I answer the phone as I am the closest to it when it rings.

Me: “Thank you for calling [Store]. How can I help you?”

Caller: “My name is [Caller], and my social security number is—”

They start saying numbers which I immediately tune out.

Me: “Uh, wait. Please stop. Who are you trying to call?”

Caller: *Pauses for a brief moment* “My name is [Caller], and my social security number is—”

Me: “Who are you trying to call?”

Caller: *Pauses again* “My name is—”

Me: “Please stop. Who are you trying to call?”

Caller: “The bank.”

Me: “You have the wrong number.”

The caller hung up without another word. Why would you try to give your social security number over the phone like that?!

In hindsight, I would have immediately said we were the wrong number, but I was just so caught off guard in the moment. I don’t even know which bank they were trying to call because our number isn’t close to any of our local banks.

I sincerely hope this person thought to verify they had the correct number with whoever they tried next before giving someone everything they needed to steal the caller’s identity.

Related:
Social Insecurity, Part 8
Social Insecurity, Part 7
Social Insecurity, Part 6
Social Insecurity, Part 5

It has been pointed out by various people in my life that I have some kind of color blindness. Some colors just look too similar for me to be able to tell apart. It’s not really been an issue in my life thus far, so I haven’t sought out any sort of treatment. This story is about the first time it really occurred to me that I might not see colors the same way other people do.

I was a senior in my high school chemistry class. Within the last five years or so of this story, our school had installed SMART boards in every classroom. I don’t know if these are a thing everywhere else in the world, but think of them like giant touch-screen whiteboards that you can draw on digitally and use as a computer display. These come with four pens that each draw in a different color — black, red, blue, and green — as well as an eraser.

Our teacher was going through slides on the board and making notes on each slide to point out certain things to us, and we were instructed to take notes along with what she was saying and writing. She was using, I believe, the blue colored pen to write. I snickered to myself as she was writing because the pen had clearly malfunctioned, and while she was writing, nothing was actually being written on the board. This went on for a minute or two, and I thought it was funny that she didn’t seem to notice after writing so much.

I looked around the room to see if anyone else had noticed since she didn’t seem to, but everyone was dutifully taking notes — notes that I couldn’t see because the blue color was blending into whatever color the slide was. (I think it was a shade of purple, maybe.) It dawned on me that I just couldn’t see that shade of blue on that particular colored slide. I wanted to take notes despite being a little embarrassed, so I raised my hand to make it known to my teacher.

Me: “[Teacher], could you please swap to a different colored pen? I really cannot read that color on that background. Like, I can’t see what you’re writing at all.”

I would imagine that any teacher who gives a fart about their job might inquire into this a bit, or at the very least politely acknowledge my request and carry on with the lecture. I was met with silence and a dirty look. To her credit, she did swap pens before carrying on.

It’s not the most interesting story, but ten years later, it still kind of flabbergasts me that a young person may be showing signs of a disability and some teachers just could not care less. I was more of an annoyance to her than anything else.

This story takes place when I am about eighteen years old, still living at home with my dad and going to live with my mom every other week. It used to be just every other weekend, but I have a car now, so I want to spend more time with her. One of the things I like most about staying with Mom is that she lives in a major town, so she actually has much higher-speed Internet than my dad, who lives out in the country and has to use a different provider. The computer is the focus of this story.

I like spending time on that computer playing flash games and watching videos when I’m not using the Internet to play console games online with friends. Mom likes using it to shop online and play those old Facebook games like “Farmville”. She spends a LOT of time on that computer — many might say too much. 

One week, I come over and unpack only to find that the computer is gone. All of it. There’s no monitor, no tower, and no cables — just an empty desk where it used to be. My mom isn’t home at the time, but one of my sisters is. Naturally, I am curious, so I ask her what happened to it.

Sister: “You need to ask Mom.”

Her tone of voice is serious, but she has a big smile on her face. I’m not sure how to take that. Given an entire year and infinite knowledge, I still probably could not guess what I am about to hear. Eventually, Mom comes home, and I ask her about the computer. She sighs, covers her face in shame, and sits down to tell me.

Mom: “Well, when I turned on the computer the other day, there was this pop-up that came out of nowhere. It was a scary picture of Obama with black eyes, and it said that he and the NSA were spying on me through the computer. So, I took it outside to the burn pile and set it on fire.”

I don’t know what kind of sites Mom or anyone else in the house was on, but you can guess that somebody had installed some kind of nasty software at some point. It was clear from her story that someone had already explained to her just how… extra… her reaction was. We ended up getting a laptop a few weeks later. 

Love you, Mom.

I work in a small public library where one of my jobs is to walk the floor and help patrons find books or any other resource they need. While working there I start taking medicines that have the unfortunate side-effect of me gaining weight, so a lot of patrons/staff notice, and a few decide they just have to say something about it.

Patron: “Oh, I haven’t seen you in forever, just look at you absolutely glowing!”

Me: “Ah, hi, and thank you. How are you?”

Patron: “I’m doing great, I bet you’re just so excited!”

Me: *Absolutely confused.* “Huh?”

At this point, the patron comes into my personal bubble and stretches her hands out to each side of my stomach.

Patron: “So when are you due? Do you know the sex yet?”

Still shocked I gently grab her hand and then look her straight in the eyes.

Me: “I’m not pregnant, I’m just fat.”

Patron looks mortified, she takes her hands away in an instant.

Patron: “Oh, well…I…I, bye.”

The patron leaves the library and I never saw her again.

Related:
Better Have A Big Fat Apology, Part 12
Better Have A Big Fat Apology, Part 11
Better Have A Big Fat Apology, Part 10
Better Have A Big Fat Apology, Part 9
Better Have A Big Fat Apology, Part 8

The front desk of our library is situated facing our non-fiction and DVD sections, so when patrons come in, their backs are toward those sections. In most instances, though, when you walk through the front doors you’ll immediately see that our non-fiction section wraps around to the patrons’ view. Except in this case…

Patron: “Hey, where are your books at?”

Me: “Are you looking for a specific title or author?”

Patron: “No, just where are your books?”

Me: “Umm… Behind you, sir, is our non-fiction. Fiction is upstairs.”

The patron turns around, looks shocked, and turns back to me.

Patron: “So, what is this place? Like a government base or something?”

Me: “We’ll we’re the [City] library, so yes, we are a government building.”

The patron looks confused and glances around again.

Patron: “That’s wild. So, can I have a book?”

Me: “Well, you can check out a max of twenty-five items at a time, but you’ll have to return them on the due date.”

The patron took a look around again, mumbled to himself about the government, and left.