(It is a particularly cold Canadian winter, on a Saturday night at around nine pm, and I am taking a shower. The water is not very hot, and within a few minutes, it goes completely cold, even when using only the hot water tap. I still have shampoo in my hair and a bit of soap all over but the water is way too cold for me to handle. I am used to rinsing my hair with cold water because it’s good for the hair, but with the water barely above freezing, I cannot do it! I wrap myself in a towel and call my landlady to inform her of the problem. She tells me to wait until Monday morning because her maintenance man does not work on the weekends. I tell her the water is too cold to rinse off the shampoo and soap without risking hypothermia and it can’t wait until Monday.)

Landlady: “What do you want me to do?”

Me: “I will call a plumber and a locksmith to access the water heater and deduct the bills from my rent.”

(She tells me she is coming with her husband to have a look at the problem. While waiting for her to come, I rinse my hair with a bottle of water from the fridge that is less cold than water from the tap, and water from the kettle that is room temperature. Shortly after that, I hear a knock on the door and it is my landlady. My lips are bluish and I am still shivering a lot.)

Landlady: *seeing that I had rinsed my hair* “It was not urgent; you were able to finish your shower. I came here for nothing!”

(The door to the maintenance room where the water heater is for the whole building is right next to my apartment door and I see water beginning to leak from under it. I point to it and my landlady looks at it and goes pale. She unlocks the door and hurries to shut down the water valve.)

Landlady: “I don’t know what to do with all this water all over! Give me some towels to absorb it.”

Me: “I only have a few, and I need to keep the clean one for after I am able to rinse myself off.”

(I close the door, leaving her to deal with her problem since I already have my own. Less than an hour later, after I wash most of the soap away with a washcloth and warm water from my kettle, there is another knock on the door. This time, it’s my landlady’s husband.)

Landlady’s Husband: “We fixed my problem and the water is probably already hot. It’s a good thing my wife insisted on having a look at the problem instead of waiting until Monday; otherwise, the water could have risen to reach the electrical outlets and it could have caused a much worse problem!”

Me: “You mean it’s a good thing I insisted and threatened to call a locksmith and a plumber?”

Landlady’s Husband: “…”

(I slammed the door and went to take a much-needed, long, hot shower!)

(A customer holding her baby approaches me at the help desk.)

Customer: “I just asked my husband to go change the baby’s diaper in the restroom, and he said there was no changing table in the men’s room.”

Me: “Well, ma’am—“

(She cuts me off.)

Customer: “I mean, it’s the twenty-first century; men are parents, too. Parenting is a partnership. This isn’t the 1950s.”

Me: “Ma’am, we—“

Customer: “I just think it’s really embarrassing that a store like yours is still enforcing these gender stereotypes, and it’s not fair to only have a changing table in the women’s restroom. I mean, come on! Get with the times!”

Me: *finally getting a word in* “Ma’am, there is a changing table in the men’s restroom.”

(The customer stares at me, looking confused, for a moment.)

Customer: “Then why did my husband say there wasn’t one?”

Me: “I don’t know. Maybe he just didn’t want to change the baby?”

(She thinks for a moment and it dawns on her. Suddenly, her frustrated expression turns angry.)

Customer: “Thank you. I’m going to go find my husband now.”

(And with that, she stormed off. I guess she’s living in the twenty-first century, but her husband has some catching up to do.)

(It is very busy at our bookstore, and I am working as a cashier. We don’t have an info station, so when somebody wants to find a book they often ask us at the front.)

Customer: “Hi. I’m looking for a book, but I don’t know what it’s called. It was about dreams, and it’s blue.”

Me: “Is that all you know? Do you remember any of the author’s name or any words of the title at all?”

Customer: “No. But it was blue!”

Me: “Well… I’m sorry. I can search for books about dreams, but there’s going to be a lot. What was it about?”

Customer: *blank look* “Dreams.”

Me: “Right, but… I mean, is it a novel, or a nonfiction book about dream interpretation, or somebody’s dream journal, or a psychology book?”

Customer: “I don’t know! It was on Oprah!”

(I’m resisting the urge to face-palm; that one fact is nearly everything I need to know to identify the book.)

Me: “Okay. All the books Oprah recommends are on that table right there, under the sign that says, ‘OPRAH RECOMMENDS.’ I can see a blue one from here; is that the one?”

(The customer trots over to the table to peruse it, and as I move on to the next person in line, I hear the customer shout:)

Customer: “YEAH, THAT WAS IT!”

(Somewhere around fifth grade, a new English teacher, who I hear used to be an elementary teacher, starts at my K-12 school. I get in her class, excited to finally move on from grammar English to literature/essay writing and the like. On the first day, all she does is:)

Teacher: “Do you know nouns?”

