I was visiting my goddaughter, and I ask her what she wants to be when she grows up.

Goddaughter: “I want to be everything, except for a bad guy or a cowboy.”

Me: “Why not a cowboy?”

Goddaughter: “I don’t know. I just don’t want to be a cowboy.”

Me: “But you want to be everything else? You’re going to be a plumber, and a cop, and a doctor? Isn’t that a lot of things to do at once?”

Goddaughter: “No, I’ll do them all.”

Mother: “It’s too bad she won’t be a cowboy or she could be all of the Village People at once.”

My goddaughter stayed true to her claim for my whole visit, repeatedly telling me she didn’t want to be a bad guy or a cowboy. Poor cowboys get no love.

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I work as a developer for “personalized accounting software”. Part of my job is to test the new code I just wrote. Today, I am assigned to work on a bug for a big bakery chain in the Netherlands. It involves the invoice system. 

