A friend knew we were trying to sell our 2005 PT Cruiser. (Don’t laugh; it was a good car for us and had only about 69,000 miles on it.) He hooked us up with a woman who needed a cheap car. We wanted the sale of our car to be beneficial to both of us, and I feel terrible about the way it turned out. But after having thought about it — a lot — ultimately, we feel that we handled it the right way.

The woman came over to take a test drive. She was already aware that the check engine light was on. I got in the car with her while she drove, and the acceleration was a bit bumpy — a problem I had not had. She attributed it to her “lead foot”, and that seemed likely.

Several times during that test drive, I reminded [Buyer] that the check engine light was on and that I really didn’t know why. I told her I had friends who thought it might be an O2 sensor or some such. I don’t even know what an O2 sensor is. I did not tell her that was the problem; I simply told her that’s what some friends had theorized. She also said, considering the fact that the car had been sitting in the parking lot for quite a while, she was maybe flooding the engine with the bumpy acceleration.

By the way, the next morning, before [Buyer] came back to get the car, I took it out for a quick spin and it ran just fine.

I had lowered the price from $1,000 to $850, and I thought, given the relatively low mileage, it was still a very good price. I made sure [Buyer] understood that the sale agreement was for the car in “AS-IS” condition, with no warranty, expressed or implied. She signed the paperwork and at that point became the owner of the car.

I hate what happened the next day, and if [Buyer] hadn’t become very nasty very quickly, we might have been able to work out something. The fact is that after she bought the car, I headed for the bank, made a deposit, and paid a bunch of bills with the money, so there wasn’t a whole lot left.

Well, the next day, [Buyer] came back loaded for bear. She claimed that a mechanic had told her that whatever the problem was, it would likely cost her close to $1,000 for repairs. Now, this was a car that had sat in the parking lot for months. It had a brand-new battery and alternator. All of the fluids had been checked by our mechanic. She immediately accused me of lying to her (which I had not) and cheating her (which I had not), and she demanded a full refund. I told her I could return $200 to her, but no, she wanted the full amount. 

She said, “I know the law!” — which so often means that someone knows nothing about the law — and told me I was required to refund her money because of a North Carolina law stipulating that she had three days to change her mind and get a refund. I had already looked all of this up, and I once again explained to her that there was no such law in this state and that she now owned the car.  

[Buyer] threatened to call her lawyer, and she did call the police and told them I had cheated her. The police showed up, and the very nice officer took a look at everything and affirmed that I was correct and that [Buyer] was now the owner of the car. He also told her that if she wanted to pursue a civil charge, it would be under the auspices of the sheriff’s office, not local police.

I pointed out again that she knew there was a problem with the car. Right before she chose to make the purchase, she wanted to know if she could drive it to someplace several hundred miles away. I told her that it would be a very good idea to have a mechanic look it over before driving that far. But no. Knowing all this, she decided to buy the car anyway.

Now, if [Buyer] had come to us in a civil manner and not immediately become accusatory and nasty, we might have been able to work something out. I have very little experience with situations like this, but at some point, I just shut down and was unwilling to have any further dealings with her. My wife and I spent several days wondering if we were really terrible people and decided that no, we were not. I hate that it worked out like this but, well, lesson learned.

I am a trans-masc individual, and I’ve been on testosterone since the mid-2010s which, in this story, is just under a decade. 

This little adventure started due to a much longer story (which I might tell later) that meant I had to very quickly change doctors AND pharmacies in one fell swoop. The doctor I found was a bit of a drive away, but it worked out well enough. For my pharmacy, I had a choice between the previous name-brand pharmacy I’d been using, or the grocery-store pharmacy next door. Considering the name-brand store had recently started sneaking in little policies that meant any tech could just outright refuse to give me my testosterone and call it “religious reasons”, and considering I was no longer able to go to the one where the techs knew me (and I knew they wouldn’t dare do that to me), I decided to go to the pharmacy inside the grocery store.

Up to this point, the techs behind the counter had been nothing but incredible. I’d gotten flu and [global health crisis] vaccines from them, and it had been the most pleasant, quick, and easy experience, so I was kind of jazzed, actually, to be using them as my main pharmacy. After making sure the doctor’s office had the right place, I went and quickly retrieved my medications. 

