My dad died, and this was to be Mom’s first Mother’s Day by herself as we kids lived out of state. I called a local restaurant chain and explained this. Note that this was long before food delivery apps and the like existed.

Me: “Is there a way for someone to deliver a meal to my mom? She’s about a mile from you.”

Manager: “You’re in luck. I’m the manager, and I think we can do that.”

I ordered her some nice food.

Manager: “What’s her name?”

Me: “It’s [Mom].”

Silence.

Me: “Hello? Are you there?”

Manager: “That’s my mother’s name, too. It’s my first Mother’s Day without her.”

I came to find out later that the two of them had a very nice meal together and reminisced about each other’s loved ones. Mysterious ways, indeed!

Years ago, I worked in the deli section of a grocery store with the kind of people who get a promotion and immediately forget where they came from and have unrealistic expectations of you. I had to slice meat and cheese for customers, make sandwiches, and make all the fried foods (wings, fried chicken, potato wedges, etc.). When I was hired, I had my sleeves rolled to just below my elbow, and I talked to the hiring manager about my tattoos. (They’re the names of my kids, so nothing offensive.)

About a year after I started working there, they decided that tattoos and piercings were against the dress code. Anyone with piercings had to take them out, and anyone with tattoos had to cover them up. Since my tattoos go down to my wrists, I asked if that went for me, as well, because I was handling people’s food all day, and if my sleeves got dirty, I didn’t want them near someone’s sandwich or something. They scoffed at me and told me that I should have thought about future employment when getting my tattoo.

So, I figured, “I can’t break the rules, so I won’t.”

The next day, as the main bosses of the store were walking around, I had my sleeves down to my wrists. I was making fried chicken, so my shirt was soaked in chicken blood all the way up to my elbows. We had to cook three boxes every morning — about 150 pounds of chicken — and I was halfway through the third box.

When they yelled at me to stop what I was doing, I just innocently asked:

Me: “What’s wrong? Can you see my tattoo?”

They didn’t answer me. One just stared, mouth agape, and the other looked like he was trying to set me on fire with his mind.

Me: “Well, if there’s nothing else, I’m almost done here, and I’ll start making sandwiches.”

They told me to go ahead and go home for the day.

They tried to fire me, but since it was documented that I asked about long sleeves being unsanitary and I was basically told “sucks to suck”, they couldn’t fire me for following the rules they’d set in place.

They tried to start cutting my hours, so I said (very publicly again) that it felt like retaliation for the sleeves thing and I would need to speak with a lawyer. (I couldn’t afford one, but they didn’t know that.)

Finally, a month later, they told me that I was allowed to have my sleeves rolled up while working behind the counter, to which I responded:

Me: “I actually found another job. I’ve been there for two weeks. Have the day your employees think you deserve.”

I bought a dress for my four-year-old daughter. It has pockets. All other “pockets” her clothes have had were just sewn on for aesthetics, so this is the first time she’s ever seen functional pockets.

Daughter: *Peeking into the pockets* “Mom, what’s this?”

Me: “Those are pockets. You put stuff in them.”

She looks at me like I just said something ridiculous.

Daughter: “…like candy?”

Me: “Sure.”

I grab a piece of candy that happens to be nearby and drop it into her pocket. She looks into the pocket and sees the candy sitting comfortably inside.

HER FACE LIGHTS UP! This is a mind-blowing discovery.

Daughter: *Excitedly* “And toys?”

Me: “Yes. Anything small you can put in there.”

She ran into the toy room and grabbed random things to stuff into her pockets. She came out after a couple of minutes with a triumphant smile on her face, pockets bulging with a bunch of cars and Pokemon.

Since then, every time she gets dressed, she asks, “Is there pockets?”

I work for an electric company. It had been a quiet day. HAD.

A call came in with a popup for an account that hadn’t been verified yet. No biggie; we literally just had to verify it and that would be it. The account was under a male name. The caller sounded like an older lady.

And thus, I attempted to verify the account.

Me: “Thanks for calling us. How can I help you?”

Caller: “I wanted to make an extension on my light bill, please.”

Me: “Sure. In order to verify your account, can I please have the last four numbers of your license?”

This is when things went sour.

Caller: “What do you mean? I’ve never been asked this!”

Me: “I apologise for any previous confusion with other agents, but for security reasons, I have to verify this information.”

After trying to argue against it, the caller ended up agreeing and giving me the last four of the license on the account. (While I was 99% sure they weren’t actually the holder, they were claiming they were and were able to verify, so I was forced to assist.)

And then, their bill wasn’t even past due — it was due like two weeks later — so an extension wasn’t even needed.

After that whole debacle, they ended up hanging up by saying:

Caller: “Do not ever ask me those questions again, or I will sue your company for harassment.”

Me: *Completely flabbergasted* “… Excuse me?”

Caller: “Have a nice day!”

And they hung up.

I was confused for the entire rest of the day. People will get pissy about security but then complain when we try to prevent fraud or anything like that from happening.

Honestly, what pisses me off even more is that we can’t prevent this; it’s up to the caller’s criteria. If you claim you’re the holder and you verify the account, we HAVE to take the call and assist even when it’s obviously not them. It’s frustrating. We do have a password system, but 99% of people don’t use it.

I work in an office that used to be a cell phone repair place on [Street]. Even though it’s been seven years since the cell phone repair place has been in business, we still get clients walking through the door asking if we fix phones. We do not. We’re accountants.

One day, I’m working in a different office for the same company that has never been a cell phone repair place; it’s always been an accountant’s office. A young woman walks in through the door and asks if we fix cell phones.

Me: “Uh… No. We don’t. This has always been an accountant’s office.”

Woman: “Oh, I got confused. You look like one of the employees of the cell phone repair place on [Street], and the inside looks similar.”

Me: “…”

I sent her gently on her way. There’s not even a cell phone repair place anywhere in this strip mall.