I’m in my mid-thirties and have been seeing the same dentist all my life, and he was fresh out of dental school when we started.

One day during a routine appointment, he asks me where I’m working.

Me: “I’m working dietary at [Local Nursing Home].”

Dentist: “Are you doing an apprenticeship, or did you study dietetics in college?”

Me: “Oh, nothing like that. I’m just the dishwasher.”

Dentist: “No, you’re not just the dishwasher. You have a very important job. You keep things clean for the residents, which is really important.”

I love my dentist.

My wife, her daughter, her daughter’s husband, and I are eating at a restaurant during the evening meal. We are sitting in a booth just off the bar area.

The waitress brings our meals. My wife takes a bite of her pasta meal and pulls out a plastic strip that frozen food packages come with to pull and open to empty the contents.

She calls our waitress to show her. The waitress takes the plate back to the kitchen to have it remade.

In the meantime, just around the corner, I hear the waitress complaining to the manager about my wife’s food.

Waitress: “The cook has been hitting on me all week and asking me out. I told him to leave me alone, so he said he was going to ‘fix’ all my meals and that I would regret turning him down.”

The manager brought out a new plate for my wife and never mentioned anything about comping it.

The next thing I heard was the sound of tables and chairs being knocked over in the bar area. I looked back around the corner from our booth and saw the manager and the cook in question in a fight — right there in the restaurant.

We found out that the manager was attempting to escort the cook out of the building after firing him and the cook thought otherwise — at least for a few minutes.

When I was fourteen, I was a busboy in a restaurant that was attached to a motel in our small town. We were next to an interstate that ran across Kansas.

One of my duties when cleaning tables was to determine whether the salad that was served with a meal was touched or not. If it was untouched, I was to put it back in the salad bin to be put back out with another meal.

When I came home after my first night, I told my mom about that rule. She came unglued.

Mom: “Don’t you dare put that back! You don’t know if someone picked at it or sneezed on it.”

Later in the summer, I was told to put any rolls or bread that looked like they hadn’t been touched back into the bin. Instead of putting them back out, they were being saved for Thanksgiving dressing.

Again, I told Mom.

Mom: “Nope. The diner could have dropped it on the floor and decided not to eat it. Again, maybe someone sneezed on it. Just the fact that it was served to someone, no matter what the reason it wasn’t eaten — don’t you put it back.”

From then on, not only while I worked there but as a diner anywhere, I always poured catsup on uneaten salads, bread, or rolls just in case that restaurant had the same rule for their busboys. WOW!

It’s near Christmas, and I have done some baking and made treat bags for my coworkers. I get to work and hand one to one of my coworkers.

Coworker: “What’s this?”

Me: “It’s cookies and Chex mix and stuff.”

My coworker starts crying.

Coworker: “I’m sorry, I’ve just had a really bad day. Thank you.”

I’m not good with people, so I’m not quite sure how to deal with this.

Coworker: “I can’t believe I’m crying over Chex mix.”

Me: “Well, I’m glad I was able to make you smile.”

My wife and I went to an outlet mall in one of our state university towns. We went into a national brand shoe store to look for a pair of casual shoes for me. I found a pair and bought them. The clerk took my cash, gave me the change, bagged the shoes, and left to chat with a coworker, as there was no one else in the store at the time.

Shortly, I returned to the register with a problem with my change. After trying to ignore me, the clerk finally, with eyes rolling, came to find out what I wanted.

Clerk: “Is there something else I can help you with?”

Me: “You gave me the wrong change.”

Clerk: “No, sir. I know I gave you the correct change.”

Me: “No, ma’am, you didn’t.”

This went back and forth a couple more times until I got more forceful.

Me: “No. Let me show you. I still have the change in my hand. The ticket says the shoes cost $60 and coins. I gave you a hundred and the coins and you gave me 3 twenties back.”

Clerk: *Wide-eyed* “Oh, I gave you twenty dollars too much.”

Me: “Yes. You came back to me with a defensive posture before you knew what my problem was. Change your attitude until you find out what is going on with the customer. I know the drawer being short would come out of your pay.”

Clerk: “Yes, that’s right. I’m sorry, but thank you for being honest.”