Not Quite A Breath Of Fresh Air

, , , , | Right | September 4, 2019

(I work in a popular pizza restaurant as a cashier. We offer pizza by the slice all day. Slices are our top sellers, and a slice pie usually doesn’t last in the warmer more than an hour or two; however, we will throw the slice of pie away after four hours, as per health code. This particular afternoon, shortly after opening, it is somewhat slow, and the phone rings so I answer it.)

Woman: “Hello, I was wondering if you had any fresh slices.”

Me: “Yes, ma’am! We offer slices all day!”

Woman: “Okay, but are they fresh?”

Me: “Yes, ma’am, we do our best to ensure everything is fresh and up to standard, but I’ll double-check with the kitchen just to make sure.” *to my boss* “Hey, [Boss]! When was the last slice pie made?”

Boss: “I’ve got just a couple more slices left with this one, but it was made about 45 minutes to an hour ago. I’m about to start on the next one.”

Me: *back to caller* “All righty, ma’am, the kitchen says that the last slice pie was made about 45 minutes to an hour ago. The next pie will be ready—”

Woman: *suddenly screaming* “THAT’S NOT FRESH!” *click*

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Neil Versus The Guacamole

, , , , , | Working | January 14, 2019

(I’ve just met up with my parents at a locally-owned Mexican restaurant for lunch. It’s a town favorite, and whereas I might go once a month or so, my parents tend to go at least once every week or two. We are sitting in a booth next to the kitchen doors. After getting chips and salsa, my mother and I agree to split an appetizer of guacamole dip.)

Mom: *dipping a chip into the bowl, making small talk* “Hmm. The guacamole is kind of chunky today.”

Me: “Yeah, it seems like half the bowl is just avocado chunks. It’s usually a bit smoother.”

(We hadn’t realized that our waitress was standing near the door, and she pops out.)

Waitress: “You guys okay? Would you like me to get you some new guacamole?”

Both Of Us: “Oh, no, its fine. It still tastes great! A few chunks never hurt anyone.”

(The waitress takes our order. When she comes back, she starts setting our food in front of us. She sets down a plate in front of my dad.)

Dad: “Oh, sorry, I asked for hard tacos.”

(The waitress looks down at my dad’s lunch special, loaded down with beef, lettuce, tomato, sour cream, pico, etc. Sure enough, they’re soft tortillas.)

Waitress: “You’re right; you did. Sorry about that. I’ll get it fixed for you.”

(She sets the plate aside and begins to set my plate down: a couple of chicken tacos, with just cheese and lettuce.)

Me: “Whoops. These are hard tacos. I asked for the soft. Sorry.”

Waitress: *as a light goes off in her head* “Oh! I see what happened! I’ll get these fixed for you guys!”

(My dad and I thank her, and she turns to the kitchen. As she pushes the door open:)

Waitress: *loudly* “NEIL! C’MON!” *disappears*

(A few minutes later, I see her start to come back out with two new dishes. Just as the door starts to shut behind her, she looks down, swivels on her heel, and marches right back into the kitchen.)

Waitress: “NEIL! REALLY?! GOTTA GET IT TOGETHER!”

(We eventually got our correct dishes. I’m not sure what was going on, but I hope Neil’s day got better.)

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Karma By The Truckload

, , , , , , | Legal | November 7, 2018

I work at a restaurant on a major thoroughfare. To get to work, I have to go through a six-lane intersection.

I’m sitting at the light, waiting for it to turn green. About two cars ahead and one row over is very large, jacked-up truck with every loud and obnoxious bell and whistle you could think of.

The millisecond that the light turns green, the truck lays on his horn. When the cars in front of him start moving, he revs his engine and releases a large cloud of dark exhaust before he guns it. The four or so cars around me, myself included, are encased in the cloud, and can’t see anything, causing us to have to sit for a moment until the cloud dissipates.

Then, the cop car behind me puts on his lights and siren, and chases the truck down.

And that, children, is called instant karma.

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Sweet Mystery Sauce

, , , , , , , , | Related | September 9, 2018

I will start off by saying that my mom is a very sweet and kind lady. However, sometimes she can be a little… judgy, especially towards my husband. He is more than aware of this, but they usually get along pretty well.

