Many years ago, when I was fresh out of college, I landed myself a very nice role in the Human Resources/Benefits department of a very large company.

The department that hired me was a launch pad for more high-profile jobs within the company, so while turnover was high, it was actually a good thing. It was great seeing the folks who helped train me getting hired into bigger and better-paying jobs within the same company, and we’d often hang out at lunch and breaks.

It wasn’t long before it was my turn to help train the new folks. Our department had four points of contact: phone, voicemail, walk-in services, and an email inbox. I ran point on all but the phone.

A very nice new person was sitting with me as I demonstrated how the email system worked. My hope was that she would eventually join the email team, as she was very well-spoken and demonstrated high written communication abilities.

As I was showing her some of the duties and ways to do them, she asked why I was so young. Strange question, but I explained that I had just graduated from college.

New Hire: “Oh, really? What was your major?”

Me: “I majored in creative writing. A lot of people laugh when I say that, but it does help with this email inbox.”

I gestured toward the computer.

New Hire: *Shouting* “SERIOUSLY?! WHAT TYPE OF CREATIVE WRITING?!”

Imagine a small call center scattered with cubicles, and then fill it with shrieking. I was intimidated.

Me: “Well, mostly short fiction, but of course, we had to study all sorts of writing as part of the major.”

She proceeded to tell me that this job was a gift from God. Her prayers had been answered. She had met me, and now she knew why she was called to this position. She concluded triumphantly:

New Hire: “I need someone to write calligraphy on my daughter’s wedding invitations.”

Now, truth be told, I had taken a few calligraphy summer enrichment courses as a kid, but I really sucked at it. My big, chubby fingers made a mess of things, and I typically ended up with a bunch of ink on my clothes. It was clear to me that I was not the answer to her prayers, but now I had to break this news to her. I quasi-lied:

Me: “I don’t know calligraphy. My handwriting looks like this, and that’s all I’ve got.”

I showed her the handwritten notes I had been taking, hoping the illegible chicken scratches would drive my point home.

Sadly, not even this could deter her. She sprang up from her seat, ran to her desk, and called her daughter with the “good” news, telling everyone that I was going to personally save her daughter’s wedding because I was a creative writer.

The coworkers sitting closest to me asked if I actually knew calligraphy. Not well enough for wedding invites, I admitted.

For the next several days, my coworkers, my manager, and I tried our very best to convince [New Hire] that no calligraphy was going to happen, but we couldn’t manage to make this particular noodle stick. I even started trying different stylized handwriting options to see if I could get anywhere close to “calligraphy.”

Eventually, [New Hire] brought in a stack of envelopes, a list of names and addresses, and a great big fat-tipped magic marker — the exact kind of great big fat-tipped magic marker that you cannot do calligraphy with.

But I was twenty-two years old and wanted to make everyone happy. The whole office held their breath and watched as I scrawled out a sample of the first name on the list on a piece of scrap paper. I held it to [New Hire] to approve, and I was not at all shocked when she said:

New Hire: “What’s that supposed to be?”

She didn’t know what calligraphy was. I tried to show her some examples on my computer, but what she really wanted was someone with neat, even handwriting to address all of the envelopes for her daughter’s wedding.

I do have the ability to write with neat, even handwriting when I need to, so I carefully addressed each and every envelope. My ascenders and descenders weren’t sloppy, my x-height was reasonably equal, and I didn’t get a single droplet of magic marker on my clothes.

But perhaps my favorite part was my manager walking past my desk, grinning, and saying, “See? And you thought you wouldn’t get to use your major here!” before sashaying away in a cloud of laughter.

And that is why, for many years, I jokingly referred to myself as a “Calligraphy Major.”

My office has a “donation” table in the break room where people can put any food they want to give away to the office. It has a sign that reads, “Donation Table: Any food left here is up for grabs.”

One day, I was in the break room, preparing my lunch. A fairly new hire walked in and pulled one of the lunch boxes out of the fridge before going over and putting it on the donation table. She then stood there, staring at it for a few seconds, before picking it up again. It was only when she picked it up that I recognized the distinctive bag of one of the guys that sits in my cubicle pod, with a cartoon character sewn into the side of it.

Me: “Hey, I think that’s [Coworker]’s. You’ve gotten it mixed up.”

New Hire: *Looking baffled* “But it was on the table.”

Me: *Now also somewhat baffled* “What? I… No, look at the side. That’s [Coworker]’s bag.”

New Hire: “But it was on the table.”

She then points at the sign, and it starts to dawn on me what she is implying.

Me: “You put it on the table. You don’t get to take other people’s food just because you put it on the donation table.”

