As a teen, I used to spend a big part of my summers with my grandparents on the other side of the country, which meant traveling to and from all day by train. That meant I needed something to eat and drink on the train, and since the restaurant car had ridiculously high prices for everything, I always brought my own snacks — typically some candy, a tube of Pringles (Sour Cream and Onion), and soda. My grandparents spent practically all summer at the cabin in the middle of nowhere and only came to “the civilization” twice a week to buy groceries and do laundry. (The cabin had running water, but it came from a well, and during summers, there was always a risk of running out of drinking water, so laundry was done in town.)

One summer, toward the end of my stay, my godfather and his family came from Australia to spend time in Finland. Since the cabin didn’t have the space for everyone, my godfather’s family spent the nights in town, made the roughly fifty-minute drive to the cabin every morning, and drove back in the evening.

A few days before I was going back, I asked when the next grocery trip was so that I could get my snacks for the return trip. My grandmother said that it made no sense for us to go to town for groceries when my godfather was driving back and forth every day, and that he could buy whatever I wanted. That made sense, I guess (to a point).

I was skeptical, but I gave her a detailed shopping list, which included the line “green Pringles tube”. (That’s the exact translation of what I wrote down on the list.)

The day before my return came, and my grandmother handed me a bag with my snacks. I noticed the distinct rustle of a potato chip bag, and I hadn’t asked for one, so I was alarmed. I opened the shopping bag and saw a Red Bag of Not Pringles.

I looked at my grandmother, and she spoke before I could say anything.

Grandmother: “I forgot to hand the list to [Godfather], but I called him and read the list to him, he didn’t know what ‘green [horrifically butchered words for “Pringles” and “tube”]’ meant.”

Yep, she had a habit of mispronouncing all words of foreign origin. Well, words she knew to be of foreign origin, anyway. I was SO confused when I learned to read while they were still living in the town where they raised my dad and his three brothers and noticed the difference between the Swedish place names when written and the way she was pronouncing them. And it was NOT because she didn’t speak Swedish, because she wasn’t pronouncing them like a Finnish-speaker with no knowledge of Swedish pronunciation would, either.

That is why I was skeptical when she suggested I write a shopping list instead of going to get my snacks myself, but I figured everything would be okay since all she had to do was give the list to [Godfather]. Unfortunately, I had forgotten how scatterbrained she was. Being in my mid-teens, I was… “mildly annoyed”  — I suspect I am on the autism spectrum, as I definitely do not react well when my detailed plans fall through because of someone else’s mistake, and being a teen at the time didn’t exactly help — but as usual, I calmed down quickly.

The next morning, we got in the car and started the drive to the closest town with a railway station (two hours away). The timing was such that we couldn’t stop along the way to pick up anything, so I wasn’t exactly the happiest camper around, but I wasn’t mad, either.

Well, my grandmother decided that I WAS mad at her because I declined the apple slices she was ALWAYS conjuring out of thin air and trying to stuff down our throats. (She washed and peeled the apples, but she never removed the cores and would not tolerate us leaving ANY part uneaten. She only begrudgingly allowed us to pick out the seeds.) She started crying, which caused my grandfather to get mad at me.

Ahh, fun times.

I bought a TINY (something like 40g or so) can of green Pringles on the train, for the same price as a normal 200g tube, of course, but it was better than nothing. I was not going to open the bag of chips on the train because I HATE the sound of someone digging chips out of a bag in places like movie theaters and on trains.

I used to do a bit of community theatre in my small town. My nephew was hanging out with nothing to do all summer, so I got him involved volunteering backstage and doing odd jobs around the theatre.

We were in the drive-thru getting burgers one night after a performance of a musical I was in, and he was good-naturedly giving me the business, talking about how I have a big head.

Nephew: “You just think you’re like a local celebrity or something just because you do plays and stuff.”

I pulled up to the pickup window.

Takeout Worker: “Here’s your food. Wait, are you in [Play] they’re doing at [Theater]? I saw that last weekend. You were so good in it!”

Me: “Thank you so much. It’s embarrassing to be recognized!”

