I am female, and it’s hotter than Hades where I’m from. I don’t like my natural hair, so I shaved it one summer. I got lots of mixed reactions from different people, most of them positive, with the occasional rude person who thought I looked like a boy even though I wear makeup and am well-endowed. This takes the cake, though.

I was sitting in a coffee shop waiting for my boyfriend and his sister, and I had already ordered and been complimented by the barista. One woman got her drink, spotted me, and clutched her hand to her chest with a soft, “Oh!”

Woman: “You are such an inspiration, dear! Was it hard, battling the cancer?” 

Me: “Um, I don’t have cancer. I just have my hair like this because I like it this way.” 

Woman: *Chuckles* “Oh, sweetie, there’s no need to pretend! Was it very difficult? What kind was it?” 

Me: “I’m serious; I’ve never had cancer. Some girls just like their heads shaved, and I’m one of them.” 

The woman huffed and stormed away. I later overheard her talking on the phone about “that poor girl with the shaved head”. I told my boyfriend and his sister about it, and they both agreed she was either nuts or trying to be a good person and thought I was being stubborn.

I grew up in the southern United States, where you are still likely to see the remains of family graveyards. It used to be very common for families to bury deceased loved ones on their own property. No matter where you are, though, tampering with any gravesite without appropriate approval or permission by the family or landowner is a felony. That means it’s punishable by jail time and/or a large fine, depending on your state’s laws.

One of these family graveyards was in the lot next to my childhood home. It was so old we couldn’t read the headstones anymore, but it still had the original iron fence around it. When the neighborhood was developed, the realtor who plotted out the lots bought that one, since it couldn’t be built on anyway. He was also our neighbor down the street. 

I also grew up in one of those small southern towns that frowns upon anyone going outside of what is considered “normal” behavior. We saw it firsthand when my parents got divorced in the early 1990s. On top of the gossip about getting divorced, my mom also chose to live alone and never date or remarry again, which was “unusual”. Both my parents were much happier being divorced, which in turn made me happier, so I never saw anything wrong with it.

Now, I am a freshman in college, living a few hours away. I get a call from my mom and she’s laughing her a** off. 

There is this woman who lives on the other end of my mom’s neighborhood. No one likes her because she goes out of her way to be mean; she’s just a miserable person. Her own husband once said to my dad that it was “easier to put up with her than to try to divorce her.” She’s THAT kind of person.

My mom was looking out her window and saw a guy in his twenties walking around the old graveyard with a set of post-hole diggers and bolt cutters. She called the neighbor who owned the lot and he asked her to drive over and see if the guy worked for the city or something until he got there. Turns out, the guy was doing yard work for extra money, and he said [Miserable Lady] had given him “permission” to DIG UP part of the fence and bring it to her. She wanted it for her TOMATO PLANTS. When my mom told him it was a felony to tamper with a graveyard, no matter how old, the kid started to panic. 

Luckily, the owner arrived and started handling the situation. But I guess someone else had tipped off [Miserable Lady] because here she came in her own car. She screeched to a stop next to my mom’s car and started screaming out the window at her. After letting her go for a few minutes, my mom rolled down the window and calmly told her that she had no legal right to mess with the graveyard.

Miserable Lady: “Why don’t you mind your own business, b****? You know, I always heard you were crazy! Now I know it’s true!”

And my mom — my sweet, little, kill-them-with-kindness mom — smiled at her.

Mom: “That’s funny, I’ve heard the same thing about you.”

My girlfriend and I have bought our first home and are waiting for the exchange. The previous owners seemed nice, if a little full-on (intense). They apologised throughout the viewings, promising to fix everything that honestly wasn’t up to scratch. We got a few of the things agreed as part of the sale.

We get the keys and drive over. We can see from the outside that several things haven’t been done. The fence still has a hole in it and the outside light still hasn’t been put back together.

Inside is the same — barely even what you would call clean.

Girlfriend: “Wow. They really didn’t lift a finger to help us, did they?”

Me: “After all their promises, as well.”

I take the box of kitchen stuff and she grabs the living room stuff.

Girlfriend: “Hey, look at this.”

I head to the living room. Instead of painting over the horrible mural as they promised, they stuck thirty or forty wall stickers all saying, “Welcome,” to it.

Me: “What the f***?”

Girlfriend: “I mean, it would have been quicker and surely cheaper to just paint it, right?”

Me: “Oh, man. What were they thinking?” *Peels a sticker off* “Look, it’s taking the paint off with it!”

We stayed up all night getting rid of the stupid stickers and painting over the ugly mural. We still joke about the not very welcome welcome.

One fall Friday, I took my two-year-old Dalmatian — named Coach, for obvious reasons — to watch my seventeen-year-old son’s football team play another local team. The game was played in the afternoon, so Coach and I easily found first-row bleacher seats near midfield. My son was a defensive back, and with constant player substitutions, I sometimes had trouble figuring out where he was on the field, but not Coach.

In the game’s third quarter, [Son] fielded a punt and started to run upfield before being gang-tackled by opposing team members. Suddenly, Coach pulled the leash from my hand and ran onto the field, literally jumping on top of the pile of players and growling and ferociously protecting [Son]. For a few short moments, it was pure bedlam, with players disentangling from the pile and retreating more quickly than most had probably ever run before on a football field.

I ran, too, straight onto the field, yelling Coach’s name as loudly as I could — confusing all the real team coaches, I am sure. I grabbed the leash and walked the dog back to our bleacher row seat. No one was hurt, thankfully, but a few minutes later, the referee blew his whistle to stop the game and came over to our sideline seats.

Referee: “Mister, you are going to have to move the dog. The other team is afraid to run to your side of the field.”

We watched the rest of the game from the other side of the field, and while it didn’t happen, I truly believe if my son had tried to return another punt, he could have walked the whole way untouched.

I’m driving my car with my best friend and her brother as passengers. I haven’t seen her brother in many years, since I moved over a decade ago.

Brother: “So, what have you been up to?”

Me: “Well, I had a baby.”

Brother: “Yeah, I can see that.”

Friend: “What’s that supposed to mean?! She looks great!”

Me: “No, he can see because he’s crammed in between two empty car seats in the back seat.”

Brother: “Yeah, I had to climb over them to get in.”

Friend: “Oh, yeah!”