In college, I spent one summer working for a residential program for kids with behavioral disorders. There were about twelve kids and five members of staff.

We were eating breakfast. The kid sitting next to me wolfed down a bowl of cheesy grits entirely too fast and promptly puked them back up all over himself (and partially on me).

It was CRITICAL to model calmness there or else chaos would ensue. Before anyone could start freaking out, I put on my best “teacher voice,” settled them down, sent the kid upstairs to change clothes, cleaned up the puddle of puke, and then sat down and resumed eating my breakfast as though nothing had happened.

Coworker: “[My Name], I think you’re ready for motherhood.”

After a traumatic event when I was nine or ten, my parents were too stingy to get therapy for me, but thankfully, they were “gracious” enough to let me order something other than water with dinner.

Me: “—and a hot chocolate, please. No topping, no cream, only hot chocolate in the cup.”

Waitress: “You got it, kiddo.”

She brought me a cup with a gross textured foam on top. It looked awful and smelled terrible. I decided not to complain, since even valid complaints often got me in trouble. I tasted it and immediately had to spit it out because it tasted worse than it smelled — like rotten milk and vomit!

I tried to just scrape it off… and kept digging and scraping until I discovered that the cup was literally 60% foam, 40% hot chocolate. My mom had been watching me do this and she was irked about it, because the prices were kind of expensive.

When the waitress came back…

Me: “Miss, I’m sorry, but I can’t drink this. Can you please get me a new one? Without this foam stuff?”

Waitress: *Scoffs* “You didn’t say, ‘No foam’!”

Me: “But I did say, ‘No toppings.’”

She raised her voice.

Waitress: “You didn’t say no foam! So I don’t have to listen! Your parents will have to pay for a second glass, so it’ll be your fault you wasted it!”

My mom is ever quick to go to full rage mode.

Mom: “Who do you think you are to talk to my child like this?!”

The raised voices attracted a manager.

Manager: “Hey, there’s no need to shout. What’s the problem?”

At the extra unwanted attention, I cried hard enough to throw up on the table.

Mom: “My kid said, ‘no toppings,’ and only wanted hot chocolate. What the f*** is this rotten bulls***?! Are you letting this b**** poison my kid?”

Several tables were staring. One family who hadn’t been served their food yet left.

Manager: *Exasperated* “[Waitress], take this back right now!”

The manager grabbed the cup of hot chocolate and shoved it at her.

Manager: *To me, in baby talk* “I’ll get you a fresh one. No toppings.”

Me: “I don’t even want it anymore. I threw up. Leave me alone.”

I couldn’t eat my dinner, either, and they had to take back all our dishes to be remade because of the vomit, move our table, and comp several nearby meals.

And that’s the story of the one time my parents allowed me to have something nice and how it only made me wish I had never asked.

My longtime stylist has started teaching at a cosmetology school. She asks if I would be willing to be a “hair model” for students to observe her technique in exchange for a free cut and style. I agree and come by the school at the specified time.

I have curly hair that I normally keep very long, but I have decided that I want to go shoulder-length. [Stylist] introduces me to her class and has me take a seat.

Stylist: “What are we doing today, [My Name]?”

Me: “I’d like to go shoulder-length with some layers, please.”

Stylist: “Are you sure? It may not work with your curly hair.”

Me: “I’m sure. I want to try something different.”

Stylist: “Okay, if you say so.”

She starts cutting while talking to her students about technique, customer preferences, and the like.

Stylist: “And sometimes customers ask for something that may not work for their type of hair or face shape. But we do it anyway, even if we think it won’t look good!”

Me: “It’s my hair. If I don’t like it, it’ll grow.”

Stylist: “See what I mean, guys?”

Her students chuckle. I roll my eyes. She finishes up and turns me around.

Stylist: “And you’re done! See, class, not as hard as you think it is.”

She has barely taken any length off and there are no layers. My hair is still several inches below my shoulders.

Me: “This isn’t what I asked for.”

Stylist: “Sure it is.”

Me: “I asked for shoulder-length with layers, and this is not it.”

Stylist: “If you don’t like it, then go somewhere else.”

A couple of students let out an “Ooooh”.

Me: “Wow.”

I walk out. I go to another salon a couple of weeks later. A different stylist does exactly what I ask for, and it looks fabulous! I decide to start going to her, instead.

About a year later, I get a text from my former stylist.

Stylist: “Hey, it’s been a while. Can I set up an appointment for you?”

Me: “Remember when you told me to go somewhere else if I didn’t like my hair?”

Stylist: “Oh, I have to be like that with students. I didn’t mean it.”

Me: “I have shoulder-length hair and a new stylist. Don’t contact me again.”

I went to my new stylist for several years until she moved out of the area.

Our old house was ridiculously hard to find. The entrance was easy to drive past, it had a series of apartments next to it, and four houses all split off from the path that came to our house.

Whenever I ordered pizza, I checked how well the driver had been able to find the house, and I kept adding instructions until I had about three paragraphs accurately guiding people down the right paths, giving them a clear location to park, and listing three different ways to identify if you were going down the wrong stairs, including the fact that the closest stairs you could mistakenly go down were attached to a car-port.

Once I got it to this length, most drivers commented happily how useful it was since it saved them a lot of messing around, or they at least found us very rapidly without knocking on the other house we were attached to.

This only failed me twice. The first time, I was absolutely certain that the driver wasn’t quite at reading level in English, which was fair, and he was sweet and only a little lost. The second one, though…

He went down the wrong stairs, complained when I corrected him, basically had very little interest in coming down to the correct area, and made me come up to meet him. The kicker, though, was his parting line.

Delivery Driver: “Why do you have so many directions on your place? It’s so easy to find.”

I didn’t see that guy again. I didn’t make a complaint because he made it to me in the end. However, the next driver was once again grateful for the instructions. It’s only you, mystery driver.

One of our employees managed to lock his car keys in his car and his keycard in his office. He came up to the window and was checking out a temporary badge. I had been in the building cafeteria and came back just in time to hear this exchange.

Employee: “Thank you so much. Once I get my keycard, I can get out of here.”

Coworker: *Looking confused* “Sir?”

Employee: “Yes?”

Coworker: “Forgive me for asking this, but… how is getting your building keycard from your office going to get your car keys out of your car?”

There was a very long pause.

Employee: “F***!”

Both my coworker and I jumped.

Employee: “F****** MOTHERF*****! F***! F****** F***!”

He proceeded to leave the lobby.

Coworker: “Was that my fault?”

Me: “No.”

It took four hours for roadside assistance to send a man to pop the door locks on [Employee]’s car. When he arrived, he found out that the back passenger door was unlocked.