Won’t Be Sold Short(bread)

, , , | Right | April 12, 2018

(I  work as a barista for a popular coffee shop chain. It’s coming up to closing time, and my coworker and I are the last two left on shift. My coworker is on drinks and I’m on till. We have a customer come up to the counter and place an order:)

Customer: “I’d like a mocha and one of those caramel shortcakes.”

Me: “Certainly, ma’am. Just give us a moment to get that ready for you!”

(Our cakes come pre-sliced, so they are virtually all the same; regardless, I try to sell it like the best one there, to make them feel special.)

Me: “Here we go! Picked you out the best slice I could see!”

Customer: “Um… No.”

Me: “Is there a problem with this one?”

Customer: “Well… It’s not got a lot of chocolate on it?”

Me: *looking between the slice and the identical 20+ slices left in the chiller* “I think you’ll find that each slice is exactly the sam—”

Customer: “NOW, SEE HERE! I’ve been eating caramel shortbreads since before you were born! And I’ve had them from your shop many times before! Give me another one!”

Me: “Right away.”

(I take the plate and I pick up the slice with tongs, put the slice back, pick up the same one again, put it on a new plate, and hand it back over.)

Customer: “See?! Was that so hard!? I won’t be sold short; I know what my caramel shortbreads look like!”

(She paid with a huff and stormed off with her coffee and cake. I should add that all our cakes are behind glass, so she could see the whole thing. My coworker was desperately trying not to laugh out loud as the customer walked away.)

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The Project Fell Down A Black Hole

, , , | Learning | April 12, 2018

(Due to a diagnosis of a math disability, I am held back in math classes throughout school. Because of math prerequisites, I’m only able to take the “soft” science classes in high school. One of these is astronomy. You would not expect this to be an easy, math-light class, but it is the way this teacher teaches it.)

Teacher: *at the beginning of the year* “There’s going to be a big project you design yourself, which will account for half of your grade. You need to work up a project proposal and have me approve it. Some work time will be given during class, but also expect to be working on this project outside of class, independently. There are certain requirements the project needs to meet, but I’ll outline those at a later date.”

(He gives us research time in the library, and I write up a proposal for a big research paper on black holes and get his signed approval. Throughout the semester, he gives us research time and study periods, but does not give us the mysterious requirements the project needs to meet, despite my pestering him repeatedly. After borrowing a friend’s physics textbook and reading up texts our own library doesn’t provide, I write a very long and intensive report that I finish within a few weeks of the end of the semester. It’s a thick research paper, and it includes my own illustrations of physics principles, with detailed explanations of math I supposedly should not be able to deal with. The work is entirely my own. Nervous that it will not meet the arbitrary guidelines the teacher never gave, I approach him with my half-inch thick paper in hand.)

Me: “We’re almost at the deadline, and I finished my project, but I wanted to make sure it fit the requirements. Did I miss where you gave those?”

Teacher: “Oh. Well. Since I never really got around to it, and we didn’t talk in class about the project, I just kind of decided to drop it, so you guys don’t need to do that.”

Me: “But you said it was worth half our grade! I spent all semester working on this!”

Teacher: “That’s… You really didn’t need to…”

Me: “You will accept this research project for some kind of grade.”

(I glared at him, and with barely 100 pounds of fury, I pushed the thick paper at him. He meekly accepted it. He took it as extra credit, and I got an A+ in the class, but to this day I’m not sure he actually read it. These kinds of incidents killed my faith in the American education system.)

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Chronicles Of The Doughnut Police

, , , , , , | Working | April 12, 2018

(I decide to bring in some cakes for my office, as a bit of a pick-me-up for the team. We’ve all been having a rough few weeks. One downside is my coworker who always takes it upon himself to offer other peoples’ food, but not before taking his “share” to ensure that he gets his first. I have asked him not to, and he sarcastically calls me the doughnut police or similar. Today he has outdone himself; not only does he take plenty for himself, he then disappears around the company to tell everyone to go to the office to get theirs, actually taking food from the people he works with every day, to try to make himself popular. As I see him through the window, sending worker after worker up to us, I have an idea.)

Coworker: “Where’s my cakes?! I left them right here?!”

Me: “I don’t know; it was weird. A lot of people appeared from nowhere; one of them must have taken them.”

Coworker: *angry* “And you didn’t stop them?”

Me: “What do I look like? The doughnut police?”

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It’s A Scold Day In London

, , , , , , | Related | April 12, 2018

(I am 12 years old. My parents and I visit London to stay with my grandmother for a while. On our first night, the grownups are all talking, and I get bored.)

Me: “Mum, can I go for a walk and explore the neighbourhood for a bit?”

Mum: “Well, all right, but don’t go too far.”

(I walk down the street, turn a corner, turn another corner, and soon realize that I am hopelessly lost. This particular neighbourhood has houses that all look virtually identical, and I can’t figure out where I am. I know my grandmother’s address, but there is no one around to ask. I wander for what feels like hours, crying my eyes out, until my dad finally finds me and brings me back to the house.)

Mum: *crying* “Oh, thank goodness! We were so worried!” *hugs me*

Nana: “Is that all you’re going to say to her? You should be scolding her for being gone for so long.”

Mum: “She didn’t mean to get lost.”

Nana: “Even so, a good spanking would teach her a lesson.”

Mum: *coldly* “I don’t hit my daughter, thank you very much.”

(I always knew that Nana didn’t like me, but her eagerness to punish a crying child was a shock.)

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Stephenie Meyer Wrote This One

, , , , , | Working | April 12, 2018

(A friend and I are at the checkout line in a department store. The cashier at the till adjacent to ours interrupts our conversation and starts talking to me.)

Cashier: “You! You! Hey, you! Yeah, you! What’s wrong with you?”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Cashier: “What’s wrong with you?”

Me: *wondering when that ever worked as clarification* “Nothing’s wrong with me.”

Cashier: “Yeah, but what’s wrong with your complexion?”

Me: “Nothing?”

Cashier: “You look like you’re paler than you’re supposed to be. Do you know what sun is?”

Me: “I have an interesting combination of genetics that somehow makes me immune to sunlight. I neither burn, nor tan, and no matter how long I am outside, I will not get darker.”

Cashier: “Oh, so, you’re a vampire.”

(I don’t think that means what you think it means.)

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