New Hire: “But the table’s for donations. It was on the table.”

At that point, I’d circled around over to her, and I realized this was going nowhere. I reached out and pulled the lunch box out of her hands. She didn’t resist, just standing there, looking baffled, and I walked over and stuck the bag back in the fridge. When I turned back around, she was walking out.

I retrieved my meal from the microwave, and then I walked around the corner to Human Resources to let them know what had happened. They were as baffled at [New Hire]’s “logic” as I was, and apparently, there had been a couple of lunch thefts reported in the past couple of days. When I followed up with our HR representative a couple of days later, she let me know that they’d asked the new hire about it, and she’d actually confirmed that she had taken the lunches because “they were on the table”.

Somehow, she kept her job for another month, but then she ended up being let go. I’m not sure if it was for things like this or if this sort of muddled behavior was just indicative of her work elsewhere.

I am pretty tall and thin. I also have a large afro that I like to fluff up when I am going out. Because of this, a bouncer at a club I go to has taken to calling me “Lowercase”. In his words, “With those skin-tight outfits and big hair, you look just like a lowercase I!”

We are on friendly terms and talk a lot when I’m there. I call him “Shag” because of his mop of unkempt silver hair.

On this particular night, Shag was with a new bouncer I hadn’t seen before. I waved hi to him, as well. 

Shag: “Hey, Lowercase! Hey, Newbie, this is Lowercase. She comes here a lot. If you’re nice, she’ll bake you something.”

Newbie: “Why do you call her ‘Lowercase’?”

Shag: “Oh, it’s because I think she looks kind of like a lowercase I with that big hair.”

Me: *Laughing* “It’s been a joke between us for a while. I don’t mind.” 

Newbie: “Oh, well, it’s nice that you’re willing to joke about that. Most girls get pissy when you point out they don’t have t*ts.”

I got super uncomfortable at that point. Shag has never made any comments about my body, and it was always clear that our nicknames were in good fun. Shag immediately looked livid.

Shag: “Boy, what the h*** is wrong with you?”

Newbie: “I thought that’s why she had the nickname, right? No curves, all hair?”

Shag gave me a smile and ushered me inside. I caught the beginnings of him chewing the absolute f*** out of the new guy.

Later on in the night, Shag came in, bought me a drink, and apologized. He insisted that I’m gorgeous, but I’m the same age as his daughters, so his only intention is to make sure I’m safe and happy when I’m at that club. 

I still go there a lot, and I bake a lot more things for him when I can. Love you, Shag!

We’re at the tail-end of a week-long heatwave here in the wonderful state of New Jersey. High temperatures are between 95 and 101F (about 35 to 38C), and the humidity is so thick you need SCUBA gear to walk to your car.

One of our new hires is actually from southern Alaska, and while it’s not the wasteland of the northern parts, he is NOT used to this sort of heat.

We’re sitting around the lunch room, discussing how glad we are that the central AC for the office was just fixed, when the new guy gets up to throw out his trash and glances out the window.

New Guy: “Uhh… Why is the parking lot on fire?!”

This triggers a few panicked folks running to the windows, followed promptly by laughter. I put my arm around his shoulder.

Me: “Well, [New Guy], you ever hear the phrase, ‘so hot you can cook an egg on the asphalt’? That’s what happens when the phrase is literal, and then we get a little afternoon shower.”

Sure enough, there had been a little five-minute bit of rain before, just enough to leave a thin, wet coating on a scorching hot parking lot that quickly steamed away when the sun came back out.

New Guy: “How… do you all live like this… on a normal basis?”

Three of us, almost in sync:

Us: “AIR CONDITIONING.”

In my college years, I worked in a souvenir shop in a large theme park. I had seven seasons under my belt when I took a gap year to live and work in the USA. The summer after, I returned to my old job.

Every new employee got a basic course in hospitality in their first few months, and I had already had mine. To my surprise, I got a call to do my hospitality course. Apparently, my gap year made me a new employee. I considered not going, but it was paid and I had nothing better to do, so I went.

The guy teaching the course made us all briefly introduce ourselves — name, location in the park you worked, and age. Everyone was a newbie. Then, he came to me.

Me: “I am [My Name], I am twenty-four, and this is my eighth season.”

Trainer: “Why are you even here?”

Me: “Don’t know, but yeah.”

The trainer takes a breath and smiles lightly.

Trainer: “Do you mind if I use your experience?”

Me: “Not at all.”

I then spent the next hour or two both playing the employee dealing with Entitled Jerks and playing the worst of Entitled Jerks. I had a blast, and those real newbies got a proper taste of what they could expect.