I used to work at a furniture store. One day, I had horribly bad luck, and my bank account got hacked and all my money went missing (that’s a saga for another time). Because of the time when I realized stuff was missing, I had to wait until the next day to go to my bank’s branch and take care of the onsite stuff. I’d already been planning on going to work late the next day because I also had a doctor’s appointment.

With everything going on — and the fact that my manager had already made me come in on my day off — I decided I didn’t want to go in the next day at all and deal with my manager and customers.

I go to my manager toward the end of the day.

Me: “Can I take tomorrow as my other day off? I have my appointment in the morning, and then I have to go to the bank to handle this stuff, so it’ll probably be early afternoon before I’m here anyway.”

Manager: “I don’t want you taking all day off. Just come in whenever you can.”

I didn’t even try to argue because she wouldn’t have listened. I just decided I was going to take my time with everything. She told me to get in whenever I could. She would have no way of knowing that it didn’t take me six-plus hours at the bank (Petty? Possibly. Did I give a single, solitary f***? NOPE.)

Apparently, my body had other ideas.

The next morning, I went to my appointment and then to the bank. It was just before lunch by the time everything was done. I decided that I didn’t want to spend money on fast food or anything, and I was still trying to stall going to work, so I went home and made lunch. I took about two bites and promptly ran into the bathroom and threw it all up.

Once I finished, I decided that I was not even going to walk into work super late, and I texted my manager.

Me: “I’m not feeling all that well. I’m not coming in at all today.”

Manager: “I really need you in.”

Me: “I literally just threw up, so I’m not coming in.”

Manager: “Fine. See you tomorrow.”

I cleaned up the rest of my lunch and put it in the fridge for later, got into my pajamas, and curled up and watched TV. I didn’t have any other issues, so I’m pretty sure I was just stressed beyond belief. I did make it in the next day and had to deal with my manager side-eyeing me all day. I got another job as fast as I could.

I am checking up on one of my tables.

Me: “Can I get you any more drinks?”

Customer: “I’d like a Coke, please.”

Me: “Sure thing!”

Customer: “But it has to be regular Coke! Not Diet Coke! I had some Mentos earlier!”

Me: “…I’ll make sure it’s regular Coke, sir.”

Customer: “You’d better! If I explode, I’m going to sue you!” 

I thought he might be joking, but he was speaking deadly seriously, and everyone else at his table was behaving like it was the most normal conversation in the world.

There was a coworker at the firm I once worked at who I always got along with okay. We’d share pictures of our pets and talk about the weather (British). But one day she went completely off the rails.

It was a few months before my wedding, and my now-husband and I had just bought our first house. I was talking about all the fun we’d had moving our stuff in.

Coworker: “Oh, how big is the house?”

Me: “Pretty small terrace, two bedrooms.”

Coworker: “I hope you get pregnant soon!”

Me: “Eh, what? I don’t want kids; I’ve said that several times. I’m even saving up for an operation to make d*** sure I never have any.”

Coworker: “You should have bought a smaller place, then. There’s no need for two bedrooms if you’re not having babies.”

Me: “That’s daft. We need a second bedroom for all our hobbies. Gaming stuff takes up room.”

Coworker: “You do realise I could report you for this?”

Me: “Do what? To whom?!”

Coworker: “The government. You’re depriving a real family of a home. And also to social services because you are insane. Getting yourself mutilated just because you don’t like children and then buying a house that’s made for children means you’re insane.”

There wasn’t anything professional I could say back at that point, although there were plenty of unprofessional words I wanted to say. The next day, it was like she’d forgotten all about it. 

Then, four months later, she found out we’d not invited any children or babies to our wedding. She went off again about why I was clearly insane only to forget the conversation the day after.

Caller: “Hi! Quick question. Does my husband’s insurance cover the ambulance ride?”

Me: “There are a few factors that could negate that, but in most instances, it would be covered.”

Caller: “What if he got into an accident on the I5 just outside Santa Clarita and he might have hurt his back?”

Me: “That… sounds very specific, ma’am.”

Caller: “Would his ambulance ride be covered then?”

Me: “Well, it would—”

Caller: *Suddenly shouting at someone else* “Harold! Sit down! You’d better not be dialing 911 until I can check if we gotta pay for i—” *Click*

I hope Harold got to the hospital okay!

An old man, probably in his late seventies, walks into the gym, asking about membership.

Me: “We offer a senior discount and an advice program for our senior members looking to improve their health both here and at home if you’d like.”

Customer: “How much do newborns weigh?”

Me: *Thrown a little* “Uh… six, or seven pounds, maybe?”

Customer: “Okay, let’s say eight. Start with giving me something that’s eight pounds, and I will carry it around for as long as I can, and we’ll start working up.”

Me: “I can help you with that. Can I ask what your health goal is?”

Customer: “When my daughter was born, I was working overseas on an oil tanker and I missed so much of her childhood. Now she’s pregnant, and I’m not making that same mistake twice! I’m going to carry my granddaughter around all day if I can help it! Now… where are the weights?

He was regularly carrying around a fifteen-pound weight by the time his granddaughter was born! I gave him a congratulatory message about his progress and he said, raising the weight above his head:

Customer: “Now I wish she was having twins!”