Out Of State, Out Of Mind, Part 2

| Austin, TX, USA | Working | February 19, 2013

(I am from Illinois, and I go to visit friends in Austin, Texas. My friend and I attempt to buy a case of beer. We are both 23, so both of legal age to buy alcohol. The clerk asks to see our IDs.)

Clerk: “We can’t accept out of state IDs.”

Me: “Well, I have some other things with my name here, if that helps.”

(Note: Restaurants and such where I live will ask to see a credit card with your name just to compare a signature to the ID for verification.)

Clerk: “No, you’re going to be here you have to get a Texas ID.”

Me: “I don’t live here. I’m only here for the week.”

Clerk: “If you’re going to school here, you have to get proper ID.”

Me: “I don’t go to school here. I’m already finished with college. I’m just visiting.”

Clerk: “You students coming from out of state need to learn if you live here, you need to get ID!”

Me: “I’m not a student here. I live in Chicago. I’ll be going back there in a few days. I. Do. Not. Live. Here.”

Clerk: “You need to get a Texas ID if you’re going to be attending university here!”

(Realizing that we weren’t getting anywhere, my friend and I slowly back away. The clerk was still yelling as we were walking out the door.  We picked up some beer at the grocery store, where they didn’t have any such rule about not accepting valid out of state IDs.)

 

It’s Finally Sinking In For This Shortsighted Bosses

, | WI, USA | Working | February 19, 2013

(At the restaurant where I work, the sink for dishes is very high. Me and two other coworkers are short and therefore have a difficult time seeing into it.)

Me: “We should invest in a small step stool, since me and [other two coworkers] are relatively short.”

Manager: “I’m not sure. You and [other two coworkers] do just fine without it, though.”

Me: “Even though we end up leaving sever serving utensils at the bottom because we can’t reach them?”

Manager: “Those are normally for the lunch hours, and the morning washer gets them cleaned up. I think we’re fine.”

(Suddenly, we hear a crash and a loud splash coming from the back. The manager and I look too see that one of the other shorter coworkers is coming up dripping wet.)

Manager: “What happened?!”

Coworker: “I tried to see if the return bin was empty or not… apparently, it’s soaking.”

Manager: “How did you get all wet though?”

Coworker: “Since I can’t see in it when it’s on top of the sink, I have to reach and pull down on the corner to tip it to me.”

Me: “…and if we had a step stool, she wouldn’t need to do that.”

Manager: “Alright you win. [Coworker] you can change and head home…”

(Thankfully, a few weeks later, we finally got the step stool!)

As Helpless As Babies

| USA | Working | February 18, 2013

(One of my coworkers is very pregnant and getting very hormonal. One day, she bursts into tears for no reason; none of my male coworkers know what to do.)

Coworker #1: “Oh my God, sweetie! Are you okay? Calm down!”

Pregnant Coworker: *sobs uncontrollably*

Coworker #2: “She can’t talk. What do we do?!”

Coworker #1: “I don’t know! I don’t know!”

Me: “What is going on up here? Honey are you okay?”

Pregnant Coworker: “N-n-no!”

Coworker #1: “Fix her! Please!”

(I grab a cookie from the nearby case and shove it in the pregnant girl’s mouth before leading her back to the break room to calm down. When I return, the guys are standing around in a daze.)

Me: “Are you guys okay?”

Coworker #1: “I have no idea what just happened.”

Coworker #2: “How did you do that?”

Me: “Just be glad I love you guys, because sometimes you’re useless.”

If You’re Not Going To Save A Life, Save Your Breath

| Kentucky, USA | Working | February 18, 2013

(My dad has just had a stroke late at night. As my dad is a doctor, he’s called one of his neurologist friends to meet us at the ER of the hospital. When we arrive, my dad is having trouble walking. So, I go to a group of three security guards for help.)

Me: “Could one of you all help me with my dad? He’s having a stroke and is getting weaker by the minute. He’s having trouble walking and I can’t carry him on my own.”

Guard #1: “No.”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Guard #1: “We have to guard this entrance.”

Me: “All three of you?”

Guard #2: “Just get out of here! Your daddy seems to be doing just fine! Besides, we can’t walk back to our post alone! It’s dangerous!”

(I get close to crying, but I leave and manage to take my dad into the ER alone. His neurologist friend finds us and sets up treatment for him. Afterwards, my dad tells me to go home so I can find a house sitter. While walking back to my car, I pass the useless security guards.)

Guard #3: “Hey, I just wanted to let you know, I really wanted to help you get your dad to the ER. He really was struggling.”

Me: “You think that gives me any comfort?! My dad could have fallen over and I wouldn’t have been able to help him!  You chose not to help.” *to Guard #2* “Also, note that I am walking back to my car ALONE, with no gun, pepper spray, or stick, like you do! It’s double dangerous for me, especially since it’s back out to the parking lot instead of in the completely lighted area around the perimeter of the building. Oh, and by the way, DADDY was absolutely NOT fine! He has lost all feeling in his left side and will need months to years of physical therapy. You want to help me now?  Go f*** yourselves, you wastes of space!”

(I visited/stayed with dad every day for the two months he spent in hospital. On the second week, I ran into one of the useless security guards in the lobby. He couldn’t have made eye contact with the floor any faster.)

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Mismanaged Expectations, Part 7

| Rochester, NY, USA | Working | February 18, 2013

(I’m an associate at a retail store and often work with the same manager. She’s very sweet but not all that bright. We’d just closed the store and she is counting the money in the register.)

Manager: “[My name], can you come verify the deposit, please?”

(I come over and count it all.)

Me: “I have $286.83, but you’ve written $226.83 on the deposit slip.”

Manager: “I counted wrong? I used the calculator.”

Me: “Yeah. It looks like you missed three of the twenties?”

(Note: There are six twenties in tonight’s deposit.)

Manager: “No, I counted six. There’s six, right?”

Me: “Yep, six. So that’s $120, and then the 50—”

Manager: “Wait, what?”

Me: “Six twenties. That’s $120 dollars. Right? Six times two times ten…”

Manager: “That’s not $60?”

Me: “No. Six tens would be $60. But these are twenties… so, $120.”

Manager: “Oh! …Oh.”

(She looks pensive for a moment and then smiles brightly.)

Manager: *cheerfully* “I’m so glad you’re good at math!”

 

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