I’m a female living alone. It’s a cold December afternoon when my doorbell rings. I open the door and there is an older man standing there.

Man: “Hi! I’m going to come in because it’s cold out. You don’t mind, do you?”

I can just make out the logo on his jacket from the service company that my housing association usually employs, which tells me he is not some random idiot just willy-nilly inviting himself into my house, but still, I am quite stunned by the audacity. I can barely get an “Ummmm?” out when he’s suddenly standing in my hallway and closing the door behind him. 

Man: “Right. So, if all is in order, you had a letter sent to you informing you that you can apply for a survey of your apartment to make it more energy efficient, correct?” 

Me: “Yes, I received that letter. What about it?”

Man: “Have you made an appointment for that yet? I’m just going door-to-door to make sure people get their appointments in. It’s important, you know!” 

Me: “I’m sorry, I haven’t had the time yet.”

Man: “Ha! Didn’t have the time to pick up the phone and book an appointment? It takes less than a minute!”

Me: “It wasn’t really a priority for me at the moment…”

Man: “How can it not be a priority? There is an energy crisis going on, and I’m sure you are eager to see where you can save money. I’m not leaving until you promise me to book that appointment.”

He smiles as if it’s supposed to come across endearingly. I’m still too stunned to form a proper response, and honestly, I’m quite intimidated. I just want him out of my hair, and I’m trying to be polite about it. (Why I am still polite I have no idea… Self-protection, I guess.) 

Me: “I will book that appointment as soon as possible, then. I’m sorry, I just haven’t gotten around to it.”

Man: “No. You were just lazy about it.”

For those who speak Dutch, he used the word “laks”. That could be translated as “lazy” but is more in the line of “lacking/failing to”. You know, just to add to the weight of the rudeness.

Man: “It’s a good thing I came to remind you! Have a good day now.”

He proceeds to show himself back out. I stand there stunned for a good minute, and finally, my brain sends me the words I really should have said.

Me: “No, I will not have you set foot in my house without permission, and I can do without the rudeness, thank you very much!”

Alas, my closed door doesn’t take heed of that.

I am in a grocery store in the small Dutch town where I live with my daughter. I’m American and moved here three years ago when I married my Dutch husband. Our daughter is both American and Dutch and speaks both languages.

Enter a snooty-looking grandma. She’s the type with a pale pink button-down cardigan with pearl buttons, a perfect bun at the nape of her neck, and a skirt six inches below her knee declaring she’s probably in some strict religious sect. And every time she sees me, I just get this look — not of disgust but of clear disapproval. I’m confused and decide it must be my dress length — which is admittedly pretty short, but hey, I’m 5’11”, and having legs isn’t wrong! — and continue my shopping. Every time I cross her in an aisle, I get the same look.

I enter an aisle and start scavenging for salted mixed nuts. Suddenly, I see the grandma further down the aisle with a VERY uncomfortable-looking sixteen-year-old employee cornered.

Grandma: *In Dutch* “Dat kan toch niet!” *That can’t be allowed!*

My interest is piqued and I listen further. The girl stutters.

Employee: *Through clear discomfort* “It… it is allowed, ma’am. There’s nothing wrong.”

Grandma: *Angrily, in Dutch* “If you’re in the Netherlands, you have to speak Dutch. You can’t be throwing different languages around everywhere, especially around the children!”

Employee: “Um… I can get my manager if you want.”

The lightbulb goes off. I’ve been speaking in English to my toddler daughter the whole time. Unluckily for Snooty Grandma, I walk up behind them. Mind you, her back is to me and I can see the sixteen-year-old’s face. Grandma does not see me.

Me: *In perfect Dutch* “Sorry, maar wat verwacht u van de winkel dan?” *Sorry, but what do you expect the store to do, then, ma’am?*

Checkmate, Dutch Grandma. What she didn’t know is I’m nearly fluent in Dutch and had just been choosing to speak my mother tongue with MY child. Had she listened carefully, she would’ve realized that everything I said to my child SHE ANSWERED IN DUTCH. My daughter prefers Dutch to English. 

Grandma angrily turned around to face me, and I watched her face go from irritation to shock as she realized I’d understood everything she said. Her mouth fell open, and the color drained out of her cheeks. Her mouth snapped shut, and she stormed off without another word. I didn’t see her again.

I have a coworker who is allergic to perfumes. The chemicals in perfume literally take his breath away and can cause a rash. He was diagnosed quite late in his life, so his body is covered in scars.

