My aunt has three kids under the age of ten. I’m twenty-three, and at every family gathering, I become the de facto babysitter despite not wanting to so the adults can drink.

Tonight is [Aunt]’s birthday dinner, and my mom has promised me that I won’t have to babysit and that the kids will be at a friend’s house.

The first step I take into their home is greeted by two earsplitting screams about how much the kids missed me and one toddler yodeling. I immediately realise that I might have been lied to.

Normally, I don’t drink — I’m a huge lightweight — but since this is a special occasion, I have made some plans.

[Aunt] enters the hall to greet my mom while I reach into my backpack, walk into the living room and crack one of the two 12% Viking beers I special-ordered for my uncle and myself — he likes weird beer — and we start drinking. About three minutes later, [Aunt] sees the can and starts screaming at me for drinking while watching the kids. (I’m not watching them; I only hear distant screaming.)

Me: “My mom told me the kids were going to be at a friend’s house tonight and promise me that I wouldn’t end up babysitting.”

Aunt: “They’re clearly staying here tonight, r****d!”

I reach out my hand.

Me: “Two hundred bucks for emergency babysitting, and I won’t finish this beer.”

Aunt: “H*** no!”

So, I chug the half-litre can to the loud cheers and laughs of my dad and my uncle.

Me: *With a burp* “Birth happy day, mommy sister!”

My mom just looked hugely embarrassed for [Aunt].

My dad, who was the designated driver for the night, ended up watching the kids for the entire night instead. I think he might schedule a vasectomy soon.

I had a difficult childhood. Both of my parents were alcoholics, my dad bordered on abusive, and my mom eventually became a crazy cat lady. I went to a school in my county where most of the students were incredibly wealthy and their parents were still married. I was the child of a single mom who received no child support and refused to remarry as many of my classmates’ parents did. Needless to say, I was bullied and tormented on a regular basis. Since then, I have never been comfortable with the wealthy crowd.

I met my ex-husband while working in a restaurant, and later, we had two children. I finally got to go to college in my early twenties, and I eventually became a teacher. In that time, my marriage fell apart. I decided dating wasn’t for me and focused on my kids, coaching, and my career.

While coaching, I run into a former customer from my days working at the restaurant, and he asks me out. I am hesitant because his family is incredibly well-off. I should note that I have PCOS and I’m not skinny despite being very short, so I think I’m unattractive.

I finally agree to date him, and things are going better than I thought. He really likes me, I like him, and frankly, I don’t give a d*** about his money. Even better, our kids get along great and act like they were raised together.

I spend a lot of time trying to avoid the circle of friends he has, worried that I might embarrass him because of my “lack of good breeding,” but he tells me that if his friends can’t accept me, they can stuff it.

On one occasion, [Boyfriend] decides to throw a party at his lakehouse in a gated community. I’m so nervous, it’s ridiculous. I’ve never been in a house this big, let alone to a party like this. I haven’t been to the lakehouse before, but most of his friends have now met me, and they encourage me to come out of my shell and relax.

The night of the party, I walk out after the main guests arrive, shy and still a little worried. I’m still trying to adjust to the new social cues of this crowd. As I walk out of the bedroom toward the table where the food is, I’m stopped by someone who calls my name. It’s a girl I went to high school with.

Classmate: “Hey, [My Name]! Glad to see someone here from the old days! It’s a big house, right? I hear it’s, like, the second biggest in this neighborhood! Anyway, can you get me a new drink?”

I’m a little confused as we have people here to help with food and drinks, and I am not dressed like them. They’re wearing black shirts and slacks, and I’m wearing a white cotton sleeveless dress.

Me: “I’m sorry, [Classmate], but I need to go find [Boyfriend]. Ask one of the people in the black shirts to get you more.”

She doesn’t like that answer and got all huffy. She basically screams the roof down about my poor service.

Classmate: “You need to learn your place!”

And then she throws her partial glass of red wine in my face. This obviously stains my dress and embarrasses me. Remembering all I went through, I bolt out of the room and into the bedroom crying.

My boyfriend apparently finds out what happened and comes into the bedroom looking for me. I tell him my version, and he marches back out and tells [Classmate] she needs to leave. She becomes hysterical.

Classmate: “Why am I being tossed out when that waitress was the rude one who wouldn’t get me a new drink?!”

