I work day-of wedding coordination at an extremely upscale country club in the south. Because it is so expensive to join the club and host events, members expect everything to be PERFECT.

A big part of my job is making sure the wedding party and hosts are happy no matter what, so if there are any issues at all, we handle it. This happens about five hours into a reception with an open bar, wine service, and passed drinks.

A coworker speed-walks up to me with a look of slight panic.

Coworker: “There’s an issue with a guest. I need your help outside.”

Outside, a man is so intoxicated that he’s rolling in the grass like a turtle stuck on its shell, completely unable to stand up on his own or speak. We enlist some bartenders to help us half-carry him inside. We prop him up in a chair away from other guests, and he almost immediately passes out onto the table.

Bartender: “I’ll get him some water, but you need to stay here and make sure he doesn’t fall out of the chair and hurt himself.”

Me: *To the other coordinators* “I’ll stay here with him. We need to figure out if he has any friends or relatives who can take him home. Don’t bother the hosts if you don’t have to. Oh, and maybe get a trash can, as well, in case he vomits.”

It turns out the man was at the wedding completely alone, leaving his wife and kids at home in another state and knowing no one in town except the groom. Along with another coordinator, I spend the next hour physically keeping this semi-conscious, significantly-larger-than-me man in his chair and holding a trash can up to his face as he vomits, sometimes missing the can and getting on me. The smell is unbelievable.

A few guests notice, and we have to keep a permanent unfazed, pleasant expression saying, “Oh, don’t worry at all! This happens all the time.” Eventually, the — also very intoxicated — groom spots his friend.

Groom: “Heeey, [Friend]! How you doing, buddy? Looks like you’ve had a great time.”

He sees my coworker holding the man’s shoulders to keep him from falling forward out of the chair while he heaves into the trash.

Groom: “If I knew I could get a back rub out of it, I might just be sick next!” *Winks* “Well, I don’t want anything to do with this, but he’s a great guy, so take care of him.” *Wanders off*

The wedding finally ended and we were able to get the man into a wheelchair and roll him to the guest shuttle back to his hotel. An absolute angel of a guest and her husband volunteered to chaperone him and make sure that he got to his room safely. If I hadn’t smelled like vomit, I would have hugged her.

After all this, I still had to pack the married couple’s overnight bags, deal with a hissy fit from the bride, clean up the reception space, and accommodate last-minute requests from the host to pack items she was supposed to bring home that night and hold them for the next morning. By the end, we’d been on our feet for more than eight hours straight with no breaks or food.

We were not tipped.

During the recent health crisis, the bakery I work at has actually gotten a lot more orders and we end up hiring two new guys. One of them is turning into a problem case, seemingly having no common sense about working with food.

I’m working with him one day, showing him how to bag/pack some of the more delicate pies and pastries we make. I leave to take a phone order for a few minutes. I come back and notice he’s licking his fingers every time before grabbing a fresh bag.

Me: “Hey, go wash your hands and stop licking your fingers.”

New Hire: “Well, I can’t open the bags right.”

Me: “Then prep them before you start. Don’t lick your fingers while you’re bagging again; it’s not sanitary.”

I toss the few bags he did while I took the order and go back to my work. Ten minutes later, I go back around to check on him and now he’s blowing hard into every bag to get it open before starting.

Me: “Are you kidding me? Don’t blow into the f****** bags!”

New Hire: *Looking genuinely confused* “Why? I’m not licking the bag.”

I tossed out another dozen bags and called over my boss. Even after a solid five- or ten-minute conversation trying to explain contamination and basic hygienic practices, nothing seemed to stick. My boss decided, in the end, to stick him on delivery duty for the next few weeks while we needed the help.

The strangest thing is that he wasn’t some conspiracy theorist who didn’t believe the outbreak was real; he just genuinely didn’t seem to get that blowing into a bag you’re going to pack with food or licking your fingers every minute while handling food was a bad idea.

As part of extra measures in my store, we’ve taken to cleaning the baskets and the handles. This is done by spraying the baskets with a strong disinfectant in a squirt bottle and then wiping them down and cleaning off the disinfectant. This is done on the shop floor by the entrance and is done on a rota.

I’m doing them when an older male customer comes in. I smile and greet him as I’m there.

Male Customer: “Oh, she’s a squirter!” *Winks* “What a good girl you are.”

After giving me an extra-long look, he walks off.

Colleague: *Manning the door* “Are you okay?”

Me: *Plastered smile* “I want to drown myself in bleach.”

While out to eat, I ordered a big meal I couldn’t finish. When the waitress came to see if we were all done, I said I’d like to take the rest of my meal. She said okay, then took my friend’s empty plate and set it directly on top of my unfinished plate, and then piled some other things on top of the empty plate.

I thought, oh, I guess she didn’t hear me, and I was a little sad. It wasn’t a great meal, but it was good, and it would have meant not having to cook the next evening.

Our check came, we paid, and then… the waitress came back with a box and set it down in front of me! I looked, and it was my leftovers, despite having had a plate stacked on top. I was mildly disgusted, so when we left, I left the box on the table.

We left the building and walked down the street, and after a minute I heard, “Miss! Miss!” I turned around, and the waitress was running after us with a takeout box in hand. “You forgot your leftovers!” she said.

I had no idea how to respond. How could she think I’d want something that had gotten a dirty plate pressed on top of it?!

She had to rush back to the restaurant so I was saved from having to say anything. I dumped the takeout box in the nearest trash can.

My mom makes her infamous chicken stew all the time, which I have learned is her sticking chicken and vegetables in a huge boiling pot of water with a dash of salt and forgetting about it for an hour. It comes out like mixed sludge, and only my dad likes it. My sibling tolerates it, but I am sick of it at eight.

Me: “Mom, I can’t eat this. It’s gonna make me sick!”

Mom: “Eat it; it’s not feces!”

So, I ate it and later, after I went to bed, I was sick. My poor stomach had enough and barfed it up and it was all over me and my blanket; the smell made me barf again. I went and got Mom, who was shocked that her stew would make me sick. My family was, too. 

To this day, they think I went overboard by barfing it up, as she took it pretty hard. I don’t know why they’d think I’d make myself sick, but they do. I know moms work hard at making their families food, but they shouldn’t force it.