Issue one was… immediate. With testosterone, there are options for what essentially amounts to packaging: you can get several little 1-ml vials or one big, 10-ml vial, mostly depending on what your insurance likes and what your doctor thinks you need. My doctor had told me specifically (because I asked!) that I’d be getting the 10-ml vial, which I was also stoked about; storing a bunch of the little vials is a pain since they’re so small and made of glass and the big one tends to be a little cheaper. Color me surprised when the tech behind the counter handed me a bag with TEN of the 1-ml vials. Not what the doctor ordered, actually, at all. 

Considering the state I live in and that the answer to any complaint was to take the medication BACK in some capacity, I said nothing and went on my way. The point was that I got the same amount of medication, and I knew my dosage from the tiny bottles, so it was, at best, inconvenient but not the end of the world. Especially since it probably was some quibble with insurance that they couldn’t work around, and ESPECIALLY since I had to exit my previous doctor due to a refusal to fill my meds (again, longer story), so I wasn’t about to be a choosy beggar and get nothing from it. So, I went home. 

The other thing to note about my meds was that I was doing intramuscular injections, so I needed both the actual medication and needles. Specifically, I’d need two needles per vial with the dosage I was taking (which was half the vial per shot). But, surprise, surprise, halfway through my supply, my spouse told me that I was out of needles. I figured it to be a “Whoops!” where someone had miscounted, which happens, so I trundled down to the grocery store’s good old pharmacy to grab a couple more. No big deal.

I very quickly explained to the tech that I needed a couple more needles based on the script in their system, and her face fell. Uh-oh. She told me she needed to get the pharmacist. I said sure, because maybe it was a system thing to prevent people from seeking needles for illicit reasons, so I wasn’t going to buck needing to speak to the person in charge. When she appeared, I pleasantly explained the same thing to the pharmacist, who gave me an odd look. 

Pharmacist: “You’re only supposed to puncture those vials once.”

Now, this? This is a myth. How do I know it’s a myth? Because over the decade I’ve spent store-buying my gender, I have asked EVERY doctor, pharmacist, pharmacy tech, nutritionist (this was my first script giver at Planned Parenthood; I do not make a habit of asking nutritionists about hormones), and medical tech I’ve encountered this question. Most laugh in my face because they honestly think I’m joking — no professional in their right mind with any experience with this medication would think you can only puncture it once. The vials have that weird self-healing rubber membrane thing, so there’s no reason you can’t. Only one other medical professional has ever even put some stake in the idea that you can’t puncture the vials twice, and he was also clearly transphobic (again, part of the longer story), so I trust him about as far as I can throw him — I have the arm strength of a toddler and he was a big dude. 

The other reason I know this is because my doctor, the one giving me the medical advice, prescribed me TWO DOSES PER BOTTLE; clearly, she intended that I puncture it twice. She honestly wanted me to puncture the same kind of vial (same manufacturer), just bigger, TWENTY times. 

I wasn’t about to argue medical bull with the pharmacist, however, since I am just a lowly peon who doesn’t have a degree, and therefore, clearly, she wouldn’t take my word for things. Especially since she was looking at me like I’d just pulled my mask down and hacked up a glob of snot on her counter. So, I pulled a different tactic and evoked the only higher power I thought she would listen to.

Me: “My doctor prescribed me two doses per bottle, so I’m going to need the needles to match.”

Pharmacist: “I only gave you ten needles because the manufacturer says you’re only supposed to puncture it once.”

Me: “So, you’re going to refuse to fill my entire script, which my doctor specifically prescribed?”

Pharmacist: “You’re only supposed to puncture it once.”

This went back and forth for roughly ten minutes, so I’ll save you the runaround. Nothing I said changed her tune. My decade of experience with this exact process? Nope. My doctor’s specific instructions? Nope. I considered asking her where the manufacturer got their medical license, but I didn’t think that would get anywhere since she was already acting like she was smarter than the specialist who had been doing this exact bit for decades. The only expression and tone she could manage was one that considered me to be the grossest human alive, because how could I be so UNSANITARY and not just throw half of my relatively expensive medication in the trash without using it because the manufacturer, who is not a doctor, said to? Eventually, realizing that we were going to go around in circles because she had no answer but “don’t do that”, I asked if they’d fill a script for needles if I got one, and they reluctantly said yes, though I don’t think they thought I would get one. 

