It’s Been A Patchy Day Until Now

, , , , | Friendly | March 14, 2018

(I decide to treat my grandparents to get a bite to eat as thanks for being my drivers. I’ve been wearing an eye-patch for about a week now due to an injury. We step into a fast food restaurant, and its play area is swarming with kids. It’s cool; we get a bit of entertainment too. As we enter, a mother and her little girl — three at the most — approach the door to leave. The girl looks up at me, looks to her mother uncertainly, then looks back to me. Then she speaks up in a quiet voice.)

Girl: “But it’s not Halloween yet!”

(Her mother looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her up. I, however, was too busy laughing at the adorableness. Thanks, cutie; I really needed that!)

No Longer Allowed To Pick Up Your Dead Weight

, , , , , , , | Working | March 7, 2018

(I work two different jobs, one through the week, the other only on the weekends. I have just had a minor surgery on my upper right arm. After the procedure, I am told that I am not allowed to lift more than ten pounds for the next two weeks, in order to fully recover. This is fine; my first job as a librarian allows me to sit at a computer and doesn’t often require me to carry heavy objects. My second job as a cashier, however, requires me to lift 24-packs of water, 30-packs of beer, etc., because customers often place these on the belt. I let both jobs know ahead of time that I would be having surgery, and made sure to get a note from my doctor saying I wasn’t allowed to lift more than ten pounds. I go into my second job early to hand them the note and see if I can work at the self-check lanes for my shift, which is only four hours long. There is one person who never works register, because they complain that it “hurts their back” to check for a long period of time, and they happen to be working at this time.)

Me: “Hey, [Coworker #1], I had surgery the other day, and I have a doctor’s note here saying that I can’t lift more than 10 pounds. I see that [Coworker #2] is on the self-check; do you think they’ll let me switch them?”

Coworker #1: “Probably not, but we can go over and ask, anyway.”

(We walk over to [Coworker #2]. I have a noticeable bandage on my right arm.)

Coworker #1: “[My Name] has a doctor’s note saying she can’t lift more than ten pounds. Would it be okay if you moved over to a regular lane?”

Coworker #2: *takes a brief glance at my bandaged arm and sighs* “Well, my back’s been bothering me today, and I really don’t feel like checking right now.”

Me: “But I just had surgery the other day, and I have a note that says I am not allowed to lift a certain amount; it could tear the stitches.”

Coworker #2: “Well, I guess, but my back has been hurting.”

Me: *cuts in, slightly annoyed* “Look: I have an official doctor’s note, and I think that it’s a little more valid than you just saying that your back is hurting.”

Coworker #2: *huffs* “Fine, but if my back starts bothering me, I want to switch back.”

(They stalked away to the regular checkout lanes, and I took my place at the self-check. The entire time we worked, they apparently talked about me to our other coworkers, and occasionally they shot me dirty looks. They did ask what I had surgery for, as if the bandage wasn’t enough proof. Shockingly, they never did ask to switch, so I guess their back wasn’t hurting them as much as they thought!)

A Sizeable Problem

, , , | Right | March 7, 2018

(I am 16 and a sophomore, working my first job at a very popular fast food chain. I am working as the front-end cashier and have a short line of customers. One of the customers is a black woman in her 30s or 40s. I am white.)

Me: “Good afternoon, miss. How may I serve you today?”

Customer: “Yeah, I want a—” *gives me all the orders but forgets to tell me the size*

Me: “I’m sorry, miss; what sizes were you wanting for the meal with the drink and fries?”

Customer: “What sizes are there?”

Me: “We have small, medium, and large.”

Customer: “What sizes?”

Me: *thinking I must have said it too quietly or quickly to understand, knowing that the customer has no hearing aids and she is one of two customers in the place* “Small, medium, and large!”

Customer: *starting to get really irritated* “TELL ME THE SIZES, NOW!”

(I start getting worried and none of the managers are bothering to help me.)

Me: “I… I’m sorry, miss. I thought I had said—”

Customer: *cutting me off* “TELL ME THE SIZES NOW, YOU STUPID B****!”

(By this point I am close to tears, and I look to my coworkers for help. One coworker comes over and asks what is going on. He is the same race as the woman.)

Coworker: “What’s going on?”

Customer: *yelling at him before I can answer him* THIS C*** WON’T TELL ME YOUR CUP AND FRIES SIZES!”

Coworker: “Ma’am, the sizes are small, medium, and large.”

Customer: “Oh. Then why didn’t you say so in the first place?! No wonder you have a job at [Fast Food Restaurant], since you dropped out of school!”

Coworker: “Ma’am, she has been working here for two weeks now, and it’s Sunday. She goes to the same high school as most of the workers here. Now that’ll be [price].”

(I have never seen someone look so ashamed of themselves, and I thanked that coworker by buying him a meal. I left the restaurant after two months and found a better place to work.)

Pestering Your Siblings

, , , , , , | Related | March 6, 2018

(My sister and I both have the day off, and we’re in the living room of our apartment. I’m in the middle of an online game when there’s a knock at the door. My sister goes to answer the door and finds a pair of pest control workers.)

Sister: “Hey, how are you?”

Worker: “We’re good. We just came by to ask if you’ve had any issues with pests lately. We were told a few of the other apartments have these issues.”

Sister: “Well, we just have maybe two or three ladybugs here, but nothing major.”

Worker: “I see.”

Sister: “Actually, come to think of it, I do have one pest issue.”

Worker: “Oh, yeah? What is it?”

Sister: “It’s this giant lump on our couch.”

Me: “Screw you, [Sister].”

(The workers did a quick look around, chuckling the whole time, and left for the next apartment.)

Throw Me A Bone Here

, , , , , | Right | March 5, 2018

(We have a customer who frequently buys items and soon returns them. She comes in, yet again, to return a dog bone she bought a week or so ago.)

Customer: “I need to return this.”

Me: “This packaging is destroyed, and the bone has been chewed up. I’m not going to be able to refund you any money.”

Customer: “No! This bone was supposed to be peanut butter flavored, and its not!”

(I smell the bone, and sure enough, it smells like peanut butter.)

Me: “Ma’am, this bone is peanut butter flavored.”

Customer: “But it doesn’t taste like peanut butter!”

Me: “Um… Did you taste the bone?”

Customer: “Yes! And it doesn’t taste like peanut butter! I want my money back!”

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