Our team consists of three roles: our team leader, the coordinators, and the support staff. We work in a residential rehab facility. 

I am one of two coordinators. I’m an occupational therapist and the other is a social worker. Then, there is our team leader, and we make up a more clinical role together. All three of us are female. For the record, both my team leader and social worker coordinator are lesbians in happily married relationships. I am single and straight, like that really matters, but it makes for hilarious conversations with clients and staff alike sometimes.

On this day, I and the social worker are explaining to a male client about our partners — or lack thereof. This client has an injury that causes major brain changes and therefore sometimes what he thinks will come out very non-PC.

Client: *To the social worker* “Married yet?” 

Social Worker: “Indeed. Happy relationship.”

Client: “Good fella?”

Social Worker: “Good woman. Keeps me in check!”

Client: “Oh, you’re one of those effing lesbians. It’s wrong. Wrong!” *Looks at me* “And what about you?”

Me: “I’m devoting my life to being a cat lady. It’s too hard to catch a decent man these days. I just am not digging my holes in the ground deep enough to keep them trapped there before we get to marriage.”

The client laughed at this and told me if I didn’t get a man by thirty then I would turn into a lesbian. I’m twenty-five and “not fulfilling my role to have kids.”

I turned to my coworker, who told me all I needed to do was high-five her and I would become pregnant by a lesbian, therefore a woman fulfilling her job for kids.

Not pregnant or a lesbian, but we can continue to await the outcomes.

A customer has paid for his meals and left the restaurant before he comes storming back in up to the bar. He speaks briefly to a coworker before storming over to me in the middle of the seating area, where he looks me up and down.

Customer: “You’re the supervisor tonight?”

Me: “Yes, how can I help?”

Customer: “My bill was $5 more expensive than it should have been.”

Me: “If you follow me over to the counter, I’ll print out your bill and we can have a look at the issue.”

Customer: “Your prices are wrong.”

I do not want to have a conversation where we can disrupt other customers.

Me: “Follow me up to the counter and I will sort it out there.”

Customer: *Not moving* “[Item #1] and [Item #2] are different prices on your posters outside.”

Me: *Admitting defeat* “I can assure you that [Item #1] is the same price. But yes, [Item #2] has gone up a few dollars. The poster states that the menu is subject to change and, as [Item #2] is currently out of season, we are paying higher prices which our menus have to reflect. However, the menu which you had on the table has the correct price.”

Customer: “You need to change the poster!”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but the posters cost a lot to make; that’s why we have ‘subject to change’ written on them, and we update our table menus. The price you’ve noticed is the only change we’ve had recently. Would you like me to refund you the difference?”

By this stage, the customer is right in my face.

Customer: “It’s not about the money; it’s about the ethics. Change the poster!”

I look around at a full restaurant that I should be serving.

Me: “That’s something I can’t do right now, but I will discuss it with the owner tomorrow.”

Customer: “CHANGE THE MENU!”

He’s now yelling in my face so aggressively I can feel his spit, and other customers are staring.

Me: “Sir, I can offer you a refund. If that isn’t what you would like, you can call the restaurant tomorrow and speak with the owner. I cannot change the poster right now, and as the price is correct in the table menus, it’s not my priority.”

Customer: *Yelling in my face* “YOU’RE A THIEF! CHANGE THE MENU!”

The customer stormed out, stopping only to angrily check the prices at the table, which he must have seen as correct. I was left to apologise to all the customers around us before trying to wash the spray of spit off my face. The customer’s wife left a terrible review stating how rude I was, and that I was a con artist and a thief, all over $4.

If you’ve never heard of the “Beep Test,” consider yourself lucky. In New Zealand, some genius decided that a good way to test if children were fit was to make a test where they had to run between a marked distance between the beeps. The beeps would get progressively faster, and the level at which you could no longer cross the line between the beeps was your “fitness level.”

Sounds fun, right?

In my younger years, I had an accident where I’d injured my knee. Nothing permanent, not even a scar, but afterward, I found that I was never able to run as fast as I could before. I’d been a sprinter, but now I was a marathon runner

This meant that no matter how hard I tried, after a certain point, I literally could not run fast enough to get between the beeps! And since that meant a low score, you had to give up your lunch to keep running to get a better score.

My stubborn counter to this was that no matter what, I kept running. I wouldn’t get over the line fast enough, but the fact that I continued to run told the teachers I was fit “enough” for purposes, just not fast enough.

I had to do the beep test at least once a year, as required, but I never had to stay in for a lunch with my direct and stubborn ability to stay running for the whole test.

I continue to be angry in adulthood that someone figured that speed was the same thing as being fit.

Our country has been on lockdown since late March. It’s now mid-May, and we’ve only just had some of the severe — and incredibly necessary — restrictions lifted, meaning my lovely hairdresser is once again taking appointments.

By the time I get there, it will have been almost three and a half months since I last had my hair done. Not really a big deal, in the grand scheme of things, but I have noticed a few unwelcome changes.

I also have a running joke that I’m getting old, even though I’ve only just cracked thirty-one.

Me: “Oh, man, I’m so old, my greys are showing! Look!”

Partner: “I really can’t see anything.”

Me: “It’s right there!”

Partner: *Stares intently* “Don’t worry; that’s white, not grey.”

Me: “…”

Partner: “Uh, I mean…”

Me: “Yeah, that didn’t make it better, thanks.”

Partner: “No! It’s fine! You don’t even notice it!”

Me: “Mmm-hmmm.”

I totally don’t care — I’d love a white streak a la Claire Saffitz –but watching my partner trying to backtrack made me giggle which, during this rather scary time, is always welcome.

I work in a petrol station and it’s about 5:00 pm. I overhear this conversation between my coworker and a customer.

Coworker: “Hi. Do you have a loyalty card? Would you like to use your discount today?”

The loyalty card gets you six cents per litre off your fuel.

Customer: “Yes, I have one.”

Coworker: “Would you like to use your discount today?”

Customer: “Yes, please.”

The coworker puts through the discount and gets the screen ready for payment.

Coworker: “Was that cash or card today?”

Customer: “Card, please.”

The customer swipes their card and stares at my coworker.

Customer: “Is it Cheque or Savings?”

Coworker: “I don’t know what your account is, sorry.”

The customer puts in a number and it declines.

Customer: “Why did it do that?”

Coworker: “You put in the wrong PIN number. Did you want to ask your husband to come inside and do the transaction for you? Your card will be locked if you get it wrong again.”

The customer goes out to her husband in the car and comes back in.

Customer: “The PIN number is—”

Coworker: *Cutting her off* “Let’s swipe your card again and choose your account.”

The customer does so and the rest of the transaction goes through without a hitch. The customer leaves and my coworker turns to me.

Coworker: “Why didn’t the husband just come in?”

Me: *Shrugs* “Maybe he’s giving her free rein of the funds?”

Coworker: *Laughs* “At least she won’t spend too much if she doesn’t even know her account.”

Related:
PIN-Headed, Part 10
PIN-Headed, Part 9
PIN-Headed, Part 8