(Our credit card PIN pad, like most, asks the customer for their signature, either with the little stylus or with their finger. I’m ringing out a customer.)

Customer: “This is illegal, you know.”

Me: “What? What is?”

(Everything has been normal until now, so I am very confused.)

Customer: “This isn’t my signature since it’s not on paper. It’s electronic, so it’s not my signature. That’s illegal.”

Me: “I… don’t think so?”

Customer: “IT’S ILLEGAL!”

(She signs anyway and I give her the receipt, which she snatches. As she storms off:)

Customer: “I’m going to call the Better Business Bureau!” 

(When I mentioned it to my manager later he said I could have printed a paper one for her to sign, but I didn’t know that. I hope she did call the BBB so they could laugh at her.)

For high school, my parents sent me to a “prestigious” New England boys’ boarding prep school, henceforth known as “PNEBBPS”. Years of therapy later, I am ready to share some of the experiences therein.

PNEBBPS had multiple rules; teachers were called “Masters” and had to be addressed as “Sir” at all times, coat and tie had to be worn for meals and classes, and the like. It also had strict prohibitions against smoking and alcohol use. Smoking got you suspension for the first occurrence and expulsion on the second, and drinking was an automatic expulsion. About once a month, the headmaster got up at lunch and announced a suspension or expulsion related to these rules.

At PNEBBPS, our big sport was lacrosse and no other team was close in stature or record. Going into my third year, the team was coming off an unbeaten season and our returning captain had set a league scoring record as a junior. Alas, in late fall he got caught drinking and things looked bad. But…

The lacrosse coach had started the sport at the school, was on the disciplinary committee, and was very influential. When the punishment for the culprit was announced, surprise surprise, it was for the winter term only, meaning he’d be back in time for lacrosse season. It was the only time a drinking violation got less than expulsion in my four years there. For the record, we had another excellent season with the captain breaking his own scoring record.

(I work at a very busy veterinary hospital, and due to the volume of clients and the fact that we are near a highway, we have a “dogs on leashes, cats in carriers” rule to keep everyone safe. People often carry in small dogs, though, and today a woman sets her puppy down and lets it run around the lobby.)

Coworker: “Hi! I’m sorry, but could you please pick your puppy up? She’s very cute, but sometimes we get dogs in that don’t like other dogs.”

Woman: *scoffs* “I don’t let her run around. She had to pee, and it was either on me or on your floor.”

(Outside in the big grassy areas dividing the parking lot was, apparently, not an option. We get animals that piddle on the floor for a variety of reasons throughout the day, but I don’t think it’s ever been quite THIS intentional.)

(Through a local placement program for untamable ferals, my family adopts a very wild cat who hates other cats and people to help with pest control in our barn. We keep her in a special caged-off stall for a few weeks to try to get her more friendly, but she is having none of it so we resign ourselves to giving her the best life we can while she lives wild on the farm. For a whole year, she avoids us and we only see fleeting glimpses of her. Then, she starts watching us from the rafters as we do our chores. Then, she starts sitting on the shelf where we feed her, well within arm’s reach. Finally, one day…)

Father: “I pet Spooky today.”

Me: “You what?!”

Father: “I pet Spooky.”

Me: “No way.”

Father: “Oh, yes. And I picked her up.”

Me: “You picked her up?! You picked up the cat who almost tore our hands to ribbons through canvas gloves?”

Father: “I did. And she was purring!”

(We have no idea what clicked in her mind, but from that day forward, she became a totally different cat. She even goes to the vet without any fuss! Unfortunately, she still hates other cats so we can’t bring her inside — we have two indoor cats — but we’ve had her for eight years now and she enjoys a privileged position as the barn manager, chief pest control officer, and official farm greeter.)

I was a cashier in a department store in the 1970s. 

At that time, Connecticut’s sales tax was 8%. One morning, a couple, apparently from another state, came to my register with one item: a battery at 99¢. I rang it up and told them the total: $1.07.

They were incensed and asked me what I was trying to get away with. I told them the sales tax was 8% and they refused to believe me, demanding to speak to the manager. When he came over and verified that the sales tax was indeed 8% and that the total was correct, they slammed the money into my hand, seized the bag, and marched out of the store, announcing, “We are never going to buy anything in the state of Connecticut again!”

I’m sure that made a great impact on our economy.