I grabbed the food, turned my head to my nephew, and just smiled as I pulled out of the drive-thru.

I’m not that big on Renaissance festivals, but my friends were, and we lived near one of the best in the country, apparently. So, friends from four states away would come down to visit in what to me was… the local fair thing fifteen minutes from where I grew up. Fine by me, a dozen friends from all over the country showed up to eat, drink, and watch jousting.

Rain was called for, so I wore waterproof hiking pants, a rain jacket, and a large hat. My friends all wore period garb, including big hoop dresses. Two friends didn’t dress up at all, so I wasn’t the odd one out. A MASSIVE downpour happened, and everyone got soaked but me. I wasn’t terribly far from my car when the rain happened, and I managed to get in it before the rain really hit. My outfit protected me from the light rain after.

But then…

As we were leaving seven or eight hours later, there was a traffic jam. That was fair; 16,000 people showed up for this one festival in a grass and mud parking lot. The road to leave was one lane in each direction and not far from a mall. It gets BUSY.

Normally, at a four-way stop, one car goes, then the one to the right, then the one to the right, and so on. For whatever reason, the police directing traffic had one lane of cars go for ten minutes or more. Then, the next line of cars would go, and for another ten to twenty minutes, only that lane was open.

In came [Woman]. She did not zero in on the cop directing traffic at the road, or his supervisor nearby. Oh, no. She beelined for the 100-pound “takes five months to grow a five o’clock shadow” teenage boy working there.

She demanded to know the hold-up. She argued that this was a waste of time and there was no one currently going within 200 feet of us. (The lane opened up was further off.)

He pointed out that even if he let her move forward, it was still a twenty-minute wait. She didn’t care. She was mad. It’s worth noting that it was 55F (12.8C) out, he was soaking wet, and she was dry — meaning she likely got there after the morning rain.

I don’t yell at women typically but will absolutely tell a man to behave himself in public. But lord, this teenage boy looked like he was going to cry.

Me: “Hey, lady! You, talking to the employee and not the manager! Get back in your car, and stop screaming like a drunk banshee!”

Woman: “EXCUSE ME! THIS IS BETWEEN ME AND—”

Me: “Between you and the underage child? The kid you outweigh by thirty pounds and twenty years? Sit down and be quiet. You sound like fingernails on a chalkboard on their third marriage, and I have delicate ears.”

Woman: “I AM JUST LETTING HIM KNOW THAT—”

Me: “So, call his adult manager over; she’s right there. Call the giant friggin’ cop right past him. He can’t hear you over the traffic, but I sure can. Go home! Go home and poorly manage a softball team. Let your anger out on the ref until you get kicked out of the game.”

Woman: “I… You…”

Me: “GO HOME AND POORLY MANAGE A SOFTBALL TEAM, AND LEAVE THE LITERAL CHILD ALONE!”

She got back in her car. When it was my turn to leave, I was about to apologize to the kid for making a bigger scene, but instead…

Kid: “Sir, thank you so much. I thought she was going to hit me. I just turned fourteen, and my aunt got me this job, and this is my first job, and I… My God, I thought she was going rabid.”

My friends were in the backseat, two of them crying with laughter still.

Friend: “I… am so cold. And soaking wet. And my feet hurt. And it’s all worth it to hear you shout out, ‘Step away from the underage boys, coach!’ Like Mean Girls!” *Pauses* “Wait, why aren’t you cold?”

Me: “My entire outfit is insulated and waterproof. I also got to the car when the rain started and took a nap for the twenty minutes it lasted.”

Years later, we were at a cafe in NYC. I got there five minutes after everyone else. I think I was finishing a slice of street pizza, and outside food wasn’t allowed.

My friends looked at me and said they wished I’d been there five minutes sooner. Apparently, an Entitled Jerk was going off on the barista until she nearly cried. Not enough soy? Too much soy? She couldn’t make a hot iced latte with hot foam and no milk? Something like that.

Me: “What could I have done?”

Friends: *In unison* “You could have told her to go home and poorly manage a softball team!”

