(Our store sells rats and mice for feeders. All customers who purchase them have to fill out a short sheet with their name, address, and phone number for our records. Our store reward cards can be found by entering a phone number.)

Me: “Alright, two male mice and [other item]. If you could please fill this out while I ring you up that would be great.”

(The customer stares blankly at the piece of paper.)

Me: *pushes paper closer* “We’ll just need this filled out for the mice for our files.”

Customer: “What is this?”

Me: “It’s a form that has to be filled out for all animals we sell; it is company policy.”

(The customer starts to get huffy.)

Customer: “I have lived in this area for nine years, and have never had to fill one of these out before!”

(She starts to fill it out, grumpily, sighing every few seconds, and complains the entire time, saying the policy is stupid and she doesn’t understand. When she reaches the portion where it asks for a phone number should we need to call the customer about the animal, she explodes.)

Customer: “There is NO F****** WAY I am giving you guys my phone number. This is freaking ridiculous; let me talk to a manager. I have lived here NINE YEARS and have never had to fill this out. This is a stupid policy, and I am not giving you guys my phone number to have on file!”

(I call a manager up and keep trying to diffuse the situation.)

Me: “That’s fine, ma’am. You can rightly refuse for the phone number. While we wait for my manager, do you have a rewards card?”

(The customer looks up at me and prattles off her phone number. I resist face-palming at her.)

(I am at a large chain grocery store, buying some groceries and a $10 food donation box for a local neediness shelter.)

Cashier: *sees the $10 box, turns it all over and doesn’t read the label* “I don’t understand what this is.”

Me: “Uh… it’s a food donation. You guys are doing a donation drive, right? That’s why these boxes are by the checkout line.”

Cashier: “We are? What is this? Is this, like, for you to eat?”

(The cashier puts it down and begins scanning my other items.)

Me: “No, it’s a donation! Also, I have a store card that you didn’t scan.”

Cashier: *scoffs* “Oh, right.” *scans it*

Me: “Where do I put the box anyway?”

Cashier: “I have no idea. They never tell me anything. Go to the front desk.” *rolls eyes at me*

(I go to the front desk after being checked out.)

Me: “I just bought this food donation and don’t know where it goes.”

Clerk: *blank stare*

Me: *holds up box*

Clerk: *to the busy manager across the room* “HEY, WHAT DO WE DO WITH THESE BOX THINGS?”

Manager: “Look right behind you; they go on top of the stack of other ones.”

Clerk: “Are you sure?” *hesitantly puts box with other ones*

Manager: *to me* “Thank you for your purchase!”

(I sincerely hope that shelter actually receives its donations at the end of the month!)

(I am about 14 and my brother is 16. He is in a phase where every time I get angry about anything, he says I must be ‘PMSing.’ This goes on for a few months. One day, I actually am on my period.)

Brother: “Hey, take a chill pill. You on your period or something?”

Me: *finally snapping* “For your information, YES I AM! YOU GOT A PROBLEM WITH THAT!?”

Brother: *going completely white and backing away* “No… umm… no.”

(Ten years later, he still hasn’t made a single reference to it being that time of the month for me since then.)

(My mum adds a slice of bread with mustard to beef stew to add flavor and bind the sauce. My four-year-old brother enters the kitchen.)

Brother: “Mum, can we have the meat that eats slices of bread tonight?”

(40 odd years later, it still is his favorite dish!)

(My five-year-old daughter eats at a painfully slow pace, so in order to speed things at the table we usually create ‘eating contests.’ This time, she wants to start one.)

Daughter: “Let’s have a contest!”

Me: “Okay then. Ready… set—”

Daughter: “No! Wait! I have to tell the rules first!”

Me: “Sure, go on.”

Daughter: “Okay. So… the first one, ah… is that there are three rules!”

Me: “Sounds reasonable. Rule number two?”

Daughter: “Rule number two: rule number two is… that everyone must follow the three rules!”

Me: “Wilco. Now, rule number three?”

Daughter: “Rule number three… is that if you don’t follow the three rules you will be disqualified!”