(I’m a frequent blood donor. I have large, easy veins, don’t flinch or get queasy around blood or needles, and am known at the clinic, so I often get the least experienced workers. Sometimes the new, nervous ones aren’t the best, but I figure practice makes perfect, and their mistakes — like not being gentle or having a bad angle on the needle — don’t bother me. Usually.)

Tech: “Hi. I’m [Tech] and I’m going to be drawing your blood today.” *continues with the standard script and questions* “Have you donated blood with us before?”

Me: “A few dozen times; I’m here every eight weeks on the dot. How long have you been at [Clinic]?”

Tech: “Today is my first day!”

Me: “Well, congratulations! I’ll make your job really easy, then. I’m well hydrated and have nice, big veins for you.”

(The tech starts prepping the bag and needle, muttering the steps to herself. She somehow manages to poke herself with the needle.)

Tech: “Oh, shoot, I need to go and dispose of this and reglove.”

Me: “No worries. I’m in no rush. Take your time.”

(The tech comes back, looking slightly pale and panicked. I try to smile at her, but she just seems to be getting progressively more flustered. She tries to stick my vein and misses.)

Tech: “Oh, I’m so sorry. Can I try again?”

Me: *smiling again* “Of course, take a few deep breaths and try again.”

(The tech tries again. And again. Then, she drops the needle and has to get another other. The whole time, I’m trying to calm her down as she seems to be upset with herself.)

Me: “Now, I know I’m not officially trained, but I’ve had a lot of needles stuck in me. Slow down a bit. Breath deeply a few times. The vein is right there. You can do this.”

Tech: *mutters quietly but rapidly under her breath while getting paler*

(She tries to stick me three more times, somehow missing my vein every time. Her hands are shaking and she appears on the verge of tears.)

Me: “Hey, it’s okay. This is a tough job. Why don’t we call over one of the more experienced nurses?”

Tech: “No, no, no, I can do this. Really.”

(She proceeds to stick me five more times, at worse and worse angles. I’m slowly losing patience with her. She’s now trying to stick me with a needle that is practically perpendicular to my arm. She still hasn’t been able to actually hit my vein. What is usually a twenty-minute deal has taken almost an hour.)

Me: “Okay. Get a nurse now. They can help you out.”

Tech: “No!”

(She then rather aggressively jams the needle into my arm, hitting a nerve and nowhere near a vein. I swear like a sailor and rip the needle out of my arm.)

Me: “Listen up. I have been beyond patient here. Get me a d*** nurse. Now.”

Tech: “They’re all busy right now!”

Me: “Okay, fine. F*** it.”

(I then insert the needle into my own vein in one go. The tech looks stunned.)

Me: “Hook up the collection bag and then get me a nurse and get the h*** away from me.”

Tech: *in a shrill voice* “You can’t do that! You can’t! You can’t!”

(The head nurse hears the commotion and comes over.)

Nurse: “What is going on over here? [My Name], why are you still here? I checked you in an hour ago!”

Me: “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, [Nurse].”

(The tech was never seen at that clinic again.)

(I’m at a banquet with my mom, seated next to a husband and wife my parents’ age that I know, but not very well. I’m a biology professor and I’m pretty sure they’re aware of that. I’m wearing a sleeveless dress and I have a large mole that my dermatologist is not concerned about, so I haven’t had it removed.)

Woman: “Oh, you need to get that taken care of.”

Me: “What?”

Woman: “That mole. That’s cancer.”

Me: “No, actually, it’s okay. My dermatologist says it’s fine. I could have it removed if it bothers me, but I haven’t gotten around to it.”

Woman: “Nope, that’s cancer.”

Man: “You know, our daughter’s husband had a mole just like that. He didn’t even know it was there! It was on his back. Our daughter didn’t even notice it! But one day he got out of the shower and she said, ‘Hey, what’s that?’ And he got it checked. And you know what? The doctor sat down and said, ‘You have six months to live.’ It looked just like yours.”

Me: “No, really, I’ve had it looked at; it’s not cancerous.”

Woman: “You probably have six months to live, too.”

Man: “When the doctor finally looked at it, it had met… med… What’s the word? When it spreads?”

Me: “Metastasized?”

Man: “Yeah, that. He was a goner. It was everywhere. Lungs, brain. Everywhere.”

Me: “Yeah, skin cancer’s weird like that; it has its places it goes.”

Woman: “Do you know about cancer?”

Me: “Um, a little? We just covered it in my intro cell bio class last week. I use breast cancer as an example.”