When he was hired and put on our team, we were told about his allergy, and of course, we didn’t mind. We work from home half the time, and the other days, we minimize our use of perfume. He can handle one type of deodorant, so those who feel self-conscious have a roller of that brand in their desks for when they need it. [Coworker] did want to reimburse us, but we declined that. We removed the air freshener from one bathroom. If [Coworker] comes on a different day than usual, we air out the office room. We made him feel so welcome that he started wearing short-sleeve shirts in the summer, something he hadn’t done at a job for years because of his scars.

Enter [Manager], the manager of a different team that moves in next to our office. Since we have no connection other than being neighbors, we don’t feel the need to disclose [Coworker]’s allergy.

Manager: “Why do you have the windows open? It’s the middle of winter! Close them; we don’t heat for the outside!”

This is when we tell her about [Coworker]r’s allergy. We keep the explanation basic: “He’s allergic to perfumes and he’s coming in today, so we’re airing out the room, just in case.”

At one point, [Manager] sees [Coworker] walking by.

Manager: “Jeez, what happened to him? All those scars… Was he caught in a house fire or something?”

Us: “It’s his allergy.”

Manager: “Is it contagious? He should cover it; what if his scabs infect us?”

Us: “It’s an allergy, so it’s not contagious. Don’t worry.”

Later, when [Coworker] goes to the restroom, he hurries outside, wheezing and coughing. While we give him fresh air, one of us goes to check things out. We find an automatic air freshener. We remove it, handing it over to Human Resources. 

Manager: “Has anyone seen my automatic air freshener? It’s missing!”

Us: “Was it the one in [specific men’s restroom]? We handed it over to HR; you can pick it up there.”

Manager: “Why? That restroom stinks!”

Us: “It’s the only one [Coworker] can use because there is no air freshener in there. Remember, [Coworker] is allergic to perfume.”

Manager: “This wasn’t perfume; it was air freshener!”

Us: “Fine, he’s allergic to perfume and air freshener. What were you doing in the men’s room anyway?”

Manager: “A visitor of mine complained about the smell.”

Us: “Then next time, use [other men’s room]. This one is perfume-free!”

We did sniff ourselves several times. The restroom did not smell.

The worst event happened on a damp autumn day. [Coworker] was out of the office for lunch. Suddenly, we heard “pssht, pssht” and smelled something flowery.

[Manager] was walking the hallway, spraying air freshener all around like she was waving a magic wand! We could just see the spray filling the hallway. 

One coworker rushed to her, telling her to stop. She started arguing. One coworker opened all the windows in our office and placed a fan to start an airflow, hoping to air it all out. One coworker called [Coworker] and told him to stay away until we aired everything out.

One coworker called Human Resources, who called for [Manager]. 

We don’t know what was discussed, but [Manager] no longer works on the days that [Coworker] works.

I teach swimming lessons to young children. One of the mothers thinks I’m way too lax with teaching. She thinks it’s my fault her child isn’t perfect after three lessons and just “playing around”. The kid is four years old and very playful. Focusing for forty minutes straight is just too hard for them. The mother complains every lesson that her “miracle” has made “so little progress”, while the kid is progressing normally. It is important to note that I am chubby.

The child is fooling around and I say:

Me: “Ho, ho!”

As in, “Be careful!”

Child: “You sound just like Santa!”

Instead, the child’s mother hears, “You are just like Santa!”

I hear a gasp from the side of the pool and see the mother turning red. She starts waving her hands.

Mother: “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry!”

I didn’t get any more complaints from the mother for the rest of the year. A wonderful Christmas gift from the child!

I work in a factory that produces revolving doors, access gates, turnstiles, etc. I was put there through a temp agency, although there isn’t really an end date, and they can definitely use all help available on the factory floor for the time being. I certainly can use the work as another job just ended and I need the money.

I spend most of my day cutting aluminum and steel profiles to lengths and angles, cutting sheet aluminum and steel, and supplying the CNC machine with material to work on. It is fun working there, the colleagues are great, they have nice benefits, the work itself is enjoyable and challenging enough, and they put on nice radio stations — a huge perk, in my opinion.

Then, I start getting called into the office by [Manager] every few days where I’m given “warnings” wrapped in “helpful advice” wrapping paper.

Manager: “I see you’ve filled up your waste bin already. You might want to try and plan your profile cuts better so we don’t throw away as much.”

