My dad moved for work to a small country town in the outback. Actually, I think we were a hamlet or a village, technically. The point is that it was a very small place with a lot of old, white, salt-of-the-earth men. The white-haired Boomer-generation man who ran the local hardware store was exactly what you’d expect from a man running a hardware store in a small farming town. 

That made it even more surprising that said hardware owner agreed to let me work there on weekends. I am weedy, I have never nailed a wall in my life, and my clothing choices lean to the swishy-skirt side of nonbinary. I was not who you expected in a hardware store.

Still, money was money, and I wanted to make a good impression. On my first day, I wore my manliest pants and a nice button-down shirt. The owner greeted me and, in order, showed me how to work the register and how to search his inventory database and then got down to running down with me the details for how I’d be paid and what he wanted me to do if I had to call in sick.

Owner: “Now, I think that’s the basics, so the rest I can show you on the— Oh, no, wait. There are questions I’m meant to ask. What was… Ah, do you have any of them pronouns?”

Me: “Sorry?”

Owner: “Pronouns. My daughter says it’s important these days.”

Me: “Um… I prefer they/them.”

Owner: “That all?”

Me: “Like, do I use other pronouns? Nooooot really?”

Owner: “All righty, you show me how to do that later. And if you change your mind, no tails on the floors.”

Me: “Wait, tails?”

Owner: “My grandkid, she and her mom come up for the holidays, and she’ll wear them cat ears, but tails aren’t safe when you’re moving pallets. The identity stuff is all well and good, but we don’t compromise on safety here, understand?”

Me: “Hold up. It doesn’t bother you?”

Owner: “The old folks round here might say they’re not taking hardware advice from some cat-not-man, but they come in already thinking they know better and weren’t going to take any advice from you kids on the floor anyway. So I don’t see what difference it makes.”

Best job I ever had.

One time, I was flying out of Melbourne’s international airport, and at the security check, they had both the metal detector scanner (doorway) and full-body scanners. As someone with two hip replacements — that is, big chunks of metal inside my body — I know that the full-body scanners are the preferred option. When I got to the airport person pointing out which security point to go to, I said I needed the full body scanner as I’ve got hip replacements. I was maliciously (or so it seems) sent to the metal detector instead, despite my protests.

As you can imagine, the detector went off, and I was sent back to take off “more” three times! (I had already removed anything metallic except my wedding ring.) Eventually, they listened and got someone with the wand to come and check me over and pat me down.

After I finally got through, the supervisor confronted me.

Supervisor: “You should’ve gone through the full-body scanner!”

Me: “I tried to insist on that, but your person sent me over to the other scanner.”

I pointed to the staff member.

Supervisor: “Oh, we have no control over them or what training they undergo.”

It wasn’t a huge problem, as “be there three hours before” means there’s always too much time anyway, so it was a frustrating waste of time for security and the people behind me, but it helped pass the time.

I learned my lesson and after that made up an A4 sign to hold up saying I had the hip replacements and to get the wand before going through the first time. Some even paid attention. (NAR readers will be familiar with how well people read signs!)

One of my friends is heavily pregnant and suffering from baby-brain. She is also in peak nesting and constantly cleaning and organising the house.

Her husband doesn’t quite understand nesting and has been questioning and telling [Friend] that she doesn’t need to do all this work. [Friend] is strong-willed normally, so you know these arguments haven’t gone in her husband’s favour. He has now been told essentially to just be quiet and let her organise the house how she wants for the arrival of the baby. She will be the one home with the baby, after all.

One day, [Friend] is organising the fridge, and she is getting very frustrated as she’s doing so. She’s moving everything around to get a bulk of room. Her husband starts watching. He knows better than to question her, but he starts to smile when he sees what she is trying to fit in the fridge. He sits down and watches for a while, holding back his laughter as his pregnant wife gets more and more frustrated and it starts to manifest as anger.

After a good fifteen minutes, [Friend] slams what she’s holding on the bench, and her husband starts cracking up laughing. She turns and stares daggers at him.

Husband: *With a smile* “What are you doing, dear?”

Friend: “I’m just trying to make room in the fridge for the… toaster.”

She stopped in confusion and looked at the fridge and the toaster. She shut the fridge, put the toaster back, and started laughing after a few minutes of mixed emotions.

She no longer has issues letting her husband have input when she is organising the house.

My family and I are flying to Australia for a holiday, and my little brother is wearing a shirt with a snake on it. When we get through passport control, a middle-aged Australian lady who works there speaks to my mum in a demanding tone, pointing at my little brother.

Airport Employee: “Turn his shirt inside out right this instant!”

Mum: “Why?”

Airport Employee: “The snake on it might scare the elderly!”

Mum: “It’s a cartoon snake.”

Airport Employee: “Turn his shirt inside out right now, or I am banning you from boarding this plane!”

Not wanting to cause a scene, my mum put a jacket on my brother to cover the super cute cartoon snake. I know all the animals in Australia can kill a human, but seriously, how bad are the snakes over there that a cartoon of one is that triggering?

This story reminded me of a similar experience. In Australia, fish and chips shops are very similar to the British variety: typically small, independent fast food shops that serve deep-fried battered fish and potato chips (fat fries), amongst other things, cooked to order. Though they are independent, they typically have similar menus with similar prices, so you know what to order even if you have never been to that shop before.

I’m visiting my newish boyfriend, who moved from interstate a short while before we started dating. He and his friends haven’t had dinner, so he and a mate are heading out to get fish and chips for everyone. I’ve eaten, but I love me a deep-fried scallop (shellfish), so I ask for two of them.

They return with a single butcher paper parcel containing all the food the group ordered. It’s tightly wrapped to keep everything warm, and they open it in the middle of the table. I am scanning the spread to find my delicious morsels. Everything is deep-fried, and most of it is battered, so I have to go by size and shape. There are several fillets of fish, a lot of chips, a handful of dim sims (do not ask!) and some “potato cakes”, which are thin slices of potato, battered and deep-fried. I am not a fan. Nothing looks like a scallop.

Me: “Where are my scallops?”

[Boyfriend] points to the potato cakes.

Me: “Um, I wanted scallops, not potato cakes.”

Boyfriend: “Oh! In Queensland, we call them ‘potato scallops’ or just ‘scallops’. Sorry.”

So, I think, “Isn’t language interesting? Every day, I learn something new.” Well, it’s time to put that learning to use.

Me: “Ah! So, in Queensland, what do you ask for if you want the shellfish?”

Boyfriend:  “Scallops.”

I learnt to be very specific with food orders with him. I also refused to call peanut butter “peanut paste”. We must have standards.

Related:
Chipping Away At The Confusion