Are You Sure You’re Sure?

, , , , , | Healthy | April 21, 2019

(I have appendicitis and have presented at the hospital late at night. These conversations take place over the time between then and finally having surgery the following afternoon. My cis female partner is with me throughout.)

Doctor: “Any chance you could be pregnant?”

Me: “No, this is my only sexual partner and she can’t get me pregnant accidentally.”

Partner: “Well, we aren’t using contraception.”

Me: “True. We’d make a fortune if you did get me pregnant, though.”

Doctor: “We have to do a pregnancy test, anyway.”

(Forty minutes later, in the surgical assessment unit…)

Junior Doctor: “And any chance you are pregnant?”

Me: “The GP did a pregnancy test and it was negative and no, no sperm has been anywhere near me.”

Junior Doctor: “Well, we will do another test.”

(Two hours after that, when I am finally seen by the on-call registrar…)

Registrar: “You must be in agony. Any chance you might be pregnant?”

Me: “You’ve done two pregnancy tests tonight, both negative. This is my only sexual partner. Please, can you just give me some pain relief?”

Registrar: “Yes, we will get antibiotics and saline set up via a cannula and get you some pain relief and then admit you. We need to do swabs for MRSA and a pregnancy test.”

Me: “I have not been able to keep anything down, including more than a sip of water, for over twelve hours now. I am quite dehydrated. The chances of me being able to pee into a cup are very slim.”

Registrar: “Well, just do what you can.”

(A few hours later, I am admitted in the middle of the night and finally given pain relief, and I wake up on the ward.)

Nurse: “Now, we have an order for a pregnancy test; apparently, you couldn’t produce a sample last night, but now that we have fluids in you, you should be able to.”

Me: “I have had two pregnancy tests already since I got here, but sure, let’s do a third.”

(Later, during surgical rounds…)

Surgeon: “Right, well, you’re on the list for urgent surgery. We will need to do a pregnancy test before we can operate, though.”

Me: “You have done three already. All negative. My only sexual partner doesn’t produce sperm and we are not trying for a baby.”

Surgeon: “Three? Maybe I can check those results.”

Me: “Thanks.”

(Nope, the nurse appeared with another cup for me to pee into. I had my appendix out and I was very definitely not pregnant.)

Perm-anently Avoiding That Place

, , , , , | Working | April 20, 2019

(My boyfriend has very curly, brown, shoulder-length hair, and I have black, straight hair a couple of inches longer.)

Me: *pointing to boyfriend* “I’d like a perm with curls just like those.”

Hair Stylist: *glares at me like I have two heads* “No can do.”

Me: “Er… no?”

Hair Stylist: “You want hair just like his?”

Me: “The curls, yeah. Is it possible to perm my hair that way? His are natural.”

Hair Stylist: “If you want his curls, he’s got to cut his hair.”

Boyfriend: “Are you saying match my length, too? No, I don’t want a cut.”

Hair Stylist: “If she curls, her hair will be much shorter than yours! She just can’t have curly hair your length if you won’t cut yours!”

Me: “I meant only like his in the size of the curls.”

Hair Stylist: “Look… If you curl your hair, it will be much shorter than his!”

Me: “I know!”

Hair Stylist: *to boyfriend* “Are you getting that cut?”

Boyfriend: “No, I’m not.”

Hair Stylist: “Then she can’t have your curls.”

Boyfriend: “Forget the length already. She would like curls that match these.”

Hair Stylist: “I’ve already said, she can’t have your curls if you aren’t getting a cut yourself.”

Me: “I know my hair will be shorter! The whole point is to have curls that look like that.”

(Even a second hair stylist repeated the first one. Nothing was ever said about matching color. We left and went somewhere else where they gave me my shorter, curly perm with no problem.)

Listening Is Not His Number One Priority

, , , , | Right | April 18, 2019

(I’m working the front counter during the second half of my shift with one of my friends on the register next to me. The lunch rush is finally dying down, when this guy approaches.)

Old Man: “I’d like a number one meal.”

Coworker: “All right, a number one meal. What to drink?”

Old Man: “A number one.”

Coworker: “Yes, sir. A number one. What would you like to drink with that?”

Old Man: “A. Number. One. Meal.”

Coworker: “Yes, sir, but—“

Old Man: “A NUMBER O—“

Me: “SIR! He’s asking you what you’d like to drink!”

