(I am not an “extreme couponer,” but I do shop the bargains and do what I can to get the most for my money. My husband works full time, but I am disabled so I’m not working. I don’t receive government assistance because my husband makes “too much,” so, between my specialist medical bills and our regular living expenses, we have to stretch every dollar as far as we can. One evening, my husband’s brother and his wife — “Brother” and “Wife” for simplicity — are over for dinner with their seven-month-old son. I just went shopping, so our cupboards are pleasantly full.)

Wife: “How do you afford all this food? [Brother] and I both work full time and we could never afford all this!”

Me: “Well, [Store] had a double coupon day, plus some sales and—“

Wife: “You coupon? Like, serious couponing?”

Me: “Well, I use them.”

Brother: *scoffs* “That’s embarrassing.”

Me: “Why?”

Brother: “I don’t know. I guess it could be worse. It’s not like you’re on food stamps, right?”

Me: “We’re not, but that’s not shameful, either.”

Brother: “I couldn’t show my face at the grocery store if [Wife] used coupons like that. Could you imagine handing over a ton of coupons like, ‘Here, give me money!’?” *laughs*

Me: “You’d hide if your wife saved you money?”

Brother: “Coupons are for poor people.”

Husband: “Okay, then we’re poor. But our poor a**es can afford all this food.”

Wife: “Don’t swear in front of [Son]!”

Me: “How can you be so closed-minded? At my birthday at [Restaurant], you screamed at the waiter because he charged you for a second plate of nachos.”

Wife: “It should have been free!”

Me: “You ordered two! Why would the second be free?”

Wife: “Because there weren’t enough chips in the first one!” *pauses* “Besides, you don’t have kids to provide for! Kids are expensive!”

Me: “Did you know they make coupons for condoms, too?”

(At this point, my in-laws suddenly remembered they had somewhere else to be and left. It’s worth noting that neither of them work low-paying jobs; one is a doctor, and the other is a CEO of a large company. I was surprised that a couple who would complain about a $7 plate of nachos would act that way about saving money. I could have shown them some great deals on baby supplies if they’d stayed!)

(It’s a Sunday afternoon, and there’s a ridiculously popular flea market close to my gym. It’s located in a small shopping area with a few other stores that are closed on Sunday and thus, nobody cares about the “customers only” parking. I broke my foot a while ago and this gym has therapists who help me get back in track. I’m not their only case, by no means the worst, and I know that a young mother, who got severely hurt during labor and is bound to a wheelchair, always has the appointment after me and needs one of the handicapped spaces. As I’m looking for a parking space, I see a car pull into the last free — of four — handicapped spaces. A young man with his family gets out.)

Me: “Sorry to bother, but do you have a licence? This is—“

Young Man: “It’s a cripple space. Yeah, if they’re going shopping, they can walk that extra few meters.”

Me: “Okay, even if that would change anything about this being illegal, the gym behind is you is open and some clients need this space. They come here for thera—“

Young Man: “Now you’re s***ting me. No gym rat needs a handicapped spot! Get lost.”

(The parking lot, as well as every other lot around, is crowded, and there’s no chance but luck to get a spot close to the gym. I’m already fed up and his attitude is the last drop. I get out of my car.)

Me: “Oh, okay, so would you like to explain to my ankle how I don’t need therapy, or would you like to explain it to the cops?”

(Getting out, my scar-covered leg becomes visible. I also wear a bright blue “stabilizer sock” underneath an aircast-like fixture wrapped around my ankle. It’s just for support during therapy, but looks pretty bad.)

Young Man: “S***, the h*** happened to you?!”

Me: “None of your business. Could you leave or would you like to see—“

(The guy got back in his car, pulled back, and drove off while yelling at his left-behind wife that they’d meet at the kebab truck. She looked frazzled, apologized, and left. I learned that my gym tried to get them all towed, but every contractor was busy keeping roads accessible. They started taking pictures of every car parking in one the spots and reporting them. The spots are still taken whenever there’s a flea market, but it feels good to know they’ll be fined.)