My mom recently had a project for work — involving crafting and kids — that used sugar. She had no idea how much sugar she would need, so she did what any reasonable person would do; she bought a large 35-pound bag of sugar. She didn’t need nearly that much, and is now up to her elbows in sugar. She has started storing it in large containers and putting them in the freezer.

Notably, my husband and I go through a lot of sugar, the biggest contributing factor being that he is a hopeless coffee addict. One evening, I’m getting ready to leave my parents’ house when it starts storming. My husband had asked me earlier in the day to stop at the store on the way home and pick up sugar. Upon seeing the rain, I mention to my mom that I don’t really feel like stopping. She goes to the freezer and pulls out what is probably about three or four pounds of sugar and gives it to me, telling me to let her know if I need more. I thank her and head out.

Not two weeks later, we have used most of the container, and I estimate that we will be out in a day or two. I mention to my husband that I will probably ask for more sugar when I see my mom next. He suggests buying some from the store because he “doesn’t want my mom’s judgment about our sugar usage.” I wave him off, and my mom is happy to unload more sugar.

A couple days later, I mention to my husband that she didn’t seem to care about our rate of sugar intake. In fact, she had more to say about the fact that I had brought my drink from home with me when I went to visit, instead of taking one that she offered!

My husband was silent for a moment before finally saying, “Your mother is an enigma, wrapped in a riddle, and slathered with mystery sauce.”

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With A Mother Like That, Pain Tolerance Is Through The Roof

, , , , , , , , | Healthy | August 10, 2018

I am seven months pregnant, and my friend picks me up for a girl’s night. We watch movies, eat junk food, etc., until she falls asleep about one am. At two, I’m still up, unable to get comfortable. I’ve been having Braxton Hicks contractions for the last couple of days, but tonight they’re just relentless.

I consider waking my friend up to take me home; however, she has epilepsy, often triggered by exhaustion and lack of sleep. She’s a bit of a worry-wort, and I don’t want to have her be tired, panic, and end up having a seizure, especially while we’re on the road.

About six am, I get a hold of my mother, and she agrees to come get me. By this point, the contractions hurt, and I can’t really sit or stand. But I don’t want to make a mountain out of a molehill, so I just grit my teeth and breathe until they’re over. Once there, my mom tells me that she doesn’t really know how to help me, but that she’s going to take me to the hospital, just in case there’s a problem.

When we get to the hospital, I have to stop every couple of steps to breathe and crouch over. My mother comments, “You don’t have a very high pain tolerance, do you? You’ve never really been able to handle pain.”

I ignore her comment because she’s been saying this since I was a kid. Once we finally make it to labor and delivery, the nurse — who has a really cool tattoo sleeve — tests for leaking amniotic fluid, and checks my cervix. She makes a less than promising face, then tells me that she’s going to grab another nurse for another opinion.

She comes back with an older lady that doesn’t even look at me. They go to the counter and I hear the nurse with the sleeve showing her the amniotic test. “It’s faint, but I definitely see a line.” The older nurse glances at it and quickly dismisses her, “No, no. It’s definitely negative.” The sleeved nurse says, “No, I think it’s positive for fluid. Can you at least check her cervix? I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but I think it’s close.” The older nurse rolls her eyes, “It isn’t close to her due date, but fine.”

The older nurse then turns to me and goes to check my cervix. Her eyes widen, and she turns back to the nurse with the sleeve. Unfortunately, I have another contraction and only manage to catch a couple key words of their conversation. Then, the older nurse leaves. The sleeved nurse gently talks me through the contraction, and then tells me what’s going on:

At 29 weeks, I am in labor, already eight centimeters dilated, though my water hasn’t broken. The baby could come at any time now, but they are going to try to give me some medications to slow it down. She says that she is going to call the doctor to get approval on some pain medication for me.

Six hours later, I give birth to a healthy baby girl, who is rushed off to the NICU. I silently labored for almost 12 hours, and almost had my baby at my friend’s house. After everything calms down, I am bewildered at my mother’s “low pain tolerance” comment, and I wonder what would’ve happened if I had only seen the older nurse and not had the sleeved nurse to stand up for me. The sleeved nurse was the most amazing healthcare professional I’d ever had, because for the first time, she took what I said seriously. My daughter is doing well, and will hopefully be able to come home soon. My mother still believes that I’m over-dramatic and wimpy when it comes to pain, but at least I can say I went through most of my labor without medication or complaint.

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