Some people suffer from “RBF”, but I suffer from Resting B**** Voice. If I’m focused on something else, or just tired and out of it, my tone tends to come across as dismissive and snappy. It’s usually not an issue when I’m out and about or talking directly to people because, obviously, I’m focused on them. It most often kicks up when I’m at home playing games, or at work and someone comes up to me while I’m already doing something.

Coworker: “Hey, I got the paperwork for the [Customer] order.”

I’m focused on something else, but I gesture off-hand to a bin.

Me: “Put it there.”

Coworker: “Wow, really?”

Me: “That’s where it goes.”

Coworker: “Uh-huh. We’ll see.”

It’s only at this point that the offended snit of a tone he’s got going filters through to my brain. Before I can ask what’s wrong, he’s already storming off, papers still in hand.

I shrug and get back to work, but a couple of minutes later, my manager comes by and finally drops off the papers.

Manager: “Hey, is there something up with [Coworker]?”

Me: “No idea. He asked where those went, and I told him.”

Manager: “You didn’t insult or degrade him at all?”

Me: “No?! I mean, I probably just went, ‘Put them here,’ or something, but I never actually said anything direct.”

Manager: “All right, don’t worry about it. I explained that you were just focused and didn’t mean to insult or anything.”

Me: “So… If someone being distracted is insulting, what sort of pampered life did this guy live this far?”

Manager: “Well, just don’t ask him that directly, and things will probably be okay.”

I have a feeling I’m going to be “distracted” every time [Coworker] comes by.

I am talking to an employee we are letting go, and he isn’t taking it well.

Employee: “Why are you firing me?!”

Me: “You’ve been engaging in illegal activities on work property.”

Employee: “That’s a lie!”

Me: “I caught you doing heroin in the restroom.”

Employee: “What happens in the restroom is private!”

Me: “You’re a liability, and we need to let you go.”

Employee: “Whatever. I’ll just clear out my locker and go!”

Me: “I’ll come with you.”

Employee: “That’s an invasion of privacy!”

Me: “It’s procedure for the manager to witness the locker being cleared out during the exit process.”

Employee: “Why?!”

Me: “Because I need to be there in case there’s anything illegal in that locker.”

Employee: “There isn’t!”

Me: “Then there should be no problem.”

Employee: “F*** you!”

He stormed off and made a mad dash for the locker, but security escorted him out of the building. As suspected, once we opened the locker, we found enough drugs in there to warrant a call to the police.

That ex-employee is now in prison for dealing — and dealing from the back of our warehouse nonetheless!

Many years ago, I had a summer job doing various kinds of manual labor at a college on the Hudson River that trained US Army officers. One day, I got my paycheck and was surprised to see that it was for an amount many, many times my usual pay. Looking closely, I realized that somehow I had been credited for 150 hours of overtime rather than 15.

Being honest by nature — not to mention smart enough to know that cashing it would eventually land me in federal prison — I hiked about a mile over to the Administration office and walked into that nice, clean office full of nice, clean people looking just like a twenty-one-year-old guy who had just spent four hours in a 100-degree warehouse restacking boxes of Army boots and then hiking a mile.

I (eventually) got the attention of one of the ladies behind the counter, and I held my check out to her.

Me: “Ma’am, I think there’s been a mistake with my paycheck.”

She didn’t even look at it, and she turned away as she spoke.

Lady: “We’re busy right now. Come back in a couple of hours.”

Me: “Ma’am, this check is for [insanely huge amount].”

The lady swiftly turned back and snatched the check out of my hand.

Lady: “Let me see that.”

I got a check for the correct amount in twenty minutes.

I was a warehouse manager, in charge of scheduling deliveries and pick-ups and making sure inventory was up to snuff. Occasionally, I would even do deliveries if we were down a person. I worked with a salesman who was not even a manager, but when the boss was away, he was in charge. 

One time, I was in the truck and noticed it had all of a quarter tank of diesel. I went inside and asked for the gas card.

Salesman: “How much is left?”

Me: “A quarter of a tank.”

Salesman: “That’s plenty. You don’t need the card.”

So, off we went and made the delivery, and on the way back, the truck just died, completely out of fuel.

Because we’d run it dry, the boss had to get the truck towed to the repair shop and the fuel system completely bled to get the air out. This was a twenty-four-foot box truck, so it was fairly pricey to tow and work on.

The reaming the salesman got was classic. He never denied anybody the fuel card again.

This took place a few years ago, and for some reason which I cannot remember, there was a shortage of some chicken products in my area, and unfortunately, that included frozen chicken nuggets.

I am struggling to find any crumbed frozen nuggets around. I have been going from supermarket to supermarket to find them, and all my relatives are also looking.

I am sharing my frustrations with a coworker over lunch at work when some other staff hear our conversation. Another coworker who was listening to the conversation, as we do have a small lunch room, interjects.

Coworker: “Or you could just not worry about it and make your own.”

Me: “I need them for my son, though. It’s the only way we can get him to eat meat. He doesn’t like it when I make them from scratch.”

Coworker: “Or you could just make him eat it.”

Me: “Yeah, that’s not going to work. It’s not worth the meltdown when I know he is 100% not going to eat it.”

Coworker: ‘“Sounds like you’re a soft parent. I just put food in front of my kids, and they have to eat it or they don’t eat.”

Me: “Good for you. It must be nice having kids who don’t have autism and don’t have any food aversions and will put up with that.”

Coworker: “Come on. Your son will eat it if he has no choice.”

Me: “He actually won’t. We tried the tough thing where he had to eat or didn’t eat at all. He starved himself instead. He literally will not eat it and will go to bed crying because he’s hungry but can’t bring himself to even touch those foods. And it’s not something he’s been taught, either; when he was a baby and we did baby-led weaning, I put ham and avocado on his high chair, and he screamed until he nearly passed out.”

Coworker: “Well, maybe if you do it consistently, it will work. You’re pandering to him!”

Me: “Wow. So I should just let my three-year-old starve and cry and traumatise him because a chick at work who is completely unqualified on his condition says I should? No, I’m going to listen to the professionals that I’ve been taking him to, who actually understand him and want to help him.”

Coworker: “But… I am trying to help. I have three kids, and they are older; I’ve been through the picky stage.”

Me: “No, you don’t want to help. You want to sit on your high horse and judge me, my parenting, and my son. And this isn’t a picky stage; this is a genuine condition that he will live with forever, and we are seeing professionals who are helping him learn to cope. Plus, it’s not even like he’s only eating junk food; he won’t even eat chocolate or lollies. He will only drink water, no juice or soft drinks. You have no clue, and you’re taking the opportunity to be judgy.”

My coworker got really quiet and left before her lunch break was finished.

Unfortunately, this isn’t the first or the last time I’ve had a conversation like this. Thankfully, my son’s therapy has helped, and although he still avoids most foods, we have been able to get him to try some new foods. Now, he will eat beef sausages!