I thanked them — politely — and left. In the car on the way home, I called my doctor’s office. The woman on the phone mostly understood what I was asking about — she wasn’t a medical professional, so that’s fair — and when she couldn’t get a medical tech on the line, she took a note for me and told me she’d pass it on. 

My script was in within a few days. I never even needed to talk to a medical professional. The office saw the note and fixed it without needing to hear more, which says A LOT. I imagine if there was actually an issue about puncturing things multiple times, they would have at least wanted to call and speak to me — especially since I also explained that I’d been given the medication in a different packaging — but clearly, the message the woman on the phone left was more than enough for an immediate fix. I don’t necessarily want to call the pharmacist transphobic, considering the saying, “Don’t attribute to malice what can be explained with ignorance,” and calling her an idiot is kinder, but I can’t ever be sure. It’s the Bible Belt; they’re EVERYWHERE. 

I only wish she’d been the one to fill my script for needles so I could have told her explicitly that I was about to use my second dose. But I haven’t seen her since. 

I do hope the doctor’s office got a laugh out of it, at least.

My college used to host an event called “Humans Versus Zombies” twice a year. It was, in short, a zombie apocalypse simulation, where “human” players would use Nerf blasters and approved foam melee to fend off “zombie” players; if a zombie tagged you, you became a zombie yourself. We ran for up to seven days, twenty-four hours a day, and it was a physical and mental marathon that was as fun as it was frustrating.

Sadly, the [global health crisis] killed it entirely; it’s not good form to run around trying to touch people during a viral event, after all. But when we ran the game, we had built a bunch of fairly specific rules and stipulations for play; this included the fact that we met with and kept in regular contact with Campus Police, considering we were running around the campus with things that looked remarkably like firearms and often screaming in panic and making a ruckus.

To my understanding, Campus Police were, in fact, real cops who just happened to work for the campus at large, rather than something like a glorified mall cop; however, they had to deal with any call coming from Campus, regardless of how big, as well as the surrounding area. We had a couple of different… incidents involving Campus Police (mostly players being dumb eighteen-year-olds), but this remains my favorite. 

One of our friends at the time was a bit of a rebel and definitely anti-police in every conceivable way, and she wasn’t shy about stating it. But she wasn’t dumb, either; she knew that if she hated cops and didn’t want to involve cops in her life, she shouldn’t do illegal things where cops would catch her. This meant she was fairly well versed in our state laws, and she’d make sure she knew everything about what was and wasn’t allowed if she decided to push the envelope. 

During one of our spring games, [Friend] decided she would do just that. She was one of the moderators for the game, so she didn’t have to worry about zombies and could walk campus freely and without any kit. She also did hula-hooping for fun and liked to bring hers around Campus when we roamed just for kicks. However, it was fairly warm that week — which was worse considering we were often running around campus at a full sprint and would be outside in the heat for hours on end — and she always hated hooping with a shirt on, since it got caught up, so that day, she decided she would bring her hoop but not wear a shirt OR a bra. She had, however, looked up the appropriate state laws and had covered the parts deemed inappropriate by said laws. This meant pasties, and the rest of her chest was free to hoop as she pleased. (These pasties were in the form of duct tape. Pro-tip: don’t do that. It sucks.)

We were on campus for roughly an hour before a police officer approached us. He approached [Friend] and specifically asked to talk to her and her alone. 

I wasn’t part of the conversation, so I don’t know the exact exchange, but [Friend] told us exactly what happened after the fact, so I can paraphrase well enough. Also, I cannot overstate that this officer was older, male, and taller than [Friend], and he spent this ENTIRE conversation staring VERY pointedly at the area just above [Friend]’s eyes. He was so uncomfortable that it was honestly hilarious; he was clearly trying NOT to look too far down but struggling because she was much shorter than he was.

The conversation went something like this.

Officer: “We received a call about someone running around topless, and we need you to put a shirt on.”

Friend: “What law am I in violation of?”

Officer: “You can’t run around campus without a shirt on. Please put one on.”

Friend: “But what law am I breaking?”

