(I volunteer at an animal shelter. We have a man who has driven for an hour and a half to adopt a cat for his wife’s birthday as a surprise. He works in the mines 14 days on, 7 days off, so he usually does not go out on his days off, and apparently, his wife finds this suspicious. He receives a phone call just as he is finalising the paperwork. I cannot hear her end of the conversation.)

Man: *phone rings* “Oh, hello, honey. What’s up?” *wife speaks* “Oh, I am just out.” *wife speaks* “I just had some things to do.”

(His wife speaks a little louder.) 

Man: “Yeah, I know it’s my day off. I just had some things to get!”

(His wife speaks, if possible, louder.) 

Man: “All right, all right, all right! Woman, I’m getting you a birthday present!”

(There is silence for a moment before she speaks again.) 

Man: “No, I’m not going to tell you what it is!… No… No… NO!… If you keep guessing I am putting it back.”

(The kitten decides to meow at him at that moment. There is silence, and then an audible squeal comes out of the phone. He sighs.)

Man: “I will see you soon.” *hangs up* “So much for surprises.”

(I am working at a customer support center for a popular online video game.)

Me: “Hello, support.”

Caller: “Hi, my son can’t get into his account.”

(I verify her information and pull up the account.)

Me: “Ma’am, it seems you son’s account was suspended because he violated community guidelines.”

Caller: “What does that mean?”

(I get the report open and my jaw drops. He was reported for harassment. Gamers are infamous trash-mouths, but this one of the disgusting guys who harassed our female players. And I have his mother on the line.)

Me: “It looks like your son was reported for harassing another player. Do you know if he was using his account last Saturday?”

Caller: “Oh, yes, that was him. What did he do? Did he swear?”

Me: “Among other things. Do you have an email address that I can send a copy of our suspension notice and transcript of the event in question?”

(She gives me her email and keeps talking while I type and send.)

Caller:  “I don’t see how you can ban him for a little swearing? I read the rating; don’t the characters swear? What did he say that was so bad?”

Me: “I am not comfortable repeating it. Did you get the email?”

Caller: “Yes, I—”

(She goes very quiet.)

Me: “Ma’am?”

Caller: *she talks in that deadly, angry-mother tone*“Thank you for informing me of this. Unfortunately I will need to cancel his account.”

Me: “I will go ahead and do that for you. Can I help you with anything else today?”

Caller: “No, thank you. I have to go talk to my son now.”

(I didn’t stop grinning all day long, knowing at least one online harasser met justice.)

(I’m about eight months pregnant with triplets, and I’ve heard about a great maternity store in the upscale mall. Unfortunately all the clothes I can find are barely XL. The salesperson who’s been glaring at me finally comes over.)

Salesperson: *snidely* “Can I help you?”

Me: “I was looking for some larger sizes.”  *I rest my hands on my belly and laugh a little*

Salesperson: “I’m sorry; I don’t think we have anything in YOUR size.”

Me: “Oh, you’ve sold out? Are you going to be getting in anything new this week?”

Salesperson: “No, these are the only sizes we carry. This is a store for pregnant women, not fatties.”

(I just turned and walked out. When I came back to that mall with my three-month-old daughters and son, they were out of business.)

(I am married to a dairy farmer and, as a tomboy, have a long history with guns, knives, and other such implements. My older sister is the exact opposite of myself and literally is unable to even change a light bulb. We are opening Christmas presents at a distant country relative’s house and I have my good knife on me, an automatic double edged 5″ blade. I am using it to open tough plastic packaging.)

Sister: “Let me use your knife real quick.”

Me: *hesitating* “Are you sure? It’s really heavy, and both edges are sharp. I brought my whetstone with me and I was bored last night, so it’s… really sharp.”

Sister: “It’s fine. I know what I’m doing. Give! I’m older, so listen to me.”

Me: “Uh…okay. You’re sure? It’s really sharp. The blade is automatic and locks in place. The framing is metal. This isn’t a real forgiving blade here.”

Sister: “Give me the d*** knife.”

(I give it to her with the blade already extended, handle first.)

Me: “Make sure to cut away from your body and keep all your fingers away from the cutting angle.”

Sister: “I know what I’m doing!”

(Five seconds later, she cuts herself, and the knife plunges a good half inch into her hand. She screams, drops the knife, and blood actually spurts across the room. I calmly grab her hand, drag her to the kitchen, and run cold water over the wound while pulling up a local emergency center on my phone. Finding one, I wrap her hand and drive her there. She complains the entire time that my knife was too sharp, that I should’ve stopped her, that it was irresponsible of me, etc. The doctor asks her what happened. I find myself jumping in, exasperated.)

Me: “She decided to be a know-it-all dumba** and pretend she knew something about using a knife. So instead of listening to her tomboy, Smith and Wesson-toting, Winchester-loving, little sister, she thought she’d be a right cute city slicker and do everything the wrong way.”

Doctor: “Ah.” *looks at my sister* “We don’t look too kindly on stupidity in the country, missy. Listen to your sister next time.”

Sister: “But it was sharp!”

Doctor: “It’s a knife. It’s supposed to be.” *to me* “I know you’re carrying right now. Do me a favor and keep her away from it. She’ll blow her entire foot off next time.”

(I am working behind the counter. The only other people in the shop are a woman and a small boy. The boy is rushing about, shouting and being boisterous. This goes on for several minutes.)

Customer: “Why don’t you tell that child to stop running around?”

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought he was with you.”

Customer: “He is.”

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