Old Man: “Oh. Um. Diet Coke.”

(He didn’t look embarrassed or anything. My coworker thanked me for interrupting the guy and getting him to finally listen.)

A Buildup Of Spice

, , , , , | Working | April 17, 2019

(I’m on a bus tour of Eastern Canada, and so far I’ve had no reason to complain about the tour or the guide. One evening, our guide takes our party to the revolving restaurant in the CN Tower for dinner and eats with us. Note that I have Asperger’s, which means that repeated small stresses accumulate into really big ones.)

Me: *between mouthfuls* “Hmm. It’s very spicy.”

(I’m just making a comment here. I’m enjoying the spicy food, as well as the view. However, the guide seems to take this as a complaint for some reason.)

Guide: “Oh, it’s all right. I can get you something else—“

Me: “No, that’s all right. I just—“

Guide: “No, really, let me—“

(I’m starting to get really annoyed at this point, since all I want to do is eat the rest of my meal and I don’t need her constant interruptions.)

Me: “I’m not complaining!”

Guide: “No, seriously, it won’t take me a moment to—“

(By now I’ve really had enough.)

Me: “WILL YOU LEAVE ME ALONE? I AM NOT COMPLAINING ABOUT THE FOOD! I LIKE THE FOOD! I’M STILL EATING IT, SEE? JUST LEAVE ME ALONE AND LET ME FINISH MY MEAL IN PEACE!”

(I felt guilty about yelling, especially in front of the others, but at least it shut her up and I was allowed to finish eating. I have resolved never to comment on my food in public again in case somebody takes it the wrong way.)

His Listening Skills Are Not On Fine Form

, , , | Right | April 16, 2019

(My company has two offices. One is open for visitors with questions; the other is for appointments only. I work in the appointments-only office, but we occasionally get walk-in visitors with questions. While I know a lot, I am technically not allowed to help them, to prevent them from returning another time or getting more visitors with questions than I alone can handle. It’s not the most customer-service point of view, but it’s the choice made by management. A man walks in wearing casual clothes; most appointments wear three-piece suits. I know I am making an assumption, judging a person on his looks, but most of the time I’m right.)

Visitor: “Is this [Company]?”

Me: “Well, it’s one of the two offices. Do you have an appointment, or are you looking for our visitor office?”

(A moment of silence follows and the man continues. After each question of mine, a silence follows and the man slowly speaks.)

Visitor: “I don’t have an appointment. I just want to change the way I pay.”

Me: “Then, I’m sorry, sir, but you are at the wrong office. I can’t change that here for you.”

Visitor: “But I want to change the way I pay. Can you change that for me?”

Me: “I can’t change that for you here. I can print the form from our website, so you can fill it in and hand it in at our location [Other Location].”

(I am not even supposed to do that.)

Visitor: “Where is that?”

Me: “It’s at [Very Obvious Landmark].”

Visitor: “That’s quite far away. Can’t you do that here?”

Me: “No, sir, I can’t. I can print out the form for you and you can hand it in at [Other Location], but you can also send it through email or post. Shall I print out the form for you?”

Visitor: *sees my desk phone* “Can’t I call them?”

Me: “I’m sorry, but we need a signature to change the way you pay. Let me print out the form for you from our website.” *after printing* “Here you go. You can hand it in at the [Other Location].”

(The man sits down at my desk and takes my pen.)

Me: “Oh, you don’t have to fill it in here. I can’t accept it, anyway. If you want, you can fill it in at home.”

(The man continues to fill in the form, anyway. Since he’s not harming anyone and I have no appointments walking in, I let him.)

Visitor: “It says I need a code?”

Me: “That is something your bank can give you.”

Visitor: “But what is the code?”

Me: “I wouldn’t know. You can ask your bank.”

(The man gets up and, as expected, he hands me the form.)

Me: “I’m so sorry, but I can’t accept this form here. I can’t do anything with it. You really need to go to [Other Location] for them to process this, or take a picture of it and send it through email.” *the hand is still stretched forward* “I’m sorry. I really can’t do anything with this form.”

Visitor: “Oh… so, I need to go to [Other Location]?”

(He folded the form, put it in his pocket, and finally left. I have a feeling that form will never reach us.)

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