Not At Your Cervix

, , , , , | Healthy | August 8, 2018

(My 26-year-old sister has had problems with endometriosis for five years. She is on medications that she hates, and has thousands of dollars worth of medical bills as a result. She doesn’t want children, and has decided to have her uterus removed, with the support of her therapist, OBGYN, and our family. Because she has never had children, they will have to do the surgery like a C-section, which will have a six-week recovery time, and she cannot take that much time off of work. Her OBGYN recommends her to another doctor who uses robotic-assisted equipment, so she will have a shorter recovery period. She goes to meet with the other OBGYN. The nurse is taking her history, and you can see the judgement on her face. A few minutes later, the OBGYN comes in.)

OB: “I’m not going to try to talk you out of it… Okay, I am. You are very young to have this procedure, and many women who are younger than 30 end up regretting the surgery once it is complete. And you aren’t married; your future husband might want children.”

(He keeps repeating that he isn’t trying to talk her out of it before contradicting himself as he goes on to suggest several other medications — most of which she’s already tried — that caused her to gain weight, suffer severe anxiety and depression, and give her suicidal thoughts. She is extremely sensitive to side effects. Finally, the doctor suggests another medication she hasn’t tried, but has side effects she has suffered before.)

Sister: “No, but I have researched it, and I don’t like the side effects.”

OB: *pointing at nurse* “She’s been on it for eight years, and she’s just fine.”

Mom: “She would rather be an aunt. She has never had any desire to have children, and she is tired of being in pain.”

(It seemed like once he knew my sister had my mother’s approval, he realized he was fighting a losing game. He sighed and gave up, and told us how they would do the procedure, and that they would get in touch with her insurance. Later, my sister told me that she believed the doctor would have flat-out refused to do the surgery if my mother hadn’t been there to back her up, and two weeks after the appointment, she called to check up on what her insurance could do, only to be told they hadn’t even contacted them yet.)

Homeless Is Where The Heart Is, Part 10

, , , , , | Hopeless | August 7, 2018

I just started a new part-time job, and after my training I was assigned to a partner. At first, I didn’t like him; he was kind of lazy, honestly. But after giving it a chance, we became friends.

It was winter, and he told me that someone had stolen the tires off of his bike. I felt bad for him, finding out that he was riding a bike in the snow to get home, and now his tires were stolen.

I gave home rides to and from work until payday. But it was weird; he would have me go to gas stations or train stations, and he was always carrying a duffel bag. One time he had it open, and I saw that he was carrying around his birth certificate and other papers. It became clear to me that he was actually homeless.

He kept denying it at first, but finally admitted to me that he was, in fact, homeless. While I didn’t know him that well, I couldn’t just let him stay outside anymore.

So, I struck a deal. He could live in one of my rooms, for cheap — $200 a month. But he needed to get another job, something nearby, and start saving up money.

I also gave him a broken-down car that had been sitting in my driveway for a while. I told him that if he fixed it, he could have it. Little by little, he progressed. He got a full-time job to supplement the part-time job. He eventually bought a bed and dresser, and some more clothes. And he fixed the backyard car and got the tags.

By six months, he was flying out of the nest! It was one of the best feelings in the world to have helped someone get back on their feet!

Related:
Homeless Is Where The Heart Is, Part 9
Homeless Is Where The Heart Is, Part 8
Homeless Is Where The Heart Is, Part 7

Try This New IPA! Tastes Like The Holocaust!

, , , , , , | Right | August 7, 2018

Me: “Hello, sir, may I see your ID?”

Customer: “Why?”

Me: “I’m supposed to get ID when someone buys beer.”

(The customer just continues to stare at me, as if expecting more of an explanation.)

Me: “It’s the law.”

Customer: “So, you just do whatever the government tells you to do?”

(I’m not really sure how to respond, so I just remain silent. The customer suddenly becomes obscenely angry.)

Customer: “Honestly, you’re no better than those Nazis throwing Jews in the oven!”

(He rattles off some more nonsense about how I’m a Nazi for daring to ask for his ID, and then some switch in his brain goes from crazy to horny.)

Customer: “But you’re pretty cute, so I guess I can show you just this once.”

Beggars Can Be Choosers, Apparently

, , , , , , , | Friendly | August 7, 2018

A few years ago, I used to take the buses to come home from a coffee shop where I worked.

There was a homeless man at a gas station with a sign, asking for money. I made good tips there, and usually this was money that I use to buy food for dinner every night for my children, but that day I was okay, so I decided to give him my entire bag of tips. I was feeling good about it, so I turned back to look at him when I had walked away.

That man took out the dollar bills out and was throwing the bag with the rest of the money away in a trash can! I was mad! Yes, it was change, but probably at least $10 worth of change!

I marched right back up to him, took the bag out of the trash and took the bills back straight from his hand! I felt bad, but I was mad that he had just thoughtlessly thrown out good money.

I bought groceries for my kids, instead.

Unfiltered Story #117805

, , | Unfiltered | August 2, 2018

The costume shop which I managed had a policy of charging 1/4 the total price of all rented costumes returned late, for each day late. This is spelled out in bold, easy to read letters on the contract everyone signs. A woman comes in to return a skirt she had rented. I notice it’s a day late, and that her address on the contract indicates she’s from one of parts of the state known for being where the rich people live. We make small talk while I go over her pieces, and she seems friendly.

Me: Alright ma’am, if you’ll please sign right here for your return. It looks like your costume is being returned a day late, so I’m afraid I’ll have to charge you…. (I pause for dramatic affect) a whole $1.50.

Suddenly the customer went ice cold, and she began muttering under her breath. She angrily snapped her card at me to pay, then huffed down the stairs. Later that night I learned that she complained to my manager that I gave her horrible customer service. All because I charged her $1.50 late fee, as per the contract she signed. (My manager just laughed)

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