Coworker: “Hey what day of the week is Thanksgiving?”

Me: “Thursday. It’s always a Thursday.”

Coworker: “Really? Nuh-uh!”

Me: “Yeah it is, it’s always the third Thursday in November. Like how Easter is always a Sunday.”

Coworker: “Nooooo… I’m sure it was on a Wednesday last year!”

Me: “No, I swear. Always a Thursday. That’s why the day after Thanksgiving is called Black Friday. It’s always a Friday.”

Coworker: “Really? I don’t believe it!”

(I’m in charge of making pies for my work. On this particular day, we’ve sold quite a few, so I’m looking in the fridge at remaining pie.)

Me: “Man, we sold a lot of pie! I better make more tomorrow.”

Coworker: “Yeah! We sold so much! There’s only one left! How many did you make?”

Me: “Four.”

Coworker: “Wow, you made four pies, and there’s only one left, so that’s like…”

(I stare at him a moment, waiting to see what he’s going to say.)

Coworker: “Um…”

Me: “Three. We sold three pies.”

Coworker: “Yeah! We sold three pies, and now there’s one left!”

(Note: My fiancé has a medical condition where he can’t eat leafy vegetables or he gets very sick. The usual servers at this restaurant are usually accommodating, but today we get a new server.)

Fiancé: “I know the menu says that comes with a side salad, but I can’t eat lettuce. Could I just double up on my side instead, please?”

Server: “I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir. I could bring you a side of vegetables instead, though.”

Fiancé: “No thank you, I can’t eat most vegetables. That’s odd; they normally will allow me to double up the side instead.”

Me: “It’s okay honey; I’ll eat your salad and you can have my side instead. Okay?”

(We finish placing our order, but it’s not quite right so I flag down out server.)

Me: “Sorry, it looks like there has been a little mix up. We got two side salads and there should only be one.”

Server: “Well, his order came with a salad, and you ordered one too. Hence, two salads.”

Me: “I didn’t order a salad. I said I would eat his because he can’t have it.”

Server: “Well, you can’t do that.”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Server: “You can’t eat another person’s food, so I charged you for your own salad.”

Fiancé: “Wait, what? That makes no sense. Why can’t I give her my salad? It comes with my meal.”

Server: “She can’t eat your salad. You have to eat your own salad.”

Fiancé: “I can’t. It will kill me.”

Me: “Take off the extra salad.”

(I hand her my untouched plate.)

Server: “I can’t take it off now. You touched it.”

(I eventually convinced her to take the salad back but apparently she started complaining about us in the kitchen and one of the managers overheard her. He came to check on us and gave us a different server after we told him the problem. Since then, we saw her again only once when she was fired for double charging someone and refusing to fix it.)

(At the restaurant where I bartend, the owner has some friends over for a meal and is sitting and eating with them.)

Owner: *as I’m pouring wine* “No, no, you’re doing it wrong!”

Me: “Oh,  sorry sir.”

Owner: “You’re meant to do it like this!”

(At this point, my owner stands up, snatches the bottle from my hand, and begins pouring a glass by nearly turning the bottle upside down.)

Owner: “Like that, see?”

Owner’s Friend: “Erm… you might want to not do that.”

Owner: “Hmm? why not?”

Owner’s Friend: “For starters, the young man was doing fine on his own.  Secondly, you just poured red wine in a glass half filled with white. Thirdly, your shoes are looking a bit soggy now.”

(It turned out the owner had splashed red wine all down the front of himself. His friends not only apologised for him, but also tipped me well!)

(I am a petite young woman who works in the meat department of my local grocery store. I get a lot of flak from friends (and strangers) about my job, and have become very prepared to deal with it. I am out to dinner with my boyfriend’s family. I have just finished telling a funny story about my job.)

Me: *explaining* “I work in the meat department at [store].”

Boyfriend’s Youngest Brother: “Oh, so you spend a lot of time working with meat, huh?”

(He gives me a creepy smile, looking pleased with himself.)

Me: “Oh yeah. I work the grinder. I also twist and cut the sausage.”

(He grimaced, crossed his legs, and didn’t speak to me for the rest of the evening. I got high fives from the rest of the family, because apparently, no one has ever shut him up like that.)