(I am a freelance translator working from home. I translate documents in the French-English language pair — English to French and vice-versa — and don’t work with other languages. One day I receive a message from a regular customer.)

Customer: “Hi. Are you available to translate a new document?”

Me: “Hi! Sure, what do you need?”

Customer: “I need to get a 4000-word document translated from Dutch to French within the next twelve hours. I need you to use Google Translate and fix all the errors for a perfect translation.”

(I don’t speak a single word of Dutch.)

Me: “I’m sorry, but don’t you mean English to French? I’m afraid I don’t speak Dutch.”

Customer: “No, it’s okay. I just need you to use Google Translate to translate it from Dutch to French, and correct the mistakes in French for a perfect translation. Get it?”

Me: “Sorry, I think you’re going to have to ask someone who speaks Dutch; I can’t provide you with a quality translation if I don’t speak the source language.”

Customer: “Oh. Okay, then. Bye!”

(If it was so easy to translate a document and get a quality result, nobody would need professional translators!)

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(I do data entry for a company that supplies drug stores with their merchandise. The way our system works is that the customer will phone our office, get our answering machine, and leave a recorded message with their order. I will then play the message later and enter the order on my computer. I can count on the following happening at least once a week:)

Person On Recording: “Hi, [Company]. Here’s my order…” *gives order*

Me: “Oh, great. They didn’t give their name or their store, and the computer won’t let me start entering their order unless we know who it’s for.”

Person On Recording: *continues*

Me: “I hope this is a short order…”

Person On Recording: *keeps talking*

Me: “Maybe I can recognize their voice? …Nope.”

Person On Recording: *keeps talking*

Me: “Please, please, have them say who they are at the end of the message! I’ll have to rewind and listen to the whole thing again, but at least I’ll be able to enter it.”

Person On Recording: “…and that’s it. Thanks!” *hangs up*

Me: “Aw, crap.”

(We don’t have call display in these days, so I have no hope of knowing who the order is for. Then, the next day, this usually happens.)

Caller: “WHERE’S MY ORDER?!”

(I work as a contracted security guard at a university. My company’s posting is at one of the university’s newest acquisitions, a former corporate campus. Staff and faculty move in slowly over several months. This takes place one day while I am out on my rounds; I discover that a previously empty section is now occupied.)

Woman: “Excuse me, you can’t be up here.”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Woman: “I said you’re not allowed to be up here. You have to go.”

(I gesture to the keys and radio on my belt.)

Me: “Ma’am, I am Security Officer [My Name] from the main gate-“

Woman: “Yeah, you’re contractors, right? So, you’re not supposed to be where we are.”

Me: “That’s not true. We can—“

Woman: “No, your place is at the gate. Not where we’re working.”

(A few of the other people in the department hear her and chime in that they agree.)

Me: “I see. Well, regardless of how you feel seeing us around, we’re allowed to be here.”

Woman: “But I said–“

Me: “Part of our duties requires us to go on patrol and check to make sure that not only is everything all right, but to help anyone who asks. That means that we have access everywhere and are allowed to go everywhere. That ensures that we can get to any emergency at any time. Also, contractors are not any less important than ‘real’ employees; we’re usually the first ones anyone calls.”

Woman: “You’re not Public Safety. You’re not real security.”

(I finally lose my patience.)

Me: “My $300 security guard license says otherwise.”

(I walked away, the woman still talking angrily. I notified my site supervisor, who pulled me off of rounds and went up to the new department herself. She experienced the exact same thing I did, and took down the names of every single person in that area. My supervisor then filed a harassment complaint with Public Safety, who made the ENTIRE department take a harassment and sensitivity course. You bet they were sunshine and rainbows the next time we saw them!)

I worked in a personnel office, inputting timecards for the working week, which ran from Monday to Sunday. This info would go up to the payroll department for processing.

We got two new employees who worked the night shift, from midnight to 8:00 am, five days a week, but those days varied. We could never get the supervisor to understand that if the employee started work at midnight Sunday, that was actually the start of the next week; i.e. a Monday shift. So, we had these employees getting four days of work one week, then six days the next week, one of which was overtime. The employees were unhappy that their pay wasn’t steady week-to-week, even though they were getting more money overall, and the company was unhappy that they were paying unnecessary overtime.

I started inputting their hours starting at 11:59 pm on Sunday evening and ending 7:59 am Monday, which solved the problem. Everyone happy, right?

No. I got written up for falsifying timecards.

(We’re gathered for a meeting. My manager has brought in a weird, squishy, pink stress ball she found at a craft store. Everyone is immediately distracted by it, and spends several minutes passing it around, debating what’s inside.)

Manager: “Do you think this is what fake boobs feel like?”

(As she’s saying this, it gets tossed to one of my coworkers, who is gay. Right on cue:)

Coworker: “Eww, it feels gross!”

(The room cracked up, delaying the meeting for another ten minutes.)