My boyfriend rolls his eyes.

Boyfriend: “If you had been paying attention, you would’ve noticed that [My Name] entered the party from upstairs, and she exited that way, meaning she isn’t working here. She’s also wearing something completely different from what the people working are wearing.”

Classmate: “You know, most rich men pick someone more attractive than [My Name] with an actual figure!”

Boyfriend: “If you mean someone like you, I’ll pass. Spoiled women hung up on their looks are plentiful. I would rather have someone who loves me and knows how to have a good time.”

Several people later assured me that [Classmate] knew good and well who I was and that I wasn’t working. She was just mad because [Boyfriend] never paid her any mind.

Is it any wonder I said yes to this man?

This happened years ago at the annual bipartisan Christmas party at the White House. I was working for a well-known catering company based out of Maryland. They were contracted to provide servers. There were about seven of us added to the already 100-plus staff working there. The party took place in the Red, Green, and Blue Rooms. There was an area down a set of stairs where people could get their pictures taken with the president and the first lady.

It was the last party before Barack Obama became president, so there was a bit of a sour note in the air. But maybe I’m reading into the fact that this happened in the White House and the outgoing president was a Republican and the new one was a Democrat.

My job was to go around clearing plates left on tables. It was an absolute crush of people. It was buffet style, and I don’t know if there wasn’t enough food to go around or if you could only get food during certain times. I was going around the rooms clearing what I could. I grabbed what I thought was an unattended plate. Then, a man slapped it out of my hand.

Man: “That’s mine!”

I cradled my slapped hand to my chest with a very shocked look on my face.

Me: “Sorry, sir. I’m just trying to do my job.”

Man: “Are you a Democrat or Republican?”

Me: “Does it really matter now?”

Man’s Wife: “I’m so sorry! Honey, apologize to her!”

Man: *Mumbles* “Sorry… I wasn’t done with it…”

His wife looked absolutely mortified, as did the two other people in their group. I turned and walked away and avoided that side of the room for a good twenty minutes. When I went back around, they were gone.

So, yes, my hand was slapped for trying to do my job. At The White House!

It wasn’t funny at the time, but it’s hilarious now!

On Monday, June 13th, I receive an email from [Vice President #1], who isn’t over my department. I am told that my team will be required to work on the Fourth of July. I politely tell her no; our team has been scheduled this day off and people already have plans. My team is the IT team, and the IT team gets shafted every time it can get shafted by any company.

Over the course of the week, I let my team know what is happening and that I have been reaching out to higher-ups to fix it. I also tell them that if their plans are ruined, I will make it right at work.

Over the course of three meetings, it starts to look like things will not go my way. In response, I send an email to the CEO of the company. All of my higher-ups know I intend to do this, and they say I should do it as he is very family-oriented and would not allow ANYONE to work on a national holiday.

Well, he is on vacation in the Bahamas until July sixth. But his assistant informs me that he will look at this after he gets back. I feel like repeatedly slamming my head into my desk.

I tell everyone that the holiday will be work-from-home and that we will be setting my cell phone as priority in the call routing, meaning I will get most of the calls. To be honest, I am expecting almost zero calls, especially since I was asked to send out a notification that IT support would cover the Fourth of July, and I never sent that email out.

A day later, I am given another outrage. I am told in an email from [Vice President #1] that my employees will be required to be at the office, and no one is allowed to work from home. They will be checking the door badge-ins to verify that we are at the office. I ask why in an email, and [Vice President #1] says that she wants to make sure no one is playing video games on the clock. We normally work from home about two-thirds of the week, and video game playing is a normal occurrence on the clock.

So, I walk into [Vice President #1]’s office. After a very long conversation where she is losing the logic war with me, she says:

Vice President #1: “It’s just IT; you guys don’t have lives.”

No, I am not kidding you; this is exactly what she tells me.

I report this to the vice president in charge of my department, [Vice President #2].

Vice President #2: “I will take care of this. It likely won’t be until after the fourth, so get creative.”

I know this man well. We have worked together a long time, and “Get creative” is code for corporate f***ery, so I go back to [Vice President #1].

Me: “Do you care if we have an office party?”

Vice President #1: “No, as long as it doesn’t interfere with the call flow.”

