(I’m thirteen. I get home from school, dump my book-bag on the hallway floor under the coat rack — as usual and like my dad has told me at least a dozen times not to — have a snack, and leave again for a friend’s house. Dad’s out running errands. When I get back for dinner, Dad tells me that, when he came home from his errands, he found that I hadn’t closed the door between the living room and the hallway properly, so our dog got into the hallway. Apparently, the dog decided the contents of my book-bag would make for good toys, specifically my French homework. It is almost completely destroyed. There are some shreds left, but I obviously can’t work with it anymore. Dad is laughing. I am halfway between annoyance and laughter until Dad pulls me over the edge by saying that tomorrow, I’ll have to tell the teacher my dog ate my homework. Realizing the stereotypical comedy excuse has come true for once is pretty funny. The next day, I bring the shredded remains of my homework to school, because no way is anyone going to believe me without proof. I’m also determined to have as much fun with this as I can, especially since my French teacher is an old sourpuss that nobody likes. When she goes around collecting the homework, I deliberately don’t have anything on my table and wait for her to ask me the inevitable.)

Teacher: “[My Name], where’s your homework?”

Me: *suppressing a grin* “Well, ma’am, you’re probably not going to believe me, but my dog ate my homework.”

Teacher: *looking decidedly not amused* “You’re right; I don’t believe you.”

(I pull the shredded remains of my homework out of my bag to show her.)

Me: “How about now?”

(The class starts sniggering, and the teacher looks at me like I just grew an extra head or something.)

Teacher: “Well… I suppose I’ll let it slide this time.” *sour again* “But I expect you to take better care of your homework in the future, [My Name].”

Me: “Of course, ma’am.”

(I did, by the way. I finally stopped dumping my bag on the hallway floor, to my dad’s delight. He joked afterward that maybe he should let the dog into my bedroom, so maybe I’d finally learn to clear that disaster zone, as well. I decided not to risk it.)

(I’m the type of person that usually arrives early, but today I had the misfortune of being the target of my neighbour’s dog who chased me a good ten minutes before biting off a chunk of my skirt. I had to run back home, change, bypass that darn dog, and go to school.)

Teacher: “[My Name], I hope you have a good excuse.”

Me: *shows him my ruined skirt* “People complained, but my neighbor won’t get rid of that dog.”

Teacher: “Why did you bring your ripped skirt?”

Me: “Were you going to believe me, otherwise?”

Teacher: “Touché.”

(I’m a school receptionist. When students sign in late, they come to me.)

Students: “Miss, we’re sorry we’re late. [Road] was closed because someone died.”

(They give pretty specific details to the death, which I track down, but I put them on detention. They come back at break time.)

Students: “Why do we have detention?”

Me: “I looked into that accident and the road, and found out the closure was yesterday, not today.”

Students: “That’s not true!”

Me: “I pulled news sites and looked; they all give [date], which was yesterday. Now go to detention before I give you one after school!”

(I tell their head of year afterwards.)

Me: “I had half the mind to give them detention for that, too. It’s low.”

Head Of Year: “Keep it in your back pocket, and tell the parents when they come in for a meeting.”

(I am doing Internet tech support over the phone.)

Me: “I’d like you check if you can see your WiFi name now, please.”

Customer: *too fast to have re-checked the list* “It’s still not there.”

Me: “Okay, can I have you just refresh the list, please?”

Customer: *angrily* “I don’t know how to do that! I’m forty! I don’t know anything about all this technology stuff!”

(I managed to refrain from telling him that I am forty-three, and not only am I not the oldest in the call centre, one of my coworkers left retirement to come and work with us! There are many excuses for being ignorant about technology, but being middle-aged isn’t one of them.)

When I was in first grade, our bus had a stop at the corner by my house on [X Street] and a second stop at the fire hall located across the alley and main road, behind my house, for all of the kids on [Y Street]. Typically, I caught my bus at the corner stop, but I thought the stop at the fire hall was so much cooler since the kids got to cross the main road.

One day, on the way to school, I wrote a note and signed my mom’s name on it, giving myself permission to get off the bus at the fire hall with all of my friends. Keep in mind, I was six years old with nothing but crayons and some old worksheets in my book bag, and no knowledge of cursive handwriting. You can imagine how ridiculous that permission note looked.

The school accepted it. My mom had a field day telling the school administrators about themselves.