I mostly shop in a small-ish store within walking distance from home, but once in a while, I make the drive to the closest mall and its huge supermarket. One time last year, as I approached the cash registers, I saw new signage on two of them. It was the whole nine yards — a standing sign on approach, another one hanging over the cashiers’ heads, stickers on the floor, stickers around the conveyor belt. All were in a bright shade of blue that was not used anywhere else in the store. If they removed the roof, I think this would be noticeable from orbit.

All the signs tried to convey one message: these registers only accept card payments. No cash.

I usually pay by card anyway, so I joined the short queue. As I arrived, the first person was just leaving, but with their shopping back in the cart, and they made a beeline to the next (unmarked) register.

The next person paid and left.

Next came a lady in front of me and the cashier told her, “Card only.” She packed her stuff back into her basket and left for another register. I flashed the card already in my hand to the cashier, so she just nodded and rang me up. I’m still not sure if the 50% success rate I witnessed is good or bad.

On my next shopping trip a week or two later, the signage was gone.

Related:
A Sad Sign Of The Times, Part 7
A Sad Sign Of The Times, Part 6
A Sad Sign Of The Times, Part 5
A Sad Sign Of The Times, Part 4
A Sad Sign Of The Times, Part 3

I bought my first car and went to driving school very late. I was nervous, and before the driving lessons, I asked my old friend, who was my age but had already been driving for ten years, to give me a private lesson in his car.

He readily agreed, and we went and found an empty country road where I took the wheel and drove up and down for some hours, just to get the most basic skills, feeling the brakes, clutch, changing gears, etc. My friend was riding shotgun and gently pointed out my mistakes.

After some time, I felt more confident, so I thanked him and asked if there was any general advice he would like to give me before I went to the driving school. He thought deeply for a minute or so.

Friend: “When driving, do not watch the pedals.”

Not what I expected, but trust me, VERY good driving advice!

Like many cities, Prague is filled with people trying to sell tourists random crap. I’m on the tram and looking on my phone when I see a man get onboard. I see him out of the corner of my eye and he holds something out, so I think he’s trying to get me to buy something. I keep looking at my phone and wave him away.

Me: “Ne, ne.”

Man: *In a booming voice* “ANO!” *Yes!*

I looked over and realized he was holding out a badge — not a trinket — that identified him as a metro ticket inspector. He death-glared at me and the entire car stared at me. I dove for my monthly pass for him to scan. The dude glared at me while he checked every other person’s pass.

During the last three months, my husband has spent more time on his computer than usual. He sometimes apologizes, and he says he is too busy with something unspecified. I do not think much about it.

Christmas Eve arrives, which is when the presents are exchanged in our country. We go to the tree, and I find several very nice gifts and an envelope with my name on it. Thinking it is some coupon for a wellness procedure, I open it and find a fancy, beautiful opera ticket! It is supposed to be a “detective opera,” named “CASE OF FALSE CAT or LITTLE WAGER ABOUT BIG LOVE.”

But then I look closely and see that the address of the opera house is… our house.

Me: “Erm… what exactly I am to do with that?”

Husband: “Well… use it!”

Then, he grabs my hand and takes me to our guest bedroom, marked as “Box No. 1,” where I find everything set for a puppet performance for an audience of one.

For the next hour, I am sitting, choking between laughter and tears, while my husband plays karaoke versions of every single one of my favorite operatic or musical songs, singing his own lyrics and sometimes adding “sound effects” by way of drum, triangle, marimbas, and ocarina.

I laugh most when he sings Puccini’s “Nessun dorma” aria, under the title “Don’t be formal,” and I cry most during his version of “Memories.” The opera is indeed a detective story, but mainly it is an ode to cats and cat ladies and how perfect they are. It is clearly about me. When he finishes, I realise this is the greatest Christmas present I have gotten in my whole life.

Me: “How did you get such an idea?”

Husband: “Honey, I wanted you to say, ‘I am a woman worth writing operas for, and I can prove it!’”

I do say that now.

This story is part of our Feel Good roundup for December 2020!

Read the next Feel Good roundup for December 2020 story!

Read the Feel Good roundup for December 2020!

I am living in an apartment with my three cats and my husband, a big, bearded guy. Yes, I am sort of a cat lady, and I am very happy that way, thank you.

Next door, just behind a thin wall, lives a young couple with a little son, who can be a bit noisy at night. We hear him quite often, but we make nothing of it as, frankly, we’ve had much worse neighbors.

One day, I meet the neighbor lady outside and we make small talk. In the middle, she drops this:

Neighbor: “I am so, so glad you and your cats live next door! It helps us immensely dealing with our little!”

Me: “How so?”

Neighbor: “Well, when he makes a ruckus in the night, I always say, ‘Shhh, you are waking up the kitties next door!’ and he usually goes quiet.”

Me: *Chuckling* “That is quite sweet.”

Neighbor: “And when that does not help, I add, ‘Be quiet, or the kitty lady’s husband will come to punish you!’”

My husband, the nicest guy I’ve ever met by a huge margin, was genuinely shocked that he was used as a bogeyman for little kids, but at the end… whatever works for you!