I was a store assistant at a popular discount store when I was in sixth form. This was my first job, and as a nervous 16 year old with no experience whatsoever, I was terrified of messing up.

On my third or fourth shift, I did a couple of quick stints on the tills when the store got very busy. With some initial panic, I thought I’d managed to get through them okay, and went home at the end of my shift.

When I went in on my next shift the next day, I was called into the office by my manager before my shift started.

Manager: The till you were working on last night was £5 short when we cashed up.
Me: It was? How? I was so careful when counting what money I was given and the change I gave and made sure to scan everything and-

My manager stopped me there, because I started to ramble in a panic. He turned to pick something up, and held a note out in front of me.

Manager: [My Name], what kind of note is this?
Me: It’s a £5 note?
Manager: Check again.

I looked a bit closer, and it turns out I had accepted a €5 note from someone, thinking it was an English note! I started crying, thinking I’d screwed up so badly I was gonna lose my job after less that a week.

Thankfully, my manager was understanding, and all I got was a write-up and told to check my notes more carefully. I also wasn’t allowed to work the tills for a little while, which I think it’s a small price to pay for €5.

I am a one on one aid for an elementary school student. I was sitting in the classroom when I overhear this conversation between the teacher and another student.

Teacher:(student) where is your homework?

Student: My dog ate it.

(I never thought I would actually hear the My dog ate my homework excuse in my life.)

Driving along a secondary road in the boonies of Texas, my vehicle started having some problems. I pulled off the road, and used my smartphone to find the nearest town that might have a mechanic qualified to fix the problem.
I called the mechanic. He told me the location of his shop, and said he might be a little late, since he was at his other location.

Arrived at the shop, to find no mechanic. The place was closed. Called the mechanic again, and he said he would be “right over”.

Time passed, and I felt the need to visit the men’s room. Walked around the building, and happily found a partially open door, with a “MEN” sign on it. Entered the room … to find the restroom from Hades.

Floor was covered with wet toilet paper. The sink may have been used to grow fungi of unknown origin. A ripped and faded paper sign on the wall told users to “flush the toilet when done”. The toilet itself was full of mysterious sludge that might have still been moving. But, when ya gotta go, ya gotta go. Fortunately, my “personal problem” could be handled while standing up. since the toilet seat might have things that would attach themselves to seated users, and cause later acute embarassment.

Flushed the toilet with an acrobatic kick on the flush handle, avoided further contamination by NOT using the sink, and went to my vehicle to wash my hands and scrape my shoes.

After the mechanic arrived and started work on my vehicle, I asked him what he used when he had to visit the men’s room. He replied, “Oh, I don’t go in back of my shop … I walk down to the [fast food restaurant] a few blocks away. The toilet you used is used at night, by the bums in the town. They must have broken the lock to get in last night.”

After the repair was finished, I made some pithy remarks in my log, and was again thankful I carried some “wash up” material with me. I suffered no ill effects from the visit, but my vehicle had to be re-repaired when I reached my destination.

My family and a family of friends are having lunch at a restaurant in a theme park. There’s not a drastic amount of choice, so out of the four teenagers, three of us all order the same meal – something with chicken, rice and salad.

When the food arrives, there’s a small pot of golden-brown sauce. I recall from the menu that gravy was served with the chicken, so I presume that this is the gravy, and happily pour it over the chicken and rice.

To the others, though, I might as well have poured a glass of my own urine on my plate. I’m immediately hit with a wall of scorn and derision, since what I poured over my chicken was *obviously* salad dressing, and I’ve now *ruined* my lunch.

I actually get quite upset, and try to stammer out that I assumed it was the gravy mentioned on the menu, but can’t really articulate myself over their honest to goodness *jeers*. The other two with the same meal drench their salad with the dressing.

Just as I’m picking up my fork, worried that I misread the menu and actually have poured dressing all over my rice, the waitress appears with a tray of two small jugs, saying “And here’s some dressing for everyone’s salads”.

My sister, who also has the chicken, asks whether the sauce that came on the plate was dressing, too, to which the waitress replies:

“No, honey, that’s the gravy for your chicken”.

As the waitress walks away, my tormentors turn to look sheepishly at me, while I happily tuck in to my food with a smirk.

I had never ordered through Uber Eats before, but I had gotten a gift card so decided to give it a shot. My condo is a gated community, but that isn’t usually a problem – even the delivery people who don’t have access are able to figure out for themselves how to use the call box to buzz residents to let them in. Also, there are two gates, and the two sections do not connect so you cannot access both sides of the complex via one gate. Anyway, when I was filling out my order, I put very clear and simple instructions in the provided instruction box – that my gate is the one to the left, that there is a call box beside it, and you just have to scroll through names to find mine and that will contact me to open the gate.

So I pull up the little map on Uber Eats’ website and watch as the little car icon approaches my complex. The driver gets to the gates and the call box, so I wait for the call to come on my phone so that I can open the gate. I wait… and wait… and wait… After a bit, it seems that another resident has driven through and opened the gate because his car pulls in – through the wrong gate. I watch as the car icon tours around the wrong half of the complex before finally returning to the gates. More time passes. Finally, my phone rings – it is not from the call box, he is calling me himself. I sigh and answer it. He demands I open the gate to let him in. I tell him to use the call box, and he asks what the “code” is. I tell him that he just has to find my name – like I wrote in my instructions! He hangs up on me without another word.

While I was dealing with him, my roommate had gotten dressed and gone to meet him and get the food. So much for contactless delivery…