One of my kids is allergic to peanuts, tree nuts, sesame seeds, and their oils — oh, and garden peas — but not other legumes.

One school wanted to keep their EpiPens locked in a secure cabinet. Which was locked in a secure walk-in cupboard. Which was accessed via a secure strongroom that was always kept locked. Which opened off the Head’s Study. Which was locked whenever they weren’t in the room.

When I — and other parents of children with EpiPens — went and asked the Head and the Bursar how much the school was worth, they wanted to know why.

Me: “So we know how much to sue you for when one of our kids dies because people can’t find the keys in time.”

Suddenly, every classroom was issued with a secure medications cabinet, which was accessed either by entering a code on the pin-pad or hitting the big, red medical emergency alarm button above the cabinet. (It was beyond the reach of little kids, very loud and scary, and designed to summon help QUICKLY. It couldn’t be switched off without the special key, which was only issued to the Head, the Bursar, and the Secretary.)

In Germany, we have mandatory ESL (English as a second language) classes in school, starting from elementary school. All English classes in German schools are catered toward people who only learn English as a second language and don’t speak it regularly outside of school. Even most English teachers only ever learned it as their second language.

As such, my high school was wholly unprepared for me; having spent almost all of my childhood up to that point abroad and naturally growing up German/English bilingual, I am fluent in both languages.

Sadly, my teacher in my final year of high school was not. In fact, she had only recently started teaching, had very little authority, knowledge, or any idea of what she was doing, and made up for it by being as obnoxiously high and mighty as they come. English was the first language you ever spoke and you were, thus, fluent? Nope, that was a lie, and you could not possibly be more fluent than her. After all, she was the teacher.

She hated the fact that I would just read (English) novels in class but would still always be able to answer her questions and fill out our worksheets flawlessly. After just the first week of classes, she had it out for me. When she handed us back our first graded tests later, it really showed: I — a straight-A student — had gotten a D.

But it wasn’t just me; the entire class got an average of two to three grades below their usual results. And that’s when I noticed something on my test: she had marked countless words and phrases on my test as “wrong” or “misspelled” or “made up” — when they were all perfectly correct — and deducted a full point for every single one. I whipped out a dictionary and Post-its and went to work, proving every single mark-up the teacher had given me wrong. I pointed this out to my friends in class, too, and told them to check their own results, and soon I ended up with the entire class’ stack of graded tests to re-correct them.

It turned out that our teacher had, apparently, never gotten past the cover page of a dictionary, and her “corrections” were all blatantly wrong. The class and I went up to her and tried to point out her wrongful “corrections” to her with the help of a dictionary, the Internet, and common sense, but she was having none of it.

We eventually escalated the matter to the head of the language department at our school who then re-graded all of our tests. The average score went from a D- to a B, and my own grade went back up to an A.

And our class teacher was livid when she was no longer allowed to grade tests. She tried her hardest to make my life in her class miserable for the rest of the year, and she never missed a chance to tell me how full of myself I was and how she’d make me come to my senses once she’d get to fail me in my finals. (Never mind that she wasn’t allowed to grade us anymore, especially not on our finals).

I got through the year with her out of spite alone, but I have to say, when I got to rub my fifteen points (full score, A+, for everyone unfamiliar with the German grading system) in her face during our award ceremony at the end of the year — the only one in the entire school who got full score in the English final exams — and watch her stalk off while barely keeping it together in front of all the other teachers, that was a beautifully cathartic moment!

I was a cashier at a fast food restaurant on weekends when I was in my teens. It wasn’t much money, but I wanted to work, and they were the only place that would hire me.

Between a Saturday and a Sunday, several of our prices went up — ten cents here, fifty cents there. Nobody told me about it, but I found out quite quickly. My very first customer of the day was a man in his forties.

Me: “Hi, how—”

Customer: “[Burger meal], large chocolate shake.”

Me: “Okay. A [burger meal] and a large chocolate shake comes to [new total].”

Customer: “What? No, it’s [old total].”

Me: “Um… a [Burger meal] and a large chocolate shake, right?”

Customer: “Yeah. How is it more today than it was last week?”

Me: “I… uh… I just put it in, and—”

Customer: *Louder* “Are you trying to rip me off? Do you think I’m f****** stupid?”

Manager: “[My Name]! What is going on?” *Gently* “How can I help you, sir?”

Customer: “This girl is trying to steal from you and me! She said my meal is [new total], but it should be [old total].”

Manager: “I see. I apologize, sir; corporate did raise some of our prices last night. Let me fix that for you. I will give you yesterday’s price, but going forward it will be the new price. Would you like a free apple pie for your inconvenience?”

Customer: “Yes. And train this one to learn to read, too.”

Me: “I was—”

Manager: “Of course, sir. Your meal will be out in a minute. [My Name], come with me.”

I followed him to fill the fries and shake. I was pretty upset by the whole ordeal.

Manager: “We raised some prices. If anyone causes a scene, just call for me and I’ll tell them it was corporate, and I’ll honor the old price for today only.”

Me: “Okay… Why wasn’t I told there were new prices?”

Manager: “We don’t have time to hold your hand. Go take this to the customer and apologize for the confusion.”

I went back to my register and put everything on the tray.

Me: “Here is your order, sir. Have a nice day.”