All the profiles and cuts are calculated by the computer so there is as little waste as possible. I also have proposed to colleagues to set aside profiles long enough that they can still be used in future products and can still be handled by the machine. The advice isn’t applicable, and I’ve amicably let [Manager] know. It’s been disregarded.

Manager: *Urgently* “You might want to work faster. I see that the painting and coating department regularly has to wait for your work to arrive before they can continue working.”

They’ve had to wait because the machines regularly break or clog while one or more of my carts with profiles is waiting for them to be worked on. The advice isn’t applicable and I’ve plainly let him know. It’s been disregarded.

Manager: *Irritably* “You take too many breaks during the day. Where are you going all this time?”

When I started the job, I informed [Manager] that I have irritable bowels and need to use the restroom more often on some days, and I always let colleagues know where I am, so I explain it to him again. The “helpful advice” wrapping is starting to tear and the manager starts to huff.

Manager: “Well, do something about it, or we might have a problem.”

This all takes place within the same week, and I am getting annoyed. I have a hunch that they are looking for a reason to let me go. There aren’t as many orders coming in anymore.

Finally, the wrapping paper comes off.

Manager: “I’ve had you in my office three times this week already. Can you explain yourself?”

Me: “I think I already have. I’ve taken in the advice, but I’ve already explained that I can’t really do anything about what you’ve spoken to me about. And as far as I know, there haven’t been any warnings or write-ups, so if I’m in trouble, I would like to know what for, and I would prefer to have it in writing so I can discuss it with my temp agency.”

Manager: “You’re trying to be much too smart about this, and you need to do as you’re told. If you don’t want to be a team player in this, you might want to find different employment.”

For the record, my team is great, compliments me regularly, and values my suggestions and improvements, and we’ve regularly had a great laugh together.

Me: “I understand what you’re saying. Is there anything else?”

Manager: “No, just get back to work.”

It takes him less than half a day to call me back in.

Manager: “I’ve decided to discontinue your contract. You were contracted to work here until [two months later], but your attitude toward me and the work is sub-par, and that is grounds for dismissal.”

While a temp contract gives some protection, it isn’t binding and it can be dissolved without the reasons you’d normally need for an employment termination. It makes the whole matter more ridiculous because [Manager] was looking for reasons to fire me, didn’t find any, made some up, and didn’t even bother formalizing them, while all that wasn’t even necessary. He could just have said, “That’s all, folks,” and let me go on Friday.

Manager: “You can finish your week by working today and tomorrow, and then you can turn in your stuff.”

I am pissed. I have a temp job, which is a liability, so I’ve been doing my best, and I’m still getting fired. I would’ve easily forgiven a company for letting go of temps when orders plummeted, but making excuses and blaming me is actually hurtful, and it doesn’t help the state I’m in.

I decide to turn it around; I might as well leave on a high note. I’m a professional drummer (but don’t make enough income from that). I always joke about the concrete factory hall and how it would make an amazing reverbing room to drum in and that I’ve put doing that on my bucket list.

So, on the last day of my employment, I go on my break, but I skip the cafeteria, go to my car, back it into the bay, take out my drums, which are already set up for the most part, set them up on the factory floor, and start banging the h*** out of them. Of course, I play a musical solo, but I don’t exactly hold back, and the room just comes alive. It’s like a tremendous arena, and the floor quickly fills up with colleagues who obviously heard the ruckus sitting in the cafeteria.

My teammates start clapping and headbanging, grab sticks from my stick bag, and join in. [Manager] stands in front, trying his best to use his stern “you are in so much trouble” expression. But I see a twinkle in his eyes, and he can’t resist a slight smirk. I don’t think he ever expected this to happen.

I end on a flourish with sticks flying in the air and applause from my colleagues. They help me carry the drums back to my car and ask whether I have any gigs coming up. [Manager] comes up to me with the same stern-ish expression.

Manager: “It might be best if you went home for the day. That all right with you?”

I didn’t mind losing half a day of pay, and I was done with the place anyway, so I agreed and went home after shaking some hands and saying goodbye.

Payday came and no money was shorted, and as [Manager] was directly responsible for checking my hours — which I’d submitted half a day short — it told me that he probably wasn’t really the one to blame for having to let me go and he didn’t mind my little stunt.

Some colleagues dropped by one of my gigs a week after and told me they’d even put up a picture of me going nuts on the drums in the cafeteria. I’m just happy that that’s the part of me that stuck from that job.