She even suggests using my new company card to pay for it, telling me, “Go wild.” Pro-tip: never tell me to go wild.

At this point, it is Tuesday, the 21st. I let everyone know what’s up, but I let them know that I have something planned. I ask who has or had plans for the holiday. Two people tell me they are planning to shoot off fireworks with their family, and the rest are planning BBQs with friends.

I write up an email to [Vice President #1] and [Vice President #2]. I tell them all that I’ve let everyone know that we are all expected to work until 8:00 pm on Monday, the fourth. Per the conversation with [Vice President #1], I will be having an office party as a sort of sorry to the guys and gals who got shafted by this decision.

[Vice President #1] replies.

Vice President #1: “Thank you for your understanding. Also yes, I would expect an office party if I had to work on the Fourth of July, as well, so go wild and enjoy your time. Use your new company credit card if you need to cover a few expenses. Also, I should not have to remind you or anyone else: no fireworks or alcohol on company property.”

Now, it is time to tell you about my office. A while back, the IT team was moved from the main corporate office into a smaller building by itself. It has a nice gaming break room, a decent-sized gym, and a full-on drink bar — soft drinks, mind you, no alcohol at work. Out back is a big patio that crosses county lines as soon as you cross a small creek — a creek that just so happens to have a footbridge over it leading to an empty field.

I start making phone calls.

On Monday, June 27th, I call up everyone into a meeting an hour before work starts. I explain to them all that I will be making things right. I ask everyone to invite their friends and family to the office. No supplies need to be brought by anyone. I tell them all that this will be a non-alcoholic party but that I will be planning something for everyone. I tell them to expect all food to be provided, and they don’t need to bring anything unless they want to bring some fireworks. They won’t have to spend a dime.

The Fourth of July comes, and the entire day, we do absolutely no work. No tickets and no calls come in. Well, seven calls do come in, but they’re all from the same person [Vice President #1]. She is calling to make sure we are manning the phones. All of us are playing video games or watching movies.

Six o’clock rolls around, and everyone is told that the food was ready.

People are expecting hot dogs, hamburgers, and maybe a bratwurst or two. What they get is a full-on BBQ feast with pizza and other foods. We have smoked brisket, spare ribs, smoked sausage, smoked turkey, both kinds of potato salad, coleslaw, green beans with bacon and onion, potatoes au gratin, pizza from two different places, excellent hamburgers, and bratwurst hot dogs. On the dessert side, we have cake, very good cookies, four different kinds of pies, and about two pounds of fudge.

Families and friends start showing up between 6:00 and 6:15ish. Some have brought alcohol, but I tell them they need to leave that in their cars as I am not THAT crazy. Some are not too happy about that but agree as it is a free dinner for random strangers.

So, let me set the scene for you. I am out there with all calls routed to my cell phone, and everyone is just having a good time. We have a TON of people there enjoying the fun night, chatting about random stuff, eating the food, and occasionally lighting off some sparklers or throwing firecrackers into the stream. (It’s not stocked with fish and is only a foot deep.)

[Vice President #2] shows up with his family and brings some water balloons for the kids… and the adults.

Around 8:30ish, it’s getting dark, and people want to shoot off more than the simple sparklers and firecrackers we have been using. [Vice President #2] has everyone cross the footbridge — over the county line and off company property — and we set up a big wooden board to use as our launch pad.

We fire off what we have for an hour or two and sort of just hang out for a little while. At around this time, people are tired and ready to head home. I tell people to take home leftovers, within reason. We all clocked out at 8:00, and no one leaves until about 10:30.

[Vice President #1] does call once more while we are out back at the party. It is 7:50 and she calls asking for a status update. My exact words are:

Me: “Well, you were the only one to call us today. The rest of us are on the back patio enjoying the Fourth of July shindig.”

She simply acts like my boss and says:

Vice President #1: “As long as no alcohol or fireworks are on company property, I do not care.”

We ate roughly half of the food catered; the rest was taken home. A small group volunteered to stay behind to clean up, including [Vice President #2]. We had a funny conversation about how this would make waves with the bosses, but he said he had my back and asked me how much this had cost. I just gave him a sideways look, which made him laugh.

