I worked for my college newspaper about forty years ago. I was reviewing a movie, and in mentioning a singer’s performance, I described it as “giving me cold chills”. That was perhaps not the best description, but it was how I felt about it. (And that’s what reviewers do, or are supposed to do: relate their feelings about the film, book, or other art.)

For some incomprehensible reason, my editor decided to rewrite it so that I had “hot flashes” instead.

Why he thought that a metaphor for an impressive and rather awe-inspiring performance was better served by one for menopause is still beyond me.

When I worked in a university bookstore, at the end of every semester, kids would flood into the store for blue books [used for taking exams]. We were a two-level store, and the supplies were kept on the other level. But for convenience, I made sure to move our display of blue books right inside the entrance by the registers.

Something like nine out of ten students would walk right past the display to try to find them where they were supposed to be. I kept some there so it wouldn’t be a wasted trip for them, but they all came to the checkout complaining that they’d had to walk all that way to get them. We’d politely point out that they were at the registers.

So, I started in with signage. I put some at the stairs, on the landing of the stairs, at the front door, and finally even on the floor. Still, two or three students out of ten managed to ignore every one of them and make the trip to the regular spot.

I work fast food on a college campus, and we often get many late-night customers (students) who stand in line, order, and then:

Me: “That’s $5.65.”

The customer only then makes a slooooow attempt to dig their wallet out of the bottom of their backpack. They then start removing items from their backpack — equally slowly — but they also keep looking at me, as if checking for my reaction to their drawn-out attempt at paying.

Me: “If you like, I can suspend the order until you’ve found your wallet and serve the customers behind you.”

Customer: “No… it’s okay. I’m sure my wallet is in here somewhere.”

The customer then, somehow, resumes their search even more slowly! They still keep checking me for a reaction and I decide enough is enough and call them out on it.

Me: “Look, do you think if you take long enough, I’m going to give you the food for free?”

Customer: “Yeah… actually. Lol.”

Yes, he said, “lol”.

Me: “Not happening. Pay in the next ten seconds or I’m cancelling the order.”

Customer: “Lol… it was worth a try.”

Me: “No… it really wasn’t, and I won’t let you try again. Next time, I’m not taking your order unless I see your wallet in your hand.”

I never saw him again. I guess actually paying for food really wasn’t worth it. I was so happy when customer ordering upgraded to touch screens.

This happened when I was studying history and ethnology at the University of Iceland in 2011 or 2012. We had gotten some sort of task that demanded that we go to the university library to find different books to study to deal with the task.

Off I went and borrowed different books, some new and some quite old.

After I got back to my apartment and started reading, I quickly noticed that one of the books was not possible to read. Almost all the pages were still uncut!

For those who might not know, books — especially back in the day — used to be made up of double or more folded sheets of paper. After the binding was done, the pages would be physically cut on the edges in order to make it possible to read them. That’s why quite many old books might have some rough edges on them.

This book was at least fifty years old, yellow from age, and clearly not something the library had gotten recently — but I was apparently the very first one to actually open and read this book since it had been placed on the shelf.

In theory, I could just have cut the pages myself and the library would never have known the difference, but I decided to go back and show them at the library. None of the librarians had ever witnessed anything like this before, but it most definitely did amuse us.

I work as an administrator for a university. Most of my work involves supporting our academics, but occasionally, I take calls from students or sometimes even parents.

One day, I got a call from the parent of a student.

Woman: “I need you to tell me what classes my son, [Student], has signed up for.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but you’re not listed as a contact. I can give those details to—”

Woman: “Incorrect! I’m his mother. You will tell me what classes he has signed up for.”

Me: “Your son is legally an adult, so—”

Woman: “Incorrect. I’m. His. Mother.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but you’re not listed as a contact, so I can’t disclose that information.”

Woman: “Fine. Then you will give me his login details so I can see for myself.”

Me: “I can’t do that—”

Woman: “Incorrect!”

This goes on for some time, with the woman telling me I am “incorrect” every time I give her an answer she doesn’t like. Then, she suddenly changes tactics.

Woman: “Well, then, if he signs up for the wrong classes, I assume you’ll give him a full refund of his fees?”

Me: “If your son has taken the classes he has chosen, he won’t be entitled to a refund—”

Woman: “Incorrect! We agreed on what classes he would take. If he takes something different, you will be refunding him. So, you either tell me what classes he has signed up for, or I will sue you!”

Me: “Since you’ve threatened legal action, this query must now go through our legal team—”

Woman: “Incorrect!”

I passed the woman through to our legal team anyway, glad to be rid of her. Sadly, it wasn’t my first time dealing with a helicopter parent, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. But it was one of the funnier interactions.