CONTENT WARNING: Spider

My uncle used to tell the story of the time my grandfather was bitten by a Sydney funnel-web spider — highly venomous — before the antivenom was in use.

My grandfather’s coworkers bandaged his hand, and three of them bundled into a car to get him to a hospital in Sydney. (They were in Lithgow, a couple of hours away.)

Partway through the journey, they got pulled over by a cop for speeding. The cop waltzed up to the passenger door, thinking he had just caught some guys hooning around off work. The cop tapped on the window.

Cop: “Do you know what speed you were going?”

The passenger in the front responded by holding up a jar with the spider inside and pointing to my grandfather’s bandaged hand. The cop’s eyes went as wide as dinner plates.

Cop: “Right. Uh… Follow me.”

The cop sprinted back to his car, slammed on his lights and sirens, and escorted them into Sydney in about half the time it would normally take.

It turned out to be a dry bite (no venom), but my grandfather had to stay at the hospital for a time to monitor for any symptoms.

My mom was driving my sister and me to the store for the weekly grocery run, using our roommate’s truck. At the halfway point, a police car going the opposite way flipped on the lights and turned around. [Mom] pulled over.

Mom: *To me* “Find where [Roommate] keeps the insurance.” *Muttering to herself* “Please don’t give me a ticket. I still haven’t paid the last one.”

I started digging through the dashboard.

Me: “I don’t see it.”

The cop walked up, did a visible double-take at [Mom], hesitated, and then recovered.

Cop: “Hi, ma’am. The reason I pulled you over is that you were going seventy-nine in a sixty-five.”

Mom glanced at me disbelievingly.

Mom: “Really?”

Cop: *A bit more confident* “Yes, ma’am. Do you have an ID and proof of insurance?”

Mom handed over her license.

Mom: “This isn’t my truck, and I can’t find the insurance. The truck belongs to [Roommate’s Full Name]. I’m trying to get him to send the insurance to me.”

Cop: “Yeah, I know [Roommate]. I went to high school with his daughter. Just get him to send you a copy. I’ll go run your ID while you get that sorted; I’ll be right back.”

He walked back to his car to run the license while Mom texted [Roommate], who sent a copy of the insurance through text.

Mom: “The signal out here is s***. It won’t load.”

The cop came back.

Cop: “Did he send it?”

Mom showed him the loading page.

Mom: “He sent it, but it’s not loading.”

Cop: *Waving his hand dismissively* “Don’t worry about it. I know there’s insurance. I pulled [Roommate] over three days ago again for drunk driving. Well, you were going seventy-nine in a sixty-five, but I’m not going to give you a ticket this time, just a warning.”

He handed Mom a written warning.

Cop: “Just remember to slow down around here. Tell [Roommate] that [Cop] says hi.”

He went back to his car and let us leave.

But here’s the thing. There isn’t a chance in h*** we actually were speeding. First off, the power steering is almost completely out on the truck, making my tiny mother, 5’3″ and ninety-five pounds soaking wet, have a LOT of difficulty turning, and the road we were on had a lot of curves, so we had to drive slowly. Plus, I have anxiety from literally everyone in my life speeding and a few almost crashes, so I regularly check the speedometer if I’m the passenger, and Mom never went over sixty-five. Plus, the truck is old and has trouble reaching seventy, never mind seventy-nine. Not to mention that we have a family tracking app that also tracks how fast you were going, and it showed an average speed of sixty-eight for the entire ride.

It turns out that [Roommate] has been a frequent flyer with the police department, repeatedly getting pulled over for drunk driving and gaining a laundry list of DUIs. It’s to the point that there’s a flag on his truck’s information. Any time an officer sees the truck, they pull him over because every time they do, he’s drunk at the wheel. 

We came to the conclusion that the double-take from the cop was because he realized it wasn’t [Roommate] driving, and the seventy-nine was essentially pulled out of his a** as a believable excuse to pull us over. That’s why we didn’t get a ticket for supposedly going fourteen miles an hour over the limit, which would otherwise mean a court date, a line, and points on Mom’s license. We don’t know if that’s actually what happened, but given the circumstances, that’s what we think.