I am visiting my sister’s family in California. We’re Caucasian, and one of her sons married a wonderful woman who is African-American. Their two young children have different complexions; their older boy is brownish and looks more Hispanic, and their daughter looks Caucasian.

One afternoon, I go to watch my two great-niblings play soccer. I meet them and their mom at the park and watch both of their games. After playing, they both look overheated, so I offer to buy ice cream for everyone. We go to an ice cream shop, get our orders, and sit down at a table.

My nephew’s wife has to excuse herself to the restroom, so I sit there talking to my great-niblings about their games.

A nosy-looking older woman comes over to our table while their mom is still away.

Woman: “I think it’s wonderful how tolerant you’re being.”

Me: “Tolerant? Of what?”

Woman: “Letting your… granddaughter? …sit with your housekeeper’s son eating ice cream.”

I stand up and reply softly so the kids don’t hear.

Me: “First, these two are siblings — my great nephew and niece. And the woman who you call my ‘housekeeper’ is my niece. And the only thing I’m having to be tolerant of is nosy old bigots interrupting a family outing. But my tolerance has limits, so please leave us alone.”

The woman retreated, not uttering another word. Unbeknownst to me, my niece had returned while I was whispering my retort to NOW. When I turned around, she was crying. She gave me a big hug, and then we sat and ate our ice cream.

The woman was still there, but every time I looked around, she quickly looked away from us — in shame, hopefully.

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And What Happens When You Assume? Part 2
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Remember What Happens When You Assume
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It’s three days before I go on a nine-day vacation, including a four-day trip to Disneyland for my birthday and my youngest sibling’s graduation. Since my mom told me about this early, I asked for the time off back at the start of June when we changed our time clock system. It is now the last week of July.

The department manager is in the head office working on the next week’s schedule to be issued today. The department phone rings and is answered by [Coworker #1].

Coworker #1: “Hey, [Department Manager] is on the phone asking for you.”

Coworker #2: *Joking* “Oh, sorry, you can’t go on vacation.”

I laugh and walk over and pick up the phone.

Me: “Yes?”

Department Manager: “Hey, next week, [Other Store] needs a closer—”

Me: “Next week when I’m on vacation?”

Department Manager: “You’re on what? I don’t have you on vacation.”

Me: *Pauses* “I asked for it like two months ago.”

Department Manager: “I don’t have it in writing.”

Me: “Well, no, because I put it into the new system.”

Department Manager: “You needed to put it in writing.”

Me: “You guys decided that two weeks after I asked and [Store Assistant Manager] assured me it was in the system and I didn’t have to submit it again.”

Department Manager: “I make your schedule, not him. I knew nothing about this.”

Me: *Thinking* “Okay, pretty sure everyone else does.” *Out loud* “Well, we have an issue then, because I can’t cancel, and I asked well in advance and was told by the second highest manager in the store that it was done.”

After a little more back and forth, he agrees to put it in because the system screwed me. I walk back up to the front of the department and point to [Coworker #2].

Me: “It’s not funny when you’re right.”

Coworker #2: “WHAT?!

Me: “He had no idea I was going on vacation.”

Literally Every Coworker Who Heard Me: “HE WHAT?! HOW?!”

This is still infinitely better than my former store and manager, and when I talked to him later, my manager agreed that Disneyland from Monday to Thursday was a non-negotiable trip.

It is my mother’s fiftieth birthday and she has invited not only her friends but also my best friend of twenty-two years and her four-year-old daughter who I consider my niece.

Despite our long friendship, my friend hasn’t been around my mom since becoming a mom herself and still worries if things are “okay or not,” despite my assurances that the toddler is welcome. 

In this case, we are all sitting on a patio surrounded by woodchips and rocks enjoying lunch. My niece is playing with a number of toys provided by my mom and decides to grab a nearby towel from another corner of the patio, bring it over, and sit on it while she eats strawberries.

My friend sees that the towel is white and blue.

Friend: “Oh, gosh, she might stain that! Should I move her?”

I turn to my mother and speak in a deadpan tone.

Me: “Hey, Mom, [Niece] is on the towel eating strawberries; should [Friend] move her to prevent stains?

Mom: *To my friend* “It’s fine; just leave her. I’ve survived four kids, two grandsons—”

Me: “—running two daycares—”

Mom: “—and there is nothing that child could do or destroy that can’t be fixed or replaced. She’s absolutely fine doing what she’s doing.”

Friend: *Realizing she is not kidding* “Oh, okay, thank you.”

Mom: “Besides, that towel is usually for keeping the dogs from burning their feet on the cement. It’ll see worse.”

That made my friend laugh and visibly relax for the rest of the day as she finally accepted that, in my mother’s house, we really do live by the motto, “Things can be replaced and kids bounce, so it’s all good.”

I’ve just completed a shopping trip at a local chain store. I picked a bunch of items, including some new bras. I head to the cashier, as self-checkout does not exist yet. He is a young man and obviously new, but I’m not in any rush.

He starts scanning the items and bagging them. There’s no problem until the bras arrive. They are on a little hanger. He plucks the hanger up by the size tab at the top of the hanger with his two fingers. He’s holding it delicately as if touching it was hazardous. He tries to scan it by waving it but the tag won’t scan. 

A look caught between panic and horror crosses his face as he realizes he will have to touch the bra. Now, I know I should bail him out, but it’s a bra, not a bomb. He’s a cashier; someday, panties, too, may be purchased. So I let the torture continue. 

He looks at me and then at the bra he’s trying desperately to ring up when he realizes the hand scanner might work. It does scan the tag hanging innocently from the bra cup. He repeats this process for the next two bras. He even bags the bras in their own bag!

My mom has two dogs who are both spoiled absolutely rotten and too smart for their own good sometimes. They both particularly love Frosty Paws, a dog ice cream which seems to alternate between being very easy to find at local supermarkets and notoriously exclusive to certain big box stores, instead.

Usually, my mother is willing to try different shops to find the elusive treats, but with the current outbreak and family health concerns, it’s been near impossible. We can’t even mention the name in front of the dogs unless we want to deal with several minutes of dramatic doggie whining and begging.

Being a grocer and thus essential, it becomes my mission to find said ice cream. I am lucky enough to discover one box at a store near my work. The delivery, however, goes down like a covert operation as I place the treats in a lunch box so the dogs don’t see the packaging.

Stepdad: “What are you doing here?”

I hold up the lunch box while trying to keep it as far as possible from the dogs, who are very excited to see me.

Me: “I got them.”

Sister: “Them?”

I look between the dogs and the bag.

Me: “THEM.”

Stepdad: *Lightbulb moment* “You got FPs?”

Me: “It took three stores, but I got one box.”

Stepdad: “Oh, you are a f****** hero.”

We make our way into the kitchen where my mother joins in asking why I’ve shown up. The dogs, meanwhile, have mostly calmed down but are circling.

Stepdad: “She found FPs.”

Mom: “Seriously?! Oh, we’re gonna have happy puppies.”

She takes the lunchbox and attempts to stealthily unload the contents into the freezer as it took me some time to get to the house and they must refreeze.

Sister: “Wait, did you get the PB flavor?”

Me: “Beggars can’t be choosers, but yeah.”

Sister: “Oh, very happy puppies.”

Of course, then the dogs started losing their minds all over again because they caught sight of what Mom was unloading, and they proceeded to park their butts in front of the freezer and start up their Frosty Paws crying.

Happy ending: they were over the moon when they finally received their icy treats.