My wife and I have had many dogs in the years we have been married. Some might have been purebred. We don’t know; none were ever papered or registered. Most of the dogs we have had are what are commonly referred to as mutts, but we love each and every one of them; they are family members. As a term of affection, we often refer to our dogs as mutts, no disrespect meant for their lack of pedigree breeding, just our term for a well-loved pet.

We decided to go with a relative to a dog show in another city — one of those fancy dog shows with high-priced dogs, well-paid trainers and handlers, etc.

As we were in the parking lot on the way in, a lady walked by with what we refer to as a “dust-mop” dog — small, long-hair, etc. My wife whispered to me, privately, “Oh, what a cute mutt!”

The lady overheard her and immediately went into a rage, quoting the long list of the dog’s pedigree, the papers, the ribbons, the awards, etc. She was ranting and raving about how low-class we were for not acknowledging the superiority of her dog. We said nothing. Then the lady said, “I bet your dog doesn’t have papers.”

To this, I responded, “Well, he did have some, but he couldn’t read them so we put them on the floor when he was a puppy, and he used them. What does your dog do with his?”

Screams of obscenities followed us into the show.

I am a hostess at a breakfast restaurant and have no cash drawer; however, customers frequently ask me for change or help paying their bill. I’ve learned to not argue and just take their bill or cash to the nearest server for help when this happens.

Customer: *Handing me a twenty-dollar bill* “Can I get four fives for this?”

Me: “Sure! Just give me one moment—”

Customer: “No, wait. I need one ten and two fives and—” *hands me a ten* “—two fives for this.”

Me: “Of course!”

I take the ten and the twenty to the nearest server and hand him the twenty.

Me: “Can I get four fives from you?”

He trades me and I walk back to the woman, handing her the same ten and two of the fives.

Me: “Here’s the ten and two fives for the $20 and—” *handing her the other two fives* “—two fives for the ten. Have a nice day!”

My sister and I are shopping at a recycled craft store that is mostly stocked with supplies that have been donated. For some reason, they have a bunch of weird plastic baby dolls. My sister suddenly decides she needs to buy this creepy, naked, plastic baby. We take it to the checkout with everything else and the cashier picks it up and looks at it.

Cashier: “This guy, huh?”

He turns it to look at the price.

Cashier: “Three dollars?! I’m not going to let you pay that much!”

He took the price down to a dollar.

We have a special on three of our pizzas. I am on the register and my coworker is in the back.

Customer: “What are your specials?”

Me: “We have a large Hawaiian, a large sausage, or a large pepperoni for $8.”

Customer: “How many toppings can I get on the $8 pizza?”

Me: “Well, it is one of three choices: the Hawaiian, the sausage, or the pepperoni.”

Customer: “But how many toppings can I get for the $8 deal?”

Me: “Our $8 deal is for the Hawaiian pizza, the pepperoni pizza, or the sausage pizza.”

I am becoming really frustrated and extremely disheartened about society because this isn’t that hard to understand.

My coworker comes up front, hearing some frustration in my voice.

Coworker: “What seems to be the problem here?”

I explain what I’ve said and the customer’s question. He then looks at her and says the same thing I’ve been saying for five minutes.

Customer: “So, I can get a Hawaiian for $8? That’s all I wanted to know!”

I facepalmed. After that customer left, the customer that had been behind her looked at me and told me I had handled that situation well. She also told me that she really thought about telling this customer what comes on the three pizzas that were $8.

While still an infant, I contract rotavirus, an illness that causes severe diarrhea.

In my case, the sickness is severe enough that eating or drinking causes almost immediate diarrhea. I’m taken to the hospital and put on an IV for fluid and nutrients.

I’m absolutely miserable and desperately want something to eat, but I’m not allowed anything to avoid further irritation of my bowels. To try and calm me down, I’m given an empty bottle to suck on.

At one point, a nurse comes in to check on the IV. As she’s adjusting it, I hold up my empty bottle to her and start whining for her to fill it. The nurse takes the bottle and pretends to fill it from the IV and hands it back. I start sucking only to realize I’ve been deceived.

As my mom tells it, I proceed to chuck the bottle across the room in protest.