I was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes.)

Tutor: “We notice that you’ve been missing a lot of school lately, and we wanted to be sure that you’re all right.”

Me: “Yes. It’s like my parents said: I’ve got diabetes, and I’ve had to go to the hospital a lot to make sure my glucose levels are stable.”

Nurse: “Hm, I don’t see anything in your records about this. Are you sure you have diabetes, and are not just skipping school?”

Me: “No, I definitely have diabetes.”

Tutor: “Look, [My Name], you can talk to us about any problems you’ve been having. Is everything all right at home?”

Me: “Everything is absolutely fine. Did you not listen to my parents when they told you that I have diabetes?“

Nurse: “Troubled children sometimes make stories up to get attention. I read up on it a lot in medical school. There’s even a disorder for it. Munchausen, I think.”

Me: “I am not a troubled child, and even if I was, what good would it do pretending to have diabetes? It isn’t exactly something you can fake.”

Nurse: *putting on a sweet sarcastic tone* “Okay, if you can prove to us that you have ‘diabetes’—” *yes, she did air quotes* “—we’ll let you go back to your lesson.”

(I look at my tutor and he urges me on. I lift up my shirt to reveal my insulin pump.)

Me: “You know what this is, right? It’s called an insulin pump.”

(The nurse sputters and turns to her computer. My tutor’s face drains and he, too, turns away.)

Tutor: “Okay, you can go.”

(I told my parents when I got home, and my mum marched up to the school and chewed the heads off anyone who tried to get in her way. I ended up being moved to another tutor group, and that nurse hasn’t been seen since. I also received a laminated letter, signed by the headmistress, saying that I did, indeed, have a medical condition, and was under no obligation to prove it to anyone in school. It’s been a year and I have yet to use it.)

Related:
What A Diabeetus, Part 5
What A Diabeetus, Part 4
What A Diabeetus, Part 3

(I work at a huge chain pizza place, and all the stores are supposed to get an upgrade within the next few years. I have just stepped down from the assistant manager position a couple weeks ago. It is the middle of summer on a Friday.)

Manager: “[My Name], I need you to work ovens tonight.”

Me: “As long as I can get a break every hour, I should be okay.”

(I’m always put on ovens as I’m typically always freezing, I’m fastest on it, and I don’t complain about the heat.)

Manager: “Why do you need a break every hour? When it’s not busy you can grab a drink, but we don’t do breaks here.”

Me: “It’s well over 100 degrees in here, and I’m not risking heat stroke during the rush.”

Manager: “It’s only a projected three-hour rush. Get over it.”

(I glare at him as I go to the oven. An hour later I turn to my manager again.)

Me: “Can someone grab the oven? My shirt is soaked with sweat and I would prefer going and grabbing a drink in the walk-in.”

Manager: “It’s too busy. You can’t see the bottom of the screen, so no.”

Me: “Fine. Since the oven is empty and you’re only ten pizzas down, I’m going to the walk in.”

(I go and drink a full bottle of water before returning to the oven.)

Manager: “I’m writing your a** up for that.”

Me: “For preventing heat stroke? F*** you.”

Manager: “For walking off. F*** you, too.”

(It’s a very relaxed environment; so swearing among the staff at each other isn’t uncommon, especially after six out of ten hours on shift. After about another hour and a half with no breaks, my sixteen-year-old coworker comes over. She’s not legally allowed to work ovens.)

Coworker: “Hey, hun. You okay? You’re not sweating anymore. I can grab the oven for you.” *to manager* “Hey, a**hat, let her off ovens.”

(Our manager ignores her comment.)

Me: “It’s okay, but no. I texted my dad about two minutes ago. He should be here soon to take me to the hospital.”

(At this point, the district manager walks in and sees me.)

District Manager: “You look like you need to sit down. You’re really pale. I’ll take over.”

Me: “I’m going to the hospital; I’ll bring a note. But I also won’t be here Sunday, either. Adios.”

(I hand my district manager my apron and clock out.)

Manager: *yelling to me as I walked out* “You better be here Sunday!”

(I am diagnosed with a mild case of heat stroke. I am given fluids, and while I am in the emergency unit my internal temperature hits over 104. Against medical wishes, I go home that night. Fast forward to Sunday. I go into work to hand in my note saying I was off work for a week. My manager isn’t there, so I hang around talking to my coworkers. My district manager walks in with my manager in tow.)

Me: “Hey, here’s my note. I had a mild case of heat stroke.”

Manager: “What do I want this for? You already got written up. Where’s your uniform? You should’ve been on an hour ago.”

Me: “I was waiting—”

Manager: “No excuse. I said get to work.”

District Manager: “I’m pretty certain she can’t work—”

Manager: “F*** if I care. She got us shut down Friday. She should be making up for it.”

Me: “No, you should’ve fixed the air conditioning unit instead of forcing us to work in 100-degree temperatures.”

Coworker: “Actually, it hit 124 before we closed the doors.”

Me: “…”

District Manager: “…”

Manager: “Not my problem. Get your a** to work before I write you up again.”

Me: *shrug* “I guess write me up. That’s two. Then I no-call-no-show tomorrow, so that’s three. Then, I can go to the owner and let him know what happened.”

Manager: “So? Not like he cares. So, that’s a write up?”

Me: “Yeah. Go ahead and write up tomorrow’s write up and my paperwork saying I’m fired so I can take it all to the owner.”

Manager: “North Carolina has the right to hire and fire.”

Me: “Yeah? So do it. I got a special trick up my sleeve.”

District Manager: “Uh-oh… Please don’t say it.”

Me: “Fire me.”

Manager: “Wish granted.”

(I followed up with the owner after receiving and not signing the papers. Needless to say, I told him everything, including the time I caught him snorting white powder in front of his seven-year-old kid. [Manager] still works there, but he doesn’t have his kid anymore and is drug-tested weekly, as they didn’t have a replacement.)

(When I was in middle school, I dislocated my shoulder for the first time. Since then, I have dislocated it several times in a few different ways. This is the first time I dislocate it while sleeping. I wake up and realize my arm is not in the right location. I manage to get upright and moving out of my room. I make it to the door to my parents room and knock.)

Me: “Mom?” *muffled grumbling* “Mom, it’s [My Name].” *more grumbling* “My shoulder’s dislocated again.”

Mom: *sleepily* “No, it’s not; you’re dreaming. Go back to bed.”

Me: “Um, no, it’s really dislocated. I need help.”

Mom: “You’re dreaming. Go back to bed.”

Me: “No, it’s dislocated. My arm is six inches longer than normal.”

(There was a flurry of movement as both of my parents realized I was not dreaming and did, in fact, have a problem.)

(We have a family business that sells gravestones. My husband is manning our shop when an elderly man walks in.)

Husband: “Good afternoon.”

Customer: “I want to order a stone for my wife.”

Husband: “If you’d like to come through to the office, and take a seat, I will show you some samples, and designs.”

(The elderly man walks very carefully, feeling his way with his stick, up to the two steps and into the hallway. After half an hour or so, the transaction is complete and the man stands up.)

Customer: “Where are the steps? How many are there?”

(He feels his way slowly down them, walks to the door, and asks:)

Customer: “Wasn’t there another step here?”

(My husband is concerned as to how he will manage to walk up the road, as there are a number of roads to cross. He mentions this to him, only to be told:)

Customer: “Oh, its all right; I have my car keys here.”

(He walked over to the car outside, got in, and drove away.)