My mom has two dogs who are both spoiled absolutely rotten and too smart for their own good sometimes. They both particularly love Frosty Paws, a dog ice cream which seems to alternate between being very easy to find at local supermarkets and notoriously exclusive to certain big box stores, instead.

Usually, my mother is willing to try different shops to find the elusive treats, but with the current outbreak and family health concerns, it’s been near impossible. We can’t even mention the name in front of the dogs unless we want to deal with several minutes of dramatic doggie whining and begging.

Being a grocer and thus essential, it becomes my mission to find said ice cream. I am lucky enough to discover one box at a store near my work. The delivery, however, goes down like a covert operation as I place the treats in a lunch box so the dogs don’t see the packaging.

Stepdad: “What are you doing here?”

I hold up the lunch box while trying to keep it as far as possible from the dogs, who are very excited to see me.

Me: “I got them.”

Sister: “Them?”

I look between the dogs and the bag.

Me: “THEM.”

Stepdad: *Lightbulb moment* “You got FPs?”

Me: “It took three stores, but I got one box.”

Stepdad: “Oh, you are a f****** hero.”

We make our way into the kitchen where my mother joins in asking why I’ve shown up. The dogs, meanwhile, have mostly calmed down but are circling.

Stepdad: “She found FPs.”

Mom: “Seriously?! Oh, we’re gonna have happy puppies.”

She takes the lunchbox and attempts to stealthily unload the contents into the freezer as it took me some time to get to the house and they must refreeze.

Sister: “Wait, did you get the PB flavor?”

Me: “Beggars can’t be choosers, but yeah.”

Sister: “Oh, very happy puppies.”

Of course, then the dogs started losing their minds all over again because they caught sight of what Mom was unloading, and they proceeded to park their butts in front of the freezer and start up their Frosty Paws crying.

Happy ending: they were over the moon when they finally received their icy treats.

This happened when I was about thirteen, long before mobile phones were around. 

My parents were members of a motorcycle club affiliated with the military base where my dad worked. The base encouraged active-duty personnel to join the club in order to help reduce the number of injuries and deaths which tend to happen frequently when young service members get their hands on a motorcycle.

One of the ways the club did this was by organizing fun events, such as poker runs or weekend camping in the Sierra Nevada mountains, about two hours’ drive east of the base. 

The club had spent the holiday weekend at a National Park high in the Sierras, and the twenty or so motorcycles and two cars were heading back to the base. Once we finally hit a freeway, the club stopped at a highway rest area for a bathroom break and to stretch our legs a bit. I’d been riding as a passenger behind my dad, the club president, all the way down the mountains. When we stopped, I wandered around a bit until the line in the men’s room went away and then used the restroom myself.

I finished up, washed my hands, and walked back out to the parking area to find that the club had left without me.

I was ever-so-slightly freaked out — not quite in tears, but completely panic-stricken. A man and woman who rode bikes — but were not in any way affiliated with the club — saw me freaking out and managed to get a coherent explanation from me. I asked if they had a CB radio, because several club members had radios on their bikes and so did both chase cars. They did not have a CB, and there weren’t any eighteen-wheelers at the rest area at the time.

I was just about ready to try calling the police, but the two bikers said we’d probably be able to catch the club before they got too far ahead. I knew which way the club would be going — we’d used the same route every time we went camping — and most of the club members were wearing identical windbreakers with a distinctive color, which I was also wearing.

I still had my helmet, so I rode behind the woman while the man tore off down the freeway at a significant fraction of light speed. The woman followed at a much slower speed. We ended up riding for about thirty miles when I saw my dad on his bike and the male biker who was helping me running flat-out on the other side of the freeway, heading back toward the rest area.

I pointed them out to the woman rider, and she pulled off onto the shoulder to wait for them. My dad and the woman’s partner arrived a couple of minutes later. I thanked both of them profusely, and so did my dad, and we waved goodbye as they left. Dad drove us back to the base to catch up to the rest of the club, where I found out why I’d been left behind.

When I didn’t show up at my dad’s bike, he assumed I’d chosen to ride in one of the chase cars for the rest of the trip. Since I’d been riding with my dad before the rest area stop, the people in the chase cars assumed I was still doing that. It wasn’t until the other biker caught up to the club and flagged them down that anyone realized I was missing.

Because I was a fairly typical teenage male and more than a little freaked out at being abandoned, I’m now ashamed to say I never got the names of the two bikers who’d helped me. They’d gone considerably out of their way to help a freaked-out thirteen-year-old stranger. I can only hope they earned plenty of good karma for their trouble.

My parents were never allowed to live down the fact that they’d abandoned their oldest child at a California rest area, and the club imposed a new rule requiring the Road Captain — the rider in charge of the group when we were on the road, selecting the routes and deciding when and where to stop for gas or food, etc. — to double-verify everyone was accounted for before the club got on the road.

This story was featured in our May 2020 roundup!

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In our fitting room, like many other retail locations, as guests exit, they are encouraged to hand us their rejected clothing so we can process it and add it to a rack of go-backs. I don’t know why many people expect this rack to contain anything other than what’s already out on the floor, but I am constantly trying to gently encourage people away from it, especially since it’s not even readily accessible; it’s literally in associate space.

A customer is rifling through the already precariously full go-back rack. Some things are already flung over it due to being folds. I approach them cheerfully.

Me: “Hey there! Are you looking for anything specific?”

Customer: “Nope, just seeing if I missed anything!”

Me: “Just so you know, this rack is a rack of go-backs guests have just tried on. Everything here is already placed throughout the store, and in much more pristine condition! I can definitely help you find something you like, if you want!”

The customer literally shoves past me to the rack of sale go-backs, which are even further into associates-only space.

Customer: “Nope, I’m fine! Oh, there was a sale top. Another girl grabbed it. Is it here?”

We try to find it and eventually conclude it must still be in a room. She leaves and I start straightening up the disaster she made. Seconds later, another customer comes in and starts yelling.

Customer #2: “My sister was just in here and you made her feel very unwelcome and condescended to! You have a very mean tone and we do not like you! Frankly, we find you very racist!” 

Me: *Startled* “Excuse me?”

Always remember: there are untold goodies on the go-back rack… even though everything on it is straight off the floor.

The law school at my university offers a “legal aid clinic,” where students can get free legal advice. This story does not take place there. It takes place in the philosophy department with a philosophy professor.

Professor: *Answering phone* “Hello, this is [Professor].”

Long pause.

Professor: “Oh, you must want the legal aid clinic. Let me find you their number.”

Longer pause.

Professor: “So, you want to know if there’s an ethical argument here before you consider a legal one?”

Very long pause.

Professor: “No. It’s not ethical to sue your mother because she gave your dog an unoriginal name.”

He hangs up and turns to a colleague.

Professor: “How do I make this an unlisted number?”

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I’m working night audit and I get a phone call at 4:45 am. A woman asks about the hotel and everything and makes a reservation.

Me: “Okay, your reservation number is [number].”

Caller: “Thanks. And by the way, what city are you located in?”