(It’s the day before Hurricane Irma — downgraded to a Tropical Storm — is set to hit the town and I am working the night shift at a gas station by myself. The people fleeing Florida have wiped us of most of our stock of water bottles, ice, and bread three days ago so locals are straggling to get supplies at the last minute. This weekend, we have run out of all types of gas three or four times and we only have regular gas when this happens. I have already hastily put signs up that we only have regular gas in stock at the moment on every pump and on both of the doors leading into the store anticipating nervous, easily-angered customer reactions as this is the richer side of town. A few hours later a lady storms in.)

Woman: “Why are the pumps not working?”

Me: *having answered this question far too many times already despite the signs* “I’m sorry, ma’am, what kind of gas were you trying to pump?”

Woman: “Premium.”

(We’re in the heart of lake country, and many very rich people live in the neighborhood. I’m no stranger to being looked down upon as a customer service worker and have grown a thick skin over it.)

Me: “We are out of premium, ma’am. We only have regular gas.”

Woman: *irritably* “Well, how was I supposed to know that?”

Me: *polite, but straight-faced* “There was a sign on the pump and on the door you just walked through.”

(She gets quiet for a moment and looks at the door and at the sign before looking back at me and snapping.)

Woman: “It’s not my job to read!”

(She stormed back out to her Lexus and drove off quickly. I just want to know how she got this far in life if “it isn’t her job to read.”)

(Our voting place has been inside an apartment complex near our house for years. I usually walk there, but one year I decide to drive. I go in the morning because I can vote before work and my shift will last past voting hours. No big deal, right? I drive up and the complex has four parking spaces for voters and all are being used. The only other parking space is handicapped. Knowing I am going to run in and out — I have a filled-out sample ballot so all I have to do is color in some circles — I park in a resident’s spot. I hate doing it but figure I’ll be really quick. I am quite literally filling in the last circle when a lady bursts into the voting place.)

Lady: “Who drives a [car meeting mine’s description]? You’re in my spot!”

Me: *fessing up* “That’s me. I’m leaving right now. Sorry, there was nowhere to park.”

(It’s lame, I know it, but I’m complying with her wants.)

Lady: “You’re in my spot! It’s not for voters!”

Me: “I know. All those spots were filled. Again, I’m sorry.”

(I try to leave to move my car, but she isn’t done.)

Lady: “You can’t park there! You—“ *directs her finger to the voting volunteers* “—need to make sure they can’t park there.”

Volunteer: “Ma’am, we do not block people from voting. It is about ten in the morning, so people are going to use those open spots. We will not stop them.”

(She had a small meltdown and I walked out to move the car. Out there I saw one vehicle parked across two open resident spaces near the spot I parked in. Apparently, she could park in two other people’s spot but I couldn’t park in one!)

(All the students in the school have had to eat in the gymnasium or in classrooms for the past few weeks because the cafeteria is undergoing renovations. Earlier that day, there was a walkout in memory of a school shooting, which was fairly uneventful. Now, nearly the entire student body is in the gym for lunch. Most are sitting on the bleachers, but I’m on the opposite side of the gym and can see everyone. Suddenly, there is a loud bang from somewhere in the gym. I have a great view of the bleachers, and I see every single student flinch or jump in perfect unison, thinking it was a gunshot. Everything is quiet for a few seconds. Then, the principal storms in, extremely angry.)

Principal: “WHO DID THAT?!”

(He was under the impression that someone, trying to be funny, had popped a chip bag. He spent ten minutes loudly interrogating students. After the incident, I heard that the sound was the tire of someone’s wheelchair blowing out.)

I’m the dumb patient here.

I had just received a cortisone shot for hip pain and the nurse was giving me post-op instructions, one of which was no soaking baths for three days. I said that I was driving to Chicago the next day and was disappointed that I couldn’t use the hotel hot tub, but then I said, “Well, that’s okay; I’ll just swim extra laps.”

The nurse gave me an odd look and reminded me that the instructions also meant “no swimming.”

Related:
H2-D’oh!, Part 5
H2-D’oh!, Part 4
H2-D’oh!, Part 3

My boyfriend and I have just gone out for the first time in a good while to a local steakhouse. I use a walker to get around due to complications of some meds I take and so on. I have just gone to the restroom before we leave the steakhouse and my boyfriend, also my primary caregiver, has pulled his SUV to right in front of the doors and come inside to help me walk to the car as I have a tendency of falling.

As we reach the outside doors, this random grouchy old woman starts screaming at him for “blocking the doors.” He patiently tries to explain that I am handicapped and have just come out of dialysis. Bear in mind, I am standing right there with my walker and she can plainly see me.

But nope, not good enough. This entitled harpy of a woman continues to throw a tantrum while he ignores her and proceeds to assist me into the car.

Finally, she realizes he isn’t listening and storms off in a huff, leaving us shaking our heads.

I am sooooo sorry that my safety got in the way of you being right in front of the doors to pick up your to-go order, lady. At least you can walk unassisted!