One day at work, a drainpipe above our office starts leaking, dripping vinegary water into the office. We have to hastily cover the computers, printers, etc. We call facilities to have them fix it and replace the damaged ceiling tiles.

The next day, it’s dripping in an adjacent area. Repeat for the next several weeks.

Since they haven’t replaced the ceiling tiles yet, we can see that they’ve just applied a pipe bandage, which obviously isn’t working.

One day, the plumber is there while I’m still there, so I drift over to talk to him. 

Me: “What’s going on?”

Plumber “Well, the copper pipe is all eaten up. I don’t know why. It’s like they’re draining acid through it!”

Me: “Um, yeah, they are. That’s the drain for the photo darkroom, and they dump the chemicals at the end of the day. The developer and fixer are saved to be reprocessed to recover the silver, but the stop bath is just dumped. And the stop bath is diluted glacial acetic acid…”

Plumber: “Oh…”

Me: “And if I recall correctly, all of the copper acetates are water-soluble… so the pipe is dissolving.”

Another week later, I talk to the plumber again.

Plumber: “My management is insisting it’s not that bad and refusing to replace the pipe.”

Me: “Okay. What additional forms do I need to submit to escalate this complaint?”

He tells me, adding that it won’t work.

Me: “It’s all in how you write it up.”

The next day, he sends me the forms through the in-plant mail, and I spend a bit of time working out the wording. Then, I fill the form out on a typewriter (we don’t have very many PCs at the time) and have my manager submit it. I don’t think he reads it because he is already pretty frustrated and wants the problem fixed. (Remember, we’re about a month into this ordeal.)

This was late in the week. When we arrive on Monday morning, even more tiles are down, and there’s a stack of sawn-up copper pipes in a corner and a brand-spanking-new heavy-guage gray PVC pipe in its place.

Ha!

That evening, they remove the sawn-up copper… and no more leaks.

On Tuesday, my boss calls me into a meeting with his boss. They’re looking at a copy of the form I had him submit.

My Boss: “[My Name], it’s not that we don’t appreciate you getting this fixed, but you can’t lie to get it fixed!”

Me: “I did not lie. Read that carefully, and point to one thing I said that is not true.”

My Boss: “This part about hazardous waste!”

Me: “That’s not what I said. I said, ‘Leakage of acid process waste creating hazardous conditions,’ which is not the same. Corrosion damage to energized electronic equipment is liable to cause fires, which are definitely hazardous, and the spillage was also creating a significant slip hazard.”

My Boss: “Um…”

They read through it again.

My Boss: “Um. No, you didn’t say anything untrue, but you know they didn’t read it that way.”

Me: “Their lack of reading comprehension is not my problem. And I shouldn’t have needed to do that to get a leaking pipe fixed. Explaining it to the plumber should have been enough, but it wasn’t. Actually, his report on the conditions discovered should have been enough — and it wasn’t. On the other hand…”

I gesture at the new pipe above the ceiling.

My boss looks at his boss, who is nodding.

His Boss: “Just don’t do it again… unless it’s necessary. And maybe tell us first if it is.”

My boss looks a bit embarrassed.

My Boss: “[My Name] gave it to me to submit, and I’ll admit I didn’t look that closely because I wanted it fixed, not patched.”

Me: “Good morning, how can I help you?”

Client: “Yes, my bedroom door doesn’t close all the way anymore. Could you send a carpenter to look at it?”

Me: “Certainly. And this started yesterday, or today, or…?”

Client: “No, this door has been iffy for about two years now. I figured I’d call.”

Me: “I see. Well, you are in luck. Our carpenter has an opening for [five days away].”

Client: “That late? Can’t he come any sooner? I mean, this is quite urgent, isn’t it?”

I am the submitter of this story. My mum has had a bit of a redemption arc (wild, I know). My husband and I are staying with her temporarily for a few months until we can find our forever home. She has been making a significant effort to be a better person, and we’ve both noticed and are appreciative of it. 

I wake up one day to the doorbell ringing and a handyman having arrived to fix the back porch. I go to open the gate to let him through to the back. My mum, who has been working in the backyard, comes up on the other side of the gate. It’s 8:00 in the morning, I haven’t brushed my teeth or even put my glasses on, and she comes out with:

Mum: “Good morning, [Handyman]! This is my daughter. Isn’t she pretty?“

Please note, I’ve never met the guy before. I cock my head at her and give her a completely unrestrained “WTF?” look. 

Handyman: *Awkward chuckle* “Yeah, you’re pretty!”

The cringe is palpable. I hold my “WTF” look for a couple more seconds before silently walking back into the house.

Later, when it isn’t so early in the morning anymore, I bring it up.

Me: “Mum, I don’t know what was going through your head this morning, but… maybe in future… don’t ask random handymen to comment on the appearance of your married twenty-nine-year-old daughter? That was so awkward.”

Mum: *Looking embarrassed* “You’re right; I didn’t think of that. I just… I never praised or said anything nice about you or [Brother] growing up, especially around other people. I only ever said bad things. I was trying to change that.”

I blink, silent for a moment.

Me: “Okay. That’s sweet. But still, terrible way to go about it, Mum! You kinda put both of us on the spot.”

I’ve started laughing at this point. Mum is sheepishly laughing, as well.

Mum: “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

Me: “A for effort.”