This went on for… a bit, honestly, without much variation, as [Friend] was as stubborn as they come and wasn’t going to relent just because she was asked. I don’t know how long they went back and forth, but I remember that my spouse and I both kept giving each other looks that were asking if [Friend] would ever actually give in or if she’d be stubborn to the end of time, and whether or not we needed to get our phones out and record since [Friend] was very obviously queer and being frankly maybe a bit too pushy in response — would that combination mean this guy would just lose it?

Was she right? Absolutely, yes. She’d looked it up ahead of time, and Campus rules were the same as state law, and by state law, she was perfectly fine; thus, by Campus rules, she was also fine. She had every right to feel the sun on her bare chest, and Campus honestly couldn’t do anything about it but ask nicely for her to stop.  

As this continued, however, one thing the officer said stood out in my memory.

Officer: *Getting tired of this* “Look. There’s another call of gunshots on campus that I need to get to, but I can’t leave until you put a shirt on. Please put a shirt on.”

Friend: “I’m not breaking any laws.”

It continued, ad nauseam, after that. Eventually, the cop, exasperated and apparently late for a more important call, CALLED FOR BACKUP, and the Chief of Campus Police was the one to arrive. This was made funnier by the fact that all of us knew her by name and face; we talked with her every semester when we moderated the game since she was present at all Campus meetings. She was also significantly more comfortable with [Friend]’s lack of a shirt, and I think her other officer was relieved to not be participating anymore. 

Chief: “Look, you’re not breaking any laws, but we keep getting calls about you not wearing a shirt, and it’s tying up the phone lines. I really need you to put something on, just while you’re on campus.”

[Friend] acquiesced, pulling a crop top from a bag she had (to the Chief’s very exasperated, “You had a shirt with you?!”), but added: 

Friend: “Your officer did say there was something about gunshots he wasn’t able to get to.”

The Chief’s face was the kind of face that no man could withstand; it was the face a mother gives a child who’s about to be in DEEP S***, and she turned that on her officer. Clearly, he wasn’t supposed to say anything about the gunshot call they’d gotten, and he’d messed up BIG TIME. 

They left shortly after, and [Friend] took her shirt off as soon as we crossed the street back to our house, which was technically off Campus. I never did find out what happened to the cop who spilled the beans, however, nor did I ever hear anything about the gunshots.

It was always hilarious to me, however, that an entire campus police department could be nearly shut down due to someone with their boobs out, and that, somehow, that superseded a call regarding actual gunshots.

When I was in my mid-twenties, I used to live on the bottom floor of a two-story house in a very popular beach town in North Carolina. The upstairs was rented out to four college-aged guys. So, there were five people with five cars, and the driveway was built for four, so one of us would either be on the grass or in a paid spot. If you had bills with your name and address, the city would give you a pass to park in certain paid spaces, so it wasn’t a big deal, but finding a spot in the middle of summer was hard.

The house was maybe 100 yards from the beach — a pretty short walk, five minutes tops with beach gear and little ones. I would leave for work at 6:30 am and return around 5:00 or 6:00 pm. By the time I got home, most of the crowds would be gone, so a paid spot was easy for me to get, so I’d typically leave the driveway for the upstairs guys.

One day, I was running late and didn’t get out of my house until nearly 8:00. The other guys had left, and the driveway was empty. I was walking out to my car, and of course, the lots were already 90% full or more. As I was crossing the street, I saw a minivan come up and pull into my driveway. I didn’t recognize it, so I waited to see if I knew them or if they knew the upstairs guys.

Out stepped a dad in a polo shirt, a visor, and bowling shorts and an overly peppy mom with three screaming kids — obviously, no one I know. I backtracked toward them.

Me: “Excuse me. Do you know the tenants upstairs or have their permission to park here?”

Mom: “It doesn’t matter. No one’s parked here, and [Kid #1], [Kid #2], and [Kid #3] have to get to the beach.”

Me: “There are five people living there, myself included, and we need to be able to park.”

Mom: “Oh? So, where’s your car if you live there?”

Me: “In that spot there because I have a pass.”

Dad: “Don’t lie to us. You’re here just the same as us and upset that we know how to park for free.”

Me: “I’m not lying, dude. It’s 8:00 am and I’m wearing my work uniform.”

Mom: “We don’t need to listen to you. We’re going to park, and you can do whatever you want. My children have to get to the beach. You’re ruining our vacation, so go away!”

Meanwhile, the kids were climbing on my fence and trees, in and out of the street.

