(I walk into a grocery store. At the front end of the store is a display of watermelons, and I put one in my cart. A while later, I’m in the back of the store when another customer notices.)

Woman: “Oh! I didn’t see watermelons in the produce section.”

Me: “No, they were at front, in a display near the self checkouts.”

Woman: “I’m not sure where you mean.”

Me: “I’m headed that way. I can show you, if you’d like?”

(I lead her there and gesture to the watermelons before turning to go check out. She shoots me a dirty look.)

Woman: “Ahem! You’re welcome!”

Me: “I’m sorry, what?”

Woman: “You didn’t say, ‘Thank you’!”

Me: “I helped you. Shouldn’t you be thanking me?”

Woman: “No, because… I… I mean… Young people have no manners!”

(She snatched up a watermelon and stormed off with it.)

(I have a coworker that was hired a year after I was, but she is twice my age. That makes a difference with some people more than experience with the actual job. She also has a tendency to never admit when she is wrong, constantly chats with customers — by “chats” I mean she talks with them for over an hour while other people do her job for her — and simply believes she’s always right. It is a very busy day, and I am constantly helping out at the register, ringing up customers, answering questions, or helping to bag items, all in the interest of getting people checked out as quickly as possible. Some of our items are so small that we can’t put a barcode on them. When that is the case, we usually print a barcode either on a sheet of paper by the register, or on the counter at the register so we can quickly scan it and go on our way. I notice that my coworker is looking at the paper for something to scan.)

Me: “Hey, [Coworker], what are you looking for?”

(She doesn’t say anything, and she is hard of hearing, so I think maybe she doesn’t hear me.)

Me: “What are you looking for? I might know where it is.”

Coworker: *glares at me* “I know what I’m doing! I don’t need your help! You don’t need to hover; you’re making me flustered.”

(While she is yelling, I glance over at the customer and see what they have; it is a simple ID holder that you can fix to a lanyard. I know where that barcode is on the counter, and I also know it’s not on the sheet she’s holding.)

Me: “[Coworker]…”

(But she’s not done.)

Coworker: “I’ve worked here 30 hours a week for the past three years; I know how to find things. I worked at the 50%-off sale for eight hours. I know what I’m doing.”

(At that massive sale a year ago, I worked the exact same number of hours she did. Anyway, [Coworker] scans a barcode on the sheet of paper, but it’s obviously the wrong one, as she’s ringing up the item as $7 when it’s really 50 cents.)

Coworker: “That’s wrong.”

Me: *points down to the correct barcode* “Because that’s the right one.”

Coworker: “I’ve never seen that! How long has that been there?”

Me: “Only about five years, but hey, you said you’ve been here three years; clearly you know everything.”

(We didn’t speak the rest of the day, and I didn’t help her out at the register at all. I figured if she was so determined to yell at me for help then she could just drown on her own.)

(Growing up, my mom was a Tiger Mom: always demanding me to excel in schoolwork, and berating me if I got a low score. I am in elementary school, and we have to take a test. This test isn’t graded, but it shows which job will suit you best according to your personality. I am surprised by the results, and go home dreading what my mom will say. I know that I have to tell her; if I lie, my punishment will be greater.)

Mom: “And how was school? Did you take any tests?”

Me: “Yes.”

Mom: “What score did you get?”

Me: “It wasn’t scored; it just shows me which job I should get.”

Mom: “Oh, interesting. So, what did you get?”

Me: *mumbles* “A plumber.”

(Mom nearly fainted! After Dad caught her and she recovered, she said no child of hers would ever clean pipes for a living. She kept saying how disappointed she was in me, and how she didn’t suffer hardships to come to the USA to have her children work in dirty jobs. She then berated me for weeks after about my results. Dad talked to her, and she told me that her mom was also a Tiger Mom, and that she would always push her to do her best, and that’s why she did it, too. But that stops with me!)

(I get a phone call from out of state, which happens more often than it should. I happen to answer it.)

Me: “Moshi-Moshi?”

(Because I don’t recognize the number, I have a little fun with it. It’s the polite Japanese greeting over the telephone.)

Caller: *pause* “Is this [Person]?”

Me: “Nope, sorry. You’ve called Hawaii.”

Caller: “Oh. Was that Japanese?”

Me: “Yep.”

Caller: “Isn’t that kind of ironic?”

Me: “What is?”

Caller: “That you’re Japanese and you live in Hawaii.”

Me: “I don’t know what you mean.”

Caller: “Well, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, right? Isn’t that ironic?”

(I was stunned and slightly offended, and decided to hang up.)

CONTENT WARNING: This story contains content of a medical nature. It is not intended as medical advice.

(I work in assisted living as a nurse, overseeing over eighty residents.)

Resident’s Daughter: “I’ve been thinking about talking to the doctor about stopping my mom’s [antipsychotic medication].”

Me: “Is there a particular reason you’ve been thinking about this?”

Resident’s Daughter: “Yes, after visiting her a lot I can see she’s been doing much better, and I don’t think she needs it anymore.”

(This specific medication stops hallucinations, delusions, etc., and the resident has been on it over a year without side effects.)

Me: “Yes, she is doing great; the medication is working great for her.”

Resident’s Daughter: “Well, I want her to stop the medication; she doesn’t need it anymore.”

(At this point the resident’s daughter is getting irritated, and there is no reasoning with her.)

Me: “Well, the doctor will need to fax us a signed order to stop any medications; you can call and request this. But I can’t just stop a medication without a doctor’s orders.”

(The resident’s daughter stormed off in a huff.)