A few years ago, my wife was an EMS worker in our local township. She got home from work one night after a long day and posted a picture of herself holding an unopened beer and saying, “I needed this.” (In the picture, you could tell the beer was still closed.)

A few minutes after she posted her picture, a major storm decided to suddenly roll through. My wife, being the good employee she was, called her supervisor and asked if he needed any help. 

Supervisor: “No! You can’t come in; you posted a picture of yourself drinking alcohol!”

Wife: “The can wasn’t opened; any idiot could see that.”

He wouldn’t relent, but he said something about how it could be construed wrong.

Fast forward a couple of weeks. It had been a stupidly busy day for my wife, and when she finally got home, she ran over to the shelf that we had a bottle of whiskey on and literally tossed me her phone.

Wife: “Quick, take a picture of me ‘drinking’ this!”

The cap was obviously still on the bottle, but she tipped it up like she was drinking it and she posted it online as soon as I gave the phone back.

Her boss called her ten minutes later.

Supervisor: “We need you to come back in; we are short-staffed tonight.”

Wife: “Sorry, boss, I can’t. I’ve been drinking. Check online.”

Supervisor: “I see it. The cap is on! You’re not drinking!”

Wife: “The last time I posted a picture like this, you wouldn’t let me come in because it would set the wrong precedent. I wouldn’t want to do that to you this time.”

You can’t have it both ways.

I hated my old apartment. I desperately needed to get out, and right when I was looking for rentals last year, the health crisis hit, and everyone shut down. With less than a week on my lease, I had to jump at the first available home. I didn’t even get to inspect it. I ended up with equally horrible property managers.

I didn’t have a key on day one, I had to break in to move in, and they didn’t tell me about the German roach infestation (it’s okay, I used to do pest control, so I managed), and so forth. Right when I lost power during Christmas (also okay, I live in the south, so I didn’t get too cold), I tracked down the original property owner and asked her if I could get out of the contract and just pay her directly. We investigated many options, and the best way to get out of the contract was to just pay for the last remaining months and write a thirty-day notice.

Property management then called me.

Property Management: “You must write us a notice, signed, sent, and received on the exact date thirty days from the lease’s end to be accepted, or you will lose your $1,000 security deposit.”

They really stressed that it had to be mailed and definitely on time or they wouldn’t be able to accept it.

Cue my pettiness.

I wrote a template letter, with a generic “This is a [number of days till lease end]-day notice… I’m writing to terminate my contract and to receive my security deposit as stated…” I sent one out on my 103-day notice. Then another one on my eighty-nine-day notice. Then another one on my seventy-three-day notice, and so forth. Basically, whenever I remembered about it, I would change the date around, print it, sign it, and then mail it.

Property management called me again.

Property Management: “This is very unnecessary! We got your message loud and clear!”

But they sounded pretty rude about it, so I sent some more.

I then received some passive-aggressive emails saying they would honor the contract and leave me the $1,000 deposit as I had sent them a thirty-day notice. But they can be tricky, and as I hadn’t technically sent them an exact “thirty days” notice, I had some more letters to send. And again, they sounded pretty rude over email.

Cue the final fifteen-day countdown until my thirty-day notice letter. I upped the ante. I now had one letter per day to send, and I changed the fonts on each letter ranging from Papyrus to Jokerman to Comic Sans. My favorite was the one where it was all bright yellow and barely legible. It just hurt looking at it. Oh, and better yet, I got the last batch sent as certified mail, so I get an email that they received it AND that they had to sign it.

On my thirty-four-day notice letter (now probably the twentieth letter I’d mailed), I received my cashier’s check back. There was no message or anything. Fortunately, I had four more letters to send. It was the best $43 on stamps I’d ever spent.

Many years ago, I worked for an outdoor activity centre/playland in the retail department. Throughout the park, there were many different shops that we manned, and I absolutely loved working there despite it being hard work for little pay.

One day, I had a run-in with a manager who seriously berated me in front of the entire team along with others from different departments. I was advised by a manager from a different team to make a formal complaint, which I did. Others came out with similar complaints and the manager in question was advised to find employment elsewhere but not sacked. Now, unbeknownst to me, I triggered the chain of events that would lead to me leaving the company.

There were a few rules in place that were designed to prevent theft, including that no more than £10 in personal money was to be allowed on the shop floor, which was to be checked before your shift. Anything over this must be declared to management and left in your locker, and all staff had to agree to random locker/pocket searches.

