When our first child is eight months old, we plan a family holiday to Fiji. Our daughter is too young to have her own passport so she has to be added to mine. My husband also needs to sign that he approves for her to go on my passport. This is to check that the mother isn’t planning to take the child overseas behind the father’s back.

This is considered such a serious concern that they follow up on the husband’s permission with a phone interview. Accordingly, my husband gets a call from the passport office in Canberra.

Interviewer: “Good morning, sir. We’re just following up on a passport application for your daughter. We need your approval to process it.”

Husband: “Yes, that’s all good. I’m fine with it; it’s a family holiday”.

Interviewer: “Very good, sir. Can I just confirm you are the child’s father with a few questions? Firstly, what is the child’s middle name?”

My husband’s family doesn’t do middle names. Mine does, so we used a traditional family middle name which he was fine with because he didn’t care either way. Unfortunately, he’s forgotten it!

Husband: “Um, I can’t remember, sorry.”

Interviewer: “Oh, okay. Well, next question, what is the child’s birth date on the passport application?” 

This is eight months after the birth. We have not yet celebrated a birthday for her, so while he knows it’s early [Month], he’s not really sure of the date. So he guesses… and he gets it wrong.

Interviewer: “Oooookaay! Final question, what is the mother’s maiden name?”

By this time, my husband is extremely flustered. It has not occurred to him that they mean his daughter’s mother — we’re still not feeling old and mature enough to be parents — so he hears the question wrong, and he knows MY mother’s maiden name, so he gives that.

That’s three out of three wrong.

The interviewer starts laughing.

Interviewer: “Well, sir. If this was a fraudulent application, you would have been coached better than that. Only a real father would get every question wrong. All good here, sir. Thank you. Enjoy your holiday!”

Since then, he has been much better with all the details.

My brother and I have a very good joking relationship where we make fun of each other in both English and occasionally our second language, Russian.

This occurs when I call him to ask him for some help with my garden.

Me: “Hey, Baranovich—” *Affectionate name for a sheep* “—I sent you a photo of my lemon tree looking a bit s***. Can you help?”

Brother: “Yeah, hang on.” *Looks at the photo* “Look, Durak—” *Idiot* “—go to [Store] and get the white oil with chili and lemon.”

Me: “Okay, so I just spray that on?”

Brother: “So, first you sacrifice a duck, then face west, hold it up, and yell, ‘Ayayayaya!’, and then throw it at your neighbour, and the oil will work.”

Me: “So, do I wear the bucket on my left foot or my right foot?”

Brother: “Nah, on your head.”

Me: “Okay, thanks, little bro. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

We’re both in our thirties and I don’t think we’ll ever change.

Two of my mall “friends” are a pair of sisters, a seven-year-old and a three-year-old whose parents run a food stand right outside my store. I have gotten my hair cut very short and bleached it, and they’re both quite shocked. Once they get over it, we’re chatting as usual. 

Three-Year-Old: “Can I have a candy?”

Me: “Did you ask your mom?”

Three-Year-Old: “No.”

Me: “Then you can’t have any candy.”

Three-Year-Old: “Why?”

Me: “Because I’m not giving you candy unless your mom says yes.”

Three-Year-Old: “But why?”

Me: “Because I said so.”

Three-Year-Old: *Narrowing her eyes* “I don’t like your hair.”

I’ve just started an after-school job at a print shop. My job involves cleaning, making sure the machines always have paper and ink, and clearing jams. My trainer is showing me around showing how to check the paper and ink levels and explaining what the machines do. Soon, we get to the biggest machine.

Trainer: “And now we get to the banner printer…”

Suddenly, the machine starts making this ungodly grinding noise.

Trainer: “And the beast awakes; that, dear squire, is Grendel’s Mother. When she roars like this, there is but one solution. One must take up Hrunting and strike at the beast’s head.”

I look at her like she’s crazy.

The trainer grabs a Nerf sword with the word Hrunting written on it from beside the printer and whacks the printer with it. The grinding stops.

Trainer: “Seriously, she’ll do that every now and then; just smack her. Right here, not over here, and don’t hit any buttons when you hit her. The old hag is older than both of us and replacing her would cost more than we make off her in two years. Percussive maintenance has proven effective. Just don’t use Naegling on Grendel’s Mother; he’s just for getting paper to fit into the compactor.”

“Naegling” was written on the back of the yardstick, which was indeed useful for getting things into the compactor.

This story is part of our July 2020 Roundup – the best stories of the month!

Read the next July 2020 Roundup story!

Read the July 2020 Roundup!

I’m at home. A friend is staying with me due to quarantine. While she is on Facebook, she tells me there is a new Ben and Jerry’s flavor called “Netflix and Chill.” I have been single for five years.

Me: “So I’ll finally be able to get some Netflix and chill!”

Friend: “It is peanut butter ice cream; you’re allergic to peanuts.”

Me: “Maybe I should start thinking about becoming a nun, since not even ice cream will let me have some Netflix and chill.”

Related:
Leave It To Ben & Jerry To Make Things Awkward, Part 2
Leave It To Ben & Jerry To Make Things Awkward