On Tuesday morning, I submitted the expense report to [Vice President #2]. This email would inevitably make its way over to [Vice President #1] and up the chain to the CIO of the company. This Fourth of July party cost over $6,000, and because of it, new rules were put into place. Any expenses of $4,000 or more must be approved by the direct supervisor and the vice president over the department, and the full expense report must be sent to the finance department for review after the fact.

This was the most expensive office party in the history of the company. The only things more expensive than this were some business meetings for which the CEO rented private rooms in high-end restaurants.

As for the CEO, he was outraged — not at the cost of the party, mind you. He knew that the party would not have been necessary if people had been allowed to go home. He was outraged that IT was the only group required to work that day. When I submitted the logs showing how we received no real phone calls and no service requests and that we basically watched movies and played video games during our shift, he had heard enough. He apparently sent out a scathing email about work-life balance and the importance of our holidays to every upper management employee.

It was kind of funny as people wanted me to get in trouble for what I did, but the reality is that other departments have done similar things in the past, just not on the scale that IT did. [Vice President #1] was admonished quite effectively and sent me an apology email. I forwarded it to the team with a strong hint to not reply.

Then, [Vice President #2] let the CIO and the CEO know about what [Vice President #1] had said — “You guys don’t have lives.” [Vice President #1] did actually confirm that she’d said it in a meeting. It did not go over well. I have never heard people yelling in an office meeting like that before. The CEO of the company came to our office and YELLED at her.

I’m not sure if she was fired as of writing this on July 6th, but she was not at work today. I’m not 100% sure what happened to her, but I know she lost whatever clout she had at this company with her attitude.

And strangely, there is now no longer any pushback for my bid to get everyone back to working from home.

This story is part of our Not Always Working Most-Epic Stories roundup!

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After a few military deployments, I am back to civilian life after some (mostly recovered) injuries, and a slight but manageable case of PTSD. I am not one to sit idle, and I enjoy driving, so I am doing pizza delivery and ride-sharing while I look for a new job.

It is a weekend in the daytime, and I get a delivery order for twelve pizzas! I guess it’s for a nice big summer party or something. I load them into my car and get to the address. I carry all twelve boxes to the front door and ring the bell. I hear a little voice from inside.

Voice: “Can you bring the pizzas around the back? We’re all outside!”

Me: “You got it!”

I carefully make my way to the side of the house, where the side door to the back garden is open. I walk through and immediately get a blast of water to the face. 

I’ve walked into a firing squad of children holding water guns. There must be at least fifteen of them, all aged between five and ten I would guess, and within seconds I am absolutely soaked.

Me: “Please! Stop! This is my uniform and I need it for my shift!”

The kids are wailing maniacally and aren’t stopping. In an attempt to save myself I block them with the pizzas. Finally, an adult shows up and the children stop for a moment. Ominously they all run over to a bucket and start refilling their weapons.

Adult: “About time, we ordered those over an hour ago. You can put them on the table.”

Me: “Sir! Your children just soaked me completely!”

Adult: “Oh, no! Did they get the pizzas?”

Me: “Sir, I protected the pizzas with my body, which is now soaked! I need to wear this uniform for the rest of my shift and I need to now drive back and get my car wet, dry my clothes, delaying any more runs and tips I can get tonight.”

Adult: “Oh my god! So sensitive! They’re just kids, god! Here, take this for your troubles.”

On top of the cash for the order, he hands me a single five-dollar bill, on an order of twelve pizzas and after the liquid firing squad.

Me: “Are you serious?”

Adult: “You’re lucky you even got a tip! You took so long!”

Me: “And you were lucky I saved the pizzas. Not anymore!”

I throw all the money at him, pick up the pizzas, and start walking out.

Adult: “Hey! What are you doing?!”

Me: “Going home to dry my clothes, and throw my own pizza party. I quit, and it’s because of customers like you!”

Adult: “Hey! Get back here! I need those pizzas! I need to feed all these kids!”

Me: “Not my problem.”

I storm out fuming, with all the pizzas. I follow through on my threat and go home. I get an angry call from my boss, but after I explain what happened and my PTSD, he calms down (he had also served). He says he will have to still charge me for the pizzas, but will give me a staff discount, and he asks if I will be back tomorrow. 

I tell him thanks, but that wasn’t happening. I was back the next day with my (dry) uniform, the money for the pizza, and the happy news that the house I delivered to yesterday had been blacklisted.