Baby steps, but she’s getting there.

Related:
Can’t Face The Face-Talking

Living in the dorm, I am on good terms with everyone. I try to learn the names of the various custodians and staff, and I take pride in being polite and helpful.

Recently, maintenance came into the bathroom while I was on the toilet (in a stall), so they left to return when I was done. I didn’t see the man so I wasn’t sure who had come by. 

The toilet seat had been very loose, and I didn’t recognize the design to tighten it myself, so I went to mention it to the man who had been in the restroom three minutes before. His tools were in the hallway but I couldn’t find him anywhere. I had to go to class, so I grabbed a whiteboard marker and left a note on the mirror.

Note: “Dear Maintenance: Please tighten the toilet seat, second from the left.”

Later, I came back to find that the seat had been tightened, but as crooked as possible. This hurt my feelings because it felt very deliberate and passive-aggressive. I made a mental note to check in with my buddies on staff to see what had happened. I just don’t understand why someone would go through the extra effort to make it crooked; tightening the screws takes about two minutes and would straighten the seat. I don’t know how they even got it to stay crooked.

I didn’t see any maintenance members for a couple of days, so I couldn’t ask about it. Then, while I was in class, I got an email that was sent to the entire dorm. The resident director wrote a scathing email, dripping with disgust, about an inappropriate and disrespectful message.

I started shaking as I read about how this horribly offensive message written on the bathroom mirror showed a completely unacceptable violation of community standards, she was appalled to hear about it, etc.

I ultimately sent an email, asking politely what the offensive message said. I don’t expect a reply, but I figure that someone misrepresented it to her. I feel it was out of line to send that email without any proof that the offense took place, and it was detrimental to my well-being. Then again, I can’t blame the resident director too harshly; who would expect the staff to go out of their way to tell a bald-faced malicious lie, with no apparent benefit to their doing so?

I already usually just fix everything myself if I can, but now I’m REALLY not going to want to ask for anything. I really don’t handle people lying about me well.

I guess the moral of the story is that sometimes people just assume malicious intent from innocuous notes, and I should avoid those people. Unfortunately, this dorm is falling apart, but since there is no correct or effective way to ask maintenance to do anything, I might be able to accept that which I cannot change. It takes a fair amount of wisdom to figure out who I can trust versus who will just live rent-free in my head as I try to understand why; sometimes there is no “why.”

I’m a woman, working in a factory that produces NEMA (National Electrical Manufacturers Association) motors. My particular line assembles the stator core, and my job is to press the wires into their final shape and test them for any defects. I’ve done this for going on five years now.

However, my press hasn’t been working right for months, and maintenance has been lazy about getting around to fixing the problem. It’s an automatic hydraulic press, but it’s putting on too much pressure, forcing us to set the pressure lower and lower to make up for the problem. It should be on level five or six; it’s on level two.

Lately, the press has been destroying part of the motor if left to its own devices, and to account for that, we have some stiffened paper as a shield to protect the delicate part from being ruined. This is causing the machine to kind of fault out at times because the sensor isn’t reading the motor correctly. There are two options at this point: fix the pressure issue or fix it to where it won’t fault out.

I’ve put work orders in for this the entire week. It was running fine and just decided to stop running fine. There’s been no change in the settings I can see; it looks like a timing issue, which the head of maintenance agrees with. He sends out one of the workers that I can’t stand.

This man is convinced he’s the smartest person in the room and you won’t tell him otherwise.

Maintenance: “So, the cause of this is this paper here.”

Me: “Yes, I’m aware that’s the most likely cause. If I don’t have it in there, the press will eat the leads, and we lose time by sending them back to be redone, then repressed, and then probably sent back again.”

Supervisor: “Is there anything you can do to patch it up for now? It needs to be fixed, but it’s the end of the shift. Can we run it for the last forty-five minutes?”

Maintenance: “Yeah, I can do that. As long as people don’t mess with settings without knowing what they’re doing, it’s fine.”

I feel like this is a personal jab at me, but I take it. I don’t care; I just want to run my machines without issue. My supervisor leaves and [Maintenance] begins to work.

Maintenance: “You know, I checked the logs. You’re the only person who calls us out to fix it every time it messes up a little. No one but you has this problem.”

Me: “Uh-huh.”

I continue to take it, not telling him that I can see those logs, too, and I can see where every person who runs this machine puts in for various major issues they won’t come out to fix. I also happen to be the ONLY woman who runs this kind of machine in my area.

He runs a few motors, causing the exact problems I’ve been having, proving my need to have the stiffened paper in place. He comes up with the genius idea that it’s a timing issue, and the upper press isn’t putting on enough pressure. I say absolutely nothing to him about it because what do I know?

He sets the pressure to three and I walk a short distance away. He runs the press, and there is the LOUD noise of metal snapping.

Me: “It broke a bolt! The machine’s down. I’m done for the night. It’s not running again!”

He pulls the completely destroyed core out of the press to see that it’s snapped a major bolt.

Me: “This is what happens when people mess with the settings without knowing what they’re doing.”

He gave me a look and repaired it fairly quickly. He set the pressure back to two, put another motor in, and ran the press. It snapped that new bolt at once, meaning he had made the problem WORSE.

Ten minutes to the end of the shift, I told my supervisor I would not be in the next day and went to talk to a friend of mine for the last little bit of work.