Customer: *Yelling* “You f***ed up my order! You stupid b****! I—”

A regular elderly gentleman who only ever ordered a senior coffee came up and cracked his cane on the register counter. Everyone around us stopped.

Regular: “If my child ever talked to a young lady like that, I’d have whooped him good and sent him to bed without supper.”

Customer: *Flustered* “I was—”

Regular: “I saw. The whole store saw. On your way, son.”

The man took his tray and sat down. My manager rushed over and grabbed me by the arm.

Manager: “What was that?!”

Regular: “I have daughters, and I’ll be d***ed to Hell before I let anyone treat them like he treated her. Only makes sense to watch the other daughters, too.”

He gave my manager a hard look, and I was released.

Manager: “Oh.” *Pause* “You only get a coffee, right?”

Regular: “I do. It’s gone up, I understand.”

Manager: “[My Name], get the man his coffee. On the house.”

I do not miss those customers, that job, or the managers, but I do miss that old man.

When I was in elementary school in the mid-1990s, my friend lived in the upstairs portion of a duplex that was owned by the woman who lived downstairs. She was the definition of the neighbor from Hell. She constantly called them about being too noisy or lied about what they were doing. She would call the parents at work to complain about the kids ([Friend] had two siblings), which hilariously backfired a few times when the kids were at sports practice after school or something and the parents called her out for lying. 

I went to their house a number of times and witnessed that the slightest noise resulted in [Neighbor] banging on the ceiling with a broom. They knew that previous tenants hadn’t lasted long, and their theory was that [Neighbor] was purposely awful in order to drive people out of the house, which meant breaking their lease, meaning she could keep their deposit.

I wasn’t there for the glorious final straw, but I wish I had been.

[Friend]’s mom was pulling a casserole out of the oven when the dish slipped out of her hand and hit the floor. The dish shattered, which splashed hot casserole on Mom’s feet and legs and caused some of the glass to cut her. There was an immediate banging from the floor below, at which point [Friend]’s dad had had it. He told the kids to start stomping and don’t stop. [Friend] told me they stomped throughout the house for twenty minutes straight (surely an exaggeration, but you get the idea) and had a lot of fun doing so. 

When Dad finally told them to stop, he went downstairs and told [Neighbor] what had happened with the casserole dish and that her reaction was unacceptable. Instead of coming to check on them after hearing such a big crash and someone yelling in pain, her banging on the ceiling was irrational. He told her that from then on, if she ever did it again, he was going to tell the kids to start stomping again.

She was good for a couple of days, and then she banged again, which started the stomping, after which Dad went downstairs and told her he wasn’t joking; it WOULD happen every… single… time.

Apparently, they had stomped so hard and for so long that they had shaken the popcorn off the ceiling. Popcorn ceilings were pretty popular in houses built in the 1970s, and I know from experience that the stuff is a nightmare to clean up.

At some point shortly after that, [Neighbor]’s son came to visit, and she must have complained to him. The son went to talk to the family and apologized, basically saying:

Neighbor’s Son: “I know my mom is awful and that you guys aren’t bad. You’re actually much better than other tenants we’ve had. I have talked to her, and she will not bother you anymore.”

After that, the relationship didn’t become friendly, but it at least became strained ignorance of each other, which was better than what it had been.

I’m driving a school bus full of high school students, covering for a coworker who’s out sick. As I glance in the student mirror, I see two students throwing something. (Spoiler, for those concerned: it ends up NOT being any sort of bodily fluid or other human excreta.)

I pull the bus over to the shoulder of the road, turn off the engine, and take the keys out of the ignition so I can walk back to where they’re sitting to investigate. As I’m doing this, I see another student touch her hair and remark in a disgusted tone that this has happened “again”. 

I can now see that she’s using her hands to wipe MAYONNAISE out of her hair. I grab a roll of shop towels (essentially very thick paper towels — all our buses have some on board) and give her a few as I walk to the students who threw it. I hand the roll to them.

Me: “I am not moving this bus until you clean up the mayonnaise from the seats and floor.”

One student sighs and reaches for the towels, but the other scoffs at me.

Student #2: “Really? You’re serious?”

Me: *Still holding out the towels* “Yes. I didn’t think I’d have to tell high schoolers not to throw condiments on the school bus, but here we are. You need to clean up your mess, and I’m not moving the bus until you do. I’m paid by the hour; take your time.”

The other student looks like he is about to argue further, but the rest of the school bus quickly shuts him down with calls of, “Come on, I want to get home!” and, “You shouldn’t have done that anyway!” and so on.

Both boys get the mess cleaned up in a couple of minutes — using all the towels in the process — and put the dirty towels in the bus trash can. When they’re back in their seats, I start the bus and get everyone home. I hear a few students commenting that they’re surprised I was actually watching their behavior, and they are relieved that I’m not putting up with nonsense.

I also drive that same route the following morning. When the two students who threw the mayonnaise get on, I greet them with a smile.

Me: “Good morning! Is all food securely stored in your backpack?”

Students: *Resigned* “Yes.”

Me: “Fantastic. Thank you. I brought two new rolls of shop towels. I assume I won’t have to give you any, though.”

They behaved for me. I hope they continued to when their regular driver returned!

Related:
A Big Mayo No No, Part 9
A Big Mayo No No, Part 8
A Big Mayo No No, Part 7
A Big Mayo No No, Part 6
A Big Mayo No No, Part 5