(She talks about them for the rest of class, although everyone in class has assured her, multiple times, that we know our basic grammar. This continues for about two months. Finally, she decides to bring an ACTUAL BOOK to class, with the type of stories found in standardized testing. She doesn’t hand out books or copies or anything:)

Teacher: “You don’t need them for yourselves; just listen as I read.”

(If we ask her to reread anything, she refuses and says we should have been listening the first time. Worst of all, she constantly trails off from the story to tell us about how this reminds her of her childhood in the 60s or 70s or something. She takes time when we are supposed to be learning reading comprehension and writing to tell us her life stories about growing up in Minnesota/Idaho/Nebraska somewhere — it seems to change every time. After this, she gives us a one-page test to take home, mostly defining vocabulary from the story, and maybe one question about summarizing. No homework or assignments or anything. RIP any hopes of actually studying literature. This goes on for two more years. Fast forward to this year; we get a new assigned curriculum from the administrator, who happens to be teaching third-grade English due to budget cuts. Although we actually have our own books with grade-level literature, the teacher insists on reading it herself, continues to go on rants about her own life, and ignores the papers and assignments specified in the book in favor of her very own grammar worksheets, of course. Someone must smarten up and complain, because after two weeks, the administrator decides to sit in on a class. She catches so many mistakes she actually has to stop and basically co-teach the class to make sure things are done right. Then, this happens:)

Admin: “Today, you’ll be doing a group reading of the story [Short Story]. Because there are so few of you, we only need one group. Each of you will have a role in the group.” *gives out roles* “Now you guys can start.”

Classmate: *reads a long word*

Teacher: “Ah, yes, [long word]. That means [definition].” *administrator tries to interject, but she ignores* “So, it looks like he’s doing something I used to do, which is—“

Admin: *louder* “[Teacher]! This is a group study. We want then to problem solve on their own. If they need look up a word, they can decide to use a dictionary or context clues. We will not be commenting on the story unless something gets out of hand. Now, continue, [Classmate].”

(This happens a few more times before [Teacher] seems to get the idea. However, the minute the admin goes to the bathroom…)

Me: “So, the book says to circle any that show emotion.” *my role is to ask all the questions and write everyone’s answers* “We have to give at least ten. I have about three. Do you guys—“

Teacher: *takes book from classmate and rattles off a list of words* “You write that down. Now, I will continue. So—“

Admin: *rushing back* “[Teacher]! Like I said, this is a group reading. You can’t comment on it.”

Teacher: *pointing to me* “She had a question! They needed help!”

(I did not ask her anything, but I am shy and afraid of making things worse, so I say nothing.)

Admin: *to me* “If you have a question, try asking the group or using a resource. We want you to practice—“

Teacher: “Actually, I don’t know how I feel about this new system. I’d prefer to go back to my way.”

Admin: “This is the state-approved curriculum, and students need group and independent skills.”

Teacher: “I’m a teacher; I’m being paid to teach!”

(They argued for a bit more, but the admin made it VERY clear that she was in charge of what happens. The teacher retreated and sulked in the back of the classroom. But the next day, a Friday, the admin was not present, and the teacher once again tried to revert to “her way.” When we returned on Monday, the admin had officially taken over the class, and we have continued with her ever since. As for the teacher, according to my younger sister in the third grade, she is teaching third grade English, instead. I hope she’s better back in her element with the elementary kids. I still don’t know why I didn’t complain sooner!)

Back in the early 2000s, our lab where we analyzed drug products moved to a new facility. This location was fully contained and boasted, among other things, an automatic washer for laboratory glassware — quite important when you’re analyzing stuff.

Despite this “state of the art” facility, some of us started noticing spots on our glassware. I, for one, began rewashing the glassware myself, by hand. My boss didn’t like my spending my time that way, but I managed to make it sufficiently speedy that he pretty much was unaware I was doing it.

Some years later, several of us were having trouble with our assays. Management basically refused to listen to our complaint about the glassware, and the problem seemed to get worse and worse. Finally, a young PhD took it upon himself to investigate further and determined that the spots on our glassware were not merely water spots — which shouldn’t have been there, anyway — but were residual detergent, quite capable of messing up many assays.

He then investigated the dishwashing facility and determined that not only were they not rinsing glassware with deionized water, but they also weren’t even rinsing it with tap water. It seems the washer was plumbed wrong and was recycling wash water where it should have used fresh water.

All of this could have severely compromised our analytical results — which were being reported to the government — but management just swept the problem under the rug like it never happened!