My school was holding an overnight charitable event for students and staff. They had various fun activities organized, including karaoke in the auditorium. A group of young boys went up on stage to sing “Kung Fu Fighting” by Carl Douglas. At some point, the music cut abruptly, and the boys’ microphones were disabled. Then, a teacher walked up on stage and shooed them away.

The people in the audience were confused. A few of them surmised the performance was interrupted because the boys were singing terribly, but I didn’t quite buy that reasoning. They weren’t the first, and certainly not the last, to sing very poorly; there were people who sang worse than they did, and they were allowed to sing the full song of their choice.

It wasn’t until later that I paid closer attention to the last lyrics that were sung, and I quote,

“There were funky Chinamen from funky Chinatown.”

I suppose this could be construed as vaguely racist. I was the only Asian student at the event, and even I didn’t clue in immediately. But it’s the 21st century, and I guess some classics just don’t stand the test of time.

(I’m over a friend’s house, hanging out with her, her husband, and their mutual friends who are also a husband and wife. The other husband is sort of a “macho” guy, someone who was a complete jock back in high school. My friend recently had to fix their backyard’s door. I’m not sure what they did, but it made it somewhat difficult to open, so you have to push on it harder than usual to get it to move. I visit often so I know how to open it already, but this is apparently the first time the other couple knew of the door change. I need to use the restroom, and the other husband notices me shouldering the door open.)

Husband: *laughing* “Did you seriously have to throw yourself against the door to get in?”

Me: “It’s hard to open!”

Friend’s Husband: “We recently fixed it so it’s, uh, sturdier now, to say the least.”

Husband: *condescending baby voice* “D’aw, so it’s too hard for the ‘wittle’ girl to get through now?”

Wife: “Don’t be an a**, [Husband].”

(I roll my eyes but ignore it for the most part. Though he’s not the type of guy I would’ve ever hung out with independently, I know they’re still friends of my friends, so I tolerate it. It’s not like he’s a real pain or anything, and I get along with the wife well enough. When I come back out, he makes another teasing remark, but we get over. Not much later, he gets up to use the restroom, as well. He’s not paying attention, still talking to the group as he walks up, turns the handle of the door, and completely smacks against the door mid-sentence.)

Husband: “What the f***?!”

(Naturally, the rest of us burst out laughing. There are even face smudges on the polished wood that he tries to rub away without success. His wife is practically in tears and is still getting bouts of giggles even after he returns. When he sits down, he makes eye contact with me, and he must see the mischievous twinkle in my eye because he holds out his hand to stop me.)

Husband: “No! Don’t. Not another word.”

Me: *grins* “I didn’t even say anything!”

(The wife’s fit of giggles starts up again. The night goes on, and eventually, it is time for the other couple to leave. As we are saying our goodbyes, the husband gives a “one moment” signal to his wife. He faces the door, puts his hand on the handle, turns it, and then practically RAMS into the door! While it’s difficult to open, it’s not THAT hard. He, of course, ends up barreling through as the door swings wide open, tripping and face-planting onto the inside carpeting.)

Friend: “Dude!”

Friend’s Husband: “Oh, Jesus.”

Wife & I: *bursts out laughing again*

(The guy’s not a lightweight when he drinks, and since he only had two or three beers, there was no explanation as to why he did this. Thankfully, his wife was driving, anyway. I haven’t seen them since, but my friend tells me that it’s a running joke that his wife opens the door for him now.)

I was the manager of a leather store, and one of the things we offered was leather stamping workshops for Cub Scouts. It was not uncommon for a den mother to bring a stray younger sibling or two along with her son and the other boys. I gave them a little piece of leather to stamp things on, just like their big brothers, and they were happy. I should also mention at this point that I am female.

In this particular case, we had the usual group of a half-dozen or so Cub Scouts, plus the den mother’s daughter, a little girl about five years old. After I’d done my talk about different types of leather, etc., we got to what the boys had been impatiently waiting for: the chance to hammer on things. As usual, I gave the little girl some tools and a bit of leather, too.

Her mother promptly took it away from her and told her, “No, honey, that’s only for boys.”