Woman: “Are you going to apply to med school?”

Me: *completely taken aback* “No? I mean, I thought about it years ago, after I started my PhD, because it would have made more financial sense to get an MD/PhD at the time, but those programs are hard to get into. And really, I didn’t want to pursue an MD; I wanted a PhD.”

Woman: “But think of all you could do! You should apply to med school.”

Me: “No, really, I’m happy with my PhD. I like my job.”

Woman: “You should apply to med school.”

Me: *later, to my mom* “Why did you make me sit next to them?!”

(For the record, I was probably going to get that mole removed next summer, but now I don’t want to, just out of spite!)

This story is part of our Mole Day roundup!

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Read the Mole Day roundup!

(I work in the kid’s section of a bookstore. A scenario like this happens about once a month, except in summer when it happens at least every week. A parent and child enter the section:)

Parent: *upbeat and cheery* “Now, [Child], you go ahead and pick any book you want to read, and I’ll buy it for you!”

Child: “Awesome!”

(The child inevitably goes straight to our section on Lego, Star Wars, Minecraft, etc. They pick out the biggest, beefiest book they can find, which often comes with a toy.)

Child: “I want this one.”

Parent: *disapprovingly* “No, not that one.”

Child: “But I want it!”

Parent: “No! That one’s full of junk. Pick something else; I’m not buying you that.”

Child: *picks up another book in the same section* “This one looks awesome!”

Parent: “Ugh, no, that’s another junk book. It’s not going to teach you anything, and you’re just buying it for the toy. I’m not getting you that.”

(The child is confused and upset. The parent stalks over to the novel section, browses for a few minutes, and calls their child over.)

Parent: “Pick something from here. These are good books.”

Child: “But I don’t want any of these books; I want one of the other ones!”

Parent: *snapping* “NO! Absolutely not. You’re getting something from here, or we’re leaving without anything at all.”

(It’s at this point that the parent will often bring me over and ask me what books their child would like. I try to get information from the kid — do they like fantasy, adventure, real-life, animal stories, etc.? — but it’s a lost cause. The child is so upset from getting yelled at, and so let down from not getting the book they originally chose, that 80% of the time everyone leaves empty-handed and grumpy. Parents, set clear expectations for your kids! Don’t promise them any book in the store if what you really mean is a serious chapter book. Don’t get angry at them because you weren’t specific enough in the first place!)

(My friends and I have been meeting once a week for around a year to play board games and catch up. We go to a pub that is quiet, cheap, and convenient for everyone… but the staff can be a little off. This week we have booked two large tables for the group. When we arrive, one of the tables is full. We ask the people if they can move, and they say they are nearly done. Then, they sit around drinking for another ten minutes and then leave. Not really a problem. We sit around the two tables we’ve booked and one of us puts a bag of games on a third empty table. It has a small reserved sign on it and there are many other empty tables of the same size. One of the staff members comes over…)

Bar Worker: “Whose bag is this?”

Friend: “Oh, I’m sorry; I think that’s mine.” *goes to move the bag*

Bar Worker: “This is a reserved table. You can’t come in here cluttering up a clean reserved table.”

Another Friend: “Okay, fair enough.”

Bar Worker: “And another thing: you need to tell us how many people are coming. You take up a lot of room and we need to know how many people are coming.”

Other Friend: “Sorry, we don’t always know.”

Bar Worker: “You need to book more tables; there are too many of you and you need to book more tables.”

Other Friend: “Fair enough…”

Bar Worker: *interrupting* “We need you to book more tables; you can’t just take up everywhere. This was a reserved table; you need to understand that you can’t use all the clean tables.”

(She continued on like this for a couple of minutes, interrupting if we tried to placate her. Eventually, she left and we all kind of shrugged because half of the pub was empty and we were only using the two tables we had booked. We noticed that all the tables around us had reserved signs put on them but they all stayed empty the entire night.)

This takes place in the 50s. My grandma and her first husband didn’t work out. They legally separated and lived their own lives, but didn’t get a divorce. She met my grandpa and had my aunt while she was still married to her first husband.

When she went to register the birth certificate, the clerk put her husband’s name as my aunt’s father. When she said that her husband wasn’t the father, my grandpa was, and asked to change the name on the certificate, the clerk refused. She said that my grandma should have just “kept her legs closed and stayed faithful to her husband.”

My grandpa had to legally adopt his own daughter. My grandma divorced her first husband and married my grandpa before they had the rest of their kids.