I work at a major international coffee chain. I am doing this job only because I need it and living in Vancouver is expensive.

We’re at a regular all-staff meeting.

Management: “We have a new policy to save costs. From now on, when charities come in asking if we can donate food or coffee for their events, we are going to instead offer them volunteers.”

Me: *Over-enthusiastically* “So, we get to volunteer when people ask us for donations?”

Management: “Yeah! We’ll have signup sheets in here so staff can sign up to volunteer when they’re off shift.”

Me: *Still excited* “So, instead of donating food, we get to give them our free time and volunteer on behalf of [Major Company]!”

Management: “Yep. We’re glad you’re so enthusiastic about the changes.”

My coworker whispers to another barista, my friend.

Coworker: “I can’t tell if [My Name] is weirdly excited about her job or if she really hates it.”

Friend: “She definitely hates it. So much, she’s snapped.”

My sister is making a cake, and I notice that there seems to be an awful lot of batter for the size of the pans.

Me: “I don’t think that’s going to fit.”

Sister: “I followed the recipe.”

Me: “Can I see?”

I skim the recipe and notice that it calls for twenty-three-centimetre pans.

Me: “Your pans are way too small.”

Sister: “No, I didn’t want the cake to be that big, so I cut the recipe in half.”

Me: “Okay, but your pans are still too small.”

Sister: “No, the recipe says twenty-three centimeters; these are about twelve. They’ll be fine.”

Me: “But they’re round pans.”

Sister: “So?”

Me: “So, the volume of a cylinder is pi R squared times the height. A cylinder with a radius that’s half as big will have a quarter of the volume.”

Sister: “That doesn’t make sense.”

Me: “Yes, it does. Look, five squared is twenty-five, right? And ten squared is a hundred. A pan that’s half the volume of a twenty-three-centimetre pan if it’s the same height would have a diameter of…” *does the math on my phone* “…about sixteen centimetres.”

Sister: “Well, that’s your opinion.”

Me: *Incredulous pause* “It is literally math.”

Sister: *Scoffing* “Whatever. It’ll be fine.”

Naturally, the pans overflowed in the oven and it made a huge mess. Baking is not a good place for people who are bad at math.

I have a friend who’s a little bit… off. She means well, but she sometimes goes in strange directions.

Friend: “It’s weird that they call it coconut milk. I mean, at least with almond milk or oat milk, they were deliberately trying to make something like milk, but coconuts just have the stuff inside them already.”

Me: “Right, but it is similar to milk.”

Friend: “Yes, but people from some cultures wouldn’t know that, not before they made contact with Europeans.”

Me: “Wouldn’t know what?”

Friend: “What milk is.”

Me: *Confused pause* “Why wouldn’t they know that?”

Friend: “Well, they didn’t have cows.”

Me: “Okay, but even if they had no domestic animals at all, they’d still know what milk is.”

Friend: “How could they possibly know that?”

Me: “[Friend]. Humans make milk.”

Friend: “Not without animals! Where would they get it from?”

Me: “From their boobs?”

My husband and I are Canadian. When our daughter is eight months old, we drive to British Columbia to stay with my parents for a while, and then we plan to drive to Seattle and stay there for a day or two. This, for some reason, gives my mother a great deal of anxiety.

Mum: “I do wish you’d change your mind about going to Seattle.”

Me: “Why? [Husband] and I spent some time there on our honeymoon and we really liked it. We wanted to revisit some of the places we remember.”

Mum: “It’s the United States, though.”

Me: “And?”

Mum: “Someone might kidnap [Daughter].”

Me: “What? She’s no more likely to be kidnapped there than she is here.”

Mum: “Well, what if you leave her outside in her stroller while you and [Husband] are shopping? Someone could grab her!”

Me: “Are you kidding? I would never do that in a million years, no matter where I was!”

Mum: *Not listening* “Please, just promise me that you won’t leave her outside a shop alone in her stroller.”

Me: “Sure, Mum. You have my word.”

I thought that was the end of it, but no. Both Mum and Dad tackled my husband separately and begged him to get me to change my mind about going to Seattle. He politely told them that our plans were not going to change. We had a wonderful time there, by the way, and our daughter wasn’t kidnapped.

Related:
Ah, Mothers, Part 8
Ah, Mothers, Part 7
Ah, Mothers, Part 6
Ah, Mothers, Part 5
Ah, Mothers, Part 4

A customer brings an item to the till. It comes to about $16, and when she opens her wallet I clearly see a $20 bill. She puts down $2.

Customer: *Whining* “That’s all I have! Is that okay? Can I take it?”

Me: “I’m sorry, I need the full amount.”

I don’t mention that I saw a twenty in her wallet. She puts down a few dollars more.

Me: “I still need the full amount.”

Customer: *Still whining* “But I need money for the bus!”

This continued for quite a while until she finally paid the actual amount for the item and left.