Me: “Okay, I’ll just have you towed, and you can deal with it later.”

The dad got in my face, practically nose to nose,

Dad: “TRY IT AND SEE! THIS ISN’T YOUR HOUSE! YOU’RE JUST A LITTLE S***!”

Mind you, I’m 5’11”, roughly 190 pounds, and in fairly good shape.

Me: “Okay, have a nice day.”

I went to my car and waited until they were pretty much at the beach. Then, I went inside and looked up a tow service on the other side of town.

Me: “Hello, I’d like to report a car illegally parked on my property, [address].”

Towing Company Owner: “Sir, that’s an hour away.”

Me: “Yeah, I know. I’m not paying; that’s their problem.”

Towing Company Owner: “Okay, we’ll be there in about an hour and a half.”

Then, I called my boss and explained what had happened and that I wasn’t going to be in. He’s a pretty easy-going guy and just told me to keep him informed.

The tow truck arrived, and by 10:30 am or so, the van was gone. I left my car in the spot and waited.

Sometime around 2:00 or 3:00 pm, there was a very angry knock at my door. This was gonna be fun.

Imagine the shock when I answered the door, beer in hand, grinning like an idiot.

Me: “Can I help you?”

Dad: “YOU! WHERE IS OUR VAN?!”

Mom: “HOW DID YOU GET HERE?!”

Me: “Oh, yeah, here’s the card; I had it towed across town. Gonna be a fun cab ride.”

I shut the door in their faces. There was more angry yelling and knocking, so I opened the door again. 

Me: “Yes?”

The dad started trying to get into my house.

Dad: “You’d better get us our van back! I’m gonna kick your a**! I’ll have you arrested!”

Me: “Get outta my house! And call the cops; it’s not gonna change anything.”

I managed to shove him out the door and get it closed and locked. Then, I waited. For the next twenty minutes, there was more angry knocking and yelling.

Finally, at about 4:00 pm, I saw some blue lights, and there was a much more polite knock at my door. I grew up on the beach, and it’s a small number of locals. I know 70% of the locals on the island — police, bartenders, shop owners, residents, etc.

Me: “Oh, hey, [Officer]. How’s it going?”

Officer: “Yeah, it’s good. These people say you stole their van and broke into this house.”

Me: “Nope, they pulled into the driveway as I was leaving for work, pulled an attitude, walked away, and said I couldn’t do anything. So, I called [Towing Company Owner] on the other side of town. Their van’s there; I even gave them his card and offered to let them use my phone.”

Mom: “He’s lying! He stole our car! I demand that he be arrested.”

The dad stormed up behind the officer.

Dad: “If you don’t arrest him, I’ll have you fired! This is ridiculous!”

Officer: “Sir, back up. I’m going to figure this out.”

Dad: “This is bulls***!”

He was now shoving past [Officer] and working his way into my house again. [Officer] was able to pull him out and managed to get him pressed up against his cop car.

Officer: “Sir, you are trespassing now.” *Looking over at me* “Would you like to press charges?”

Me: “Can you keep him in your car until they get a cab?”

Officer: “Yeah. I mean, I’ve got to get statements and everything.”

So, I gave my statement, went inside, grabbed a beer, and went out the back door, up the back steps, and around to the second-floor porch. And there I sat smiling until a cab came around 5:00 or 5:30.

My upstairs neighbors showed up, but they didn’t play any part in the story.

My daughter is autistic, and her therapists suggested scheduling play dates with neurotypical kids so she can learn social cues from them. I don’t know a lot of parents outside of my daughter’s school… and the dojo where I learn karate. My classmates will bring their kids and let them play while we do our class, so it’s a good fit. And the kids love [Daughter]. 

The only problem is [Daughter]’s lack of situational awareness. When she needs Mommy or wants to play in the mat area, she doesn’t care if adults are swinging weapons and each other around.

Luckily, [Daughter] also responds to bribery, so I promised her a Happy Meal (the height of rewards for a kid) if she behaves and stays out of the mat area during class.

During drills one night, I looked over to see four of the kids holding my daughter back from the mats. One of them dramatically shouted:

Kid: “Don’t do it, [Daughter]! Think about the Happy Meal!” 

The entire dojo burst into laughter. I found out what she wanted (just a hug), and she’s since learned she can call out to me for assistance.