Welcome To Camp Hell

, , , , , , | Learning | August 14, 2020

When I was a teenager, my dad and step-mom sent me to a Christian camp for a week, citing that my brother had loved his time there years ago and that I would have fun, too. A lot of kids from our church in my age group were going, too, but I don’t think my parents realized that I wasn’t really friends with any of them.

The week started off poorly when it turned out that the only bedding provided was sheets — no pillow or comforter — so I had to use about half of my spending money to buy a tiny and overpriced pillow to use. I have no idea how my parents missed that, as the other campers all had supplies, and I was never given any information beforehand outside of “You’re going; isn’t that great?!”

Days at the camp were filled with mandatory sports activities; anything that I actually found fun, like rock climbing or paintball, cost extra money per session that I now didn’t have due to the pillow problem. While I love being physically active, I hate being told how to be physically active, so I half-a**ed my way through the first day or two until life gave me a blessing.

Right on schedule, that time of the month arrived! I might have been a tad too gleeful telling the counselor that I wouldn’t be able to play flag-volley-fris-ball for the rest of the week, as they kind of squinted at me and asked if I was fine with telling everyone I was on my period, which I was.

The rest of the week, I was able to sit in the shade sketching, and I was only required to attend the daily church gatherings where over-excited twenty-somethings would tell us how important it was to make sure we brought all our friends to God so they wouldn’t end up in Hell. Fun for the whole family!

I finished up the week with a dozen sketch pages filled and a frown on my face as my dad asked me how my time was. I told him exactly what I thought about being sent to camp with no friends and people telling me to do things I hate all day. My dad got a thoughtful look on his face and then said, “Oh, yeah! [Brother] actually hated that camp! Sorry about that!”

While I didn’t commit patricide, I also didn’t get sent to camp again, so small victories, I guess.

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A Crappy Turn Of Events, Part 2

, , , , , , | Right | August 13, 2020

I work at a big store that has self-checkout. A mother and her child walk into the self-checkout. As usual, I greet every customer.

Me: “Hello, how are you today?”

The mother doesn’t respond. While she is scanning her items, the baby starts making faces and clearly starts pooping. As the mom is distracted trying to pay, the baby puts his hands inside his diaper and starts pulling out his own poop, which he starts wiping all over the cart.

When the mom finishes paying, she looks blankly at her child. She doesn’t correct him or anything. I am shocked by what I’ve just witnessed.

Customer: “Oh, well… good luck to whoever has to clean it.”

The mother said that sentence while making direct eye contact with me. Then, she grabbed her baby and left the poop-covered cart at the self-checkout. I had to call my manager to explain the situation to have the cart fully disinfected.

Related:
A Crappy Turn Of Events

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Doubly Welcome

, , , | Right | August 7, 2020

I’m working as a trainee in a library. I’m sitting behind the desk, processing a pile of reserved books, when an older customer with a child around age five or six, her grandchild, comes to borrow books. After the borrowing is done, I hand her books and her library card.

Customer: “Thank you.”

Me: “You’re welcome.”

Customer: *To her grandchild* “What do you say?”

Grandchild: *Not really paying attention* “You’re welcome!”

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This Kid Is A Little Terrier

, , , | Right | August 3, 2020

I work at a boarding kennel looking after dogs while their owners are away. It’s been a particularly busy day where the reception bell has not stopped ringing to alert me to a new customer either collecting or dropping off their dog while I try and race around in between exercising, cleaning, and feeding the dogs currently in our care.

I’ve just handed one dog over to its owner and I turn around to see a young boy march straight through the “staff only” door at the back of reception. I quickly give chase while his mother is apparently oblivious to the fact her crotch-goblin has wandered off.

Me: “Excuse me, can you go back to your mum in reception, please? This area is staff only.”

Boy: “I just want to say hello.”

He starts yelling, “Hello!” at every dog he sees.

Me: “Sorry, but you can’t be back here; you need to go back to reception now.”

Boy: “I’m saying hello.”

I am internally screaming and trying to body block him, knowing that further down this path is a dog that cannot be trusted.

Me: “All right, you’ve said hello; now go back to your mother. This area is staff only!”

Back in reception, the boy’s mother didn’t even seem to notice he’d been gone. In fairness to her, he was definitely old enough to read “staff only” and just chose to be a brat instead, but I really do not want to get into trouble or potentially lose my job because some brat hasn’t been taught to behave and gets bitten.

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It’s Not Her Party, But She’ll Cry If She Wants To

, , , , | Related | August 1, 2020

My daughter is of kindergarten age and is invited to a birthday party. If you’ve been there, you know what nightmare they are. There are about twenty kids from the classroom, plus their parents and siblings, plus the birthday kid’s relatives and family friends. Cue over three hours of barely controlled chaos.

Needless to say, when it’s finally time to cut the cake, the ladies in charge of doing so are taking no nonsense: they hack away at the cake, slam the pieces on plates, and pass them to the nearest person that has a pair of serviceable hands.

My daughter, however, has picked just this moment to get finicky.

Daughter: “I want the corner piece with the candy flower.”

Me: “We can try, but the ladies are busy. Don’t be mad, okay?”

Unfortunately, she’s given a regular piece, instead. Tired and upset from the long afternoon, she decides to throw a fit. She starts crying so loudly, it catches the attention of the cake-cutting lady.

Cake Lady: “Oh, poor dear. What happened?”

Me: “She was after the corner piece.”

Cake Lady: “Oh, this one? That’s all right.”

Instead of swapping plates, the lady picked up the candy flower and planted it onto the piece on my daughter’s plate… sending her into another fit. I tried to console her but it was no use; she was holding her plate with white-knuckled hands, bawling uncontrollably at the injustice of it all.

Then, a passing toddler picked up the candy flower from her piece of cake, stuffed it in her mouth happily, and kept going. My daughter was so affronted she could barely breathe. There was nothing left to do at this point but laugh. I wish I’d had my camera ready.

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