In the two years that I’d worked there, I had never been picked for a random search. There were several hundred employees, so the odds were incredibly slim. As soon as our disgraced manager left, I suddenly found myself picked at random for a search. This involved turning out my pockets, removing my shoes/socks, and then being escorted to the locker room to empty the contents. Nothing was found, so I was sent back to the shop floor. The following week, I was again picked at “random” for a search, which again turned up nothing.

Rumours soon started making the rounds that I had upset my department’s remaining management team after instigating the action against my former manager, and they were going to force me out using any means necessary. I realised that I needed to act, so I started job hunting and then began my malicious compliance. I started taking a backpack to work filled with £20 in pennies. Every morning, I declared the amount in my locker as required and, sure enough, after a couple of days, I was once again selected for my weekly “random” search. I got paid to watch a security guard and supervisor count 2,000 pennies. As expected, I passed said search, and off I went. This happened a second time with now £30 in pennies, and I decided to up my game.

At the start of the following week, I patiently awaited my “random” search with glee, knowing what awaited them. The day soon arrived, and off I was marched to the lockers, ready for their treat. I lifted out my backpack and passed it to the security guard and supervisor, who dove straight in without any gloves.

Oh, how they retched as they discovered what was in there. I had several pairs of my period-soaked pants waiting in there, especially for them. They were gingerly laid on the floor beside my bag as they counted my bag of pennies. The smell from the pants was unreal; they’d been festering in there for days in anticipation. Once again, the search revealed nothing, and off to work I went.

After that, I was not picked for another search again. I left after a couple more weeks for a new job. Keeping in touch with some people, I discovered that a new rule was introduced that tried dictating what you could and couldn’t take to work with you. This soon led to a mass walkout of staff, and after a year, the place shut down due to unrelated matters.

Many moons ago, I was a Registered Nurse working in aged care at a brand-spanking-new facility owned by lawyers and run by clowns. In the short time that I was there (around eighteen months), we had eight or nine managers, each wanting to put their own stamp on the way things were run.

One such manager started cancelling already approved leave and implemented a rule that we had to provide a full week of notice for sick leave.

Umm, what? I challenged this because, like most of us, I often don’t know I’m going to be unwell until I wake up that day. Nope, the rule stays!

Well, about that cancelled leave…

I had booked four days off for my brother’s wedding. Instead of haggling over it or simply not turning up, I decided to follow the rules.

Exactly one week before the wedding, I called in with notice for sick leave.

Manager: “What’s wrong with you?”

Me: “I’m not sure yet.”

Manager: “What do you mean, you’re not sure? You need a reason for sick leave.”

Me: “You require a week’s notice, so I’m giving that to you. I’ll be sure to bring in a medical certificate when I return.”

I had an amazing time at the wedding, had my doctor sign off on sick leave as they viewed my time off as essential for my mental health, and about a month later, I handed in my resignation. Funnily enough, I heard the policy was revised not long after I left.

I’m definitely not the best bartender or manager but I’d say I do a good job. Over the past three years, I’ve worked at three different bars and hotels ranging from cocktail bartender to assistant bar manager. I’ve ended up leaving all three because of low pay, poor working conditions, and being treated like I’m dispensable when I’ve been literally holding the bar together

I’ve now just started doing agency work, and out of the twelve places currently offering agency jobs, three are my old places. One is so desperate for staff that they’re offering £15 an hour (UK) for a “glass collector and table clearer”.

I accept a shift there, and I can’t wait to walk in and have them pay me £15 an hour for collecting glasses. I was a bar supervisor there for £9.50 an hour and they told me they couldn’t increase my wage eighteen months ago.

When I go back, my two old managers are there and welcome me back with open arms. We have a good catch-up. Although I’m just there to collect glasses collector and clear tables, I end up doing the bar as a favour.

I end up working with a lot of my old colleagues, but they are severely understaffed and I kind of feel sorry for them as I was there for seven years. They made 60% of the workforce redundant a few months ago due to the health crisis (even though they could have kept them on furlough), and now that everywhere has opened, they are in the s***.

I do really well on the shift, and I am supposed to be booked in for the next day.

I get a message in the morning before my shift (5:00 pm to 12:00 am) from my old manager. She had a meeting with the assistant general manager about me being back, and they’ve decided to cancel me for tonight’s shift and block me from all future shifts.

The funny thing is that they can’t cancel agency staff with less than twenty-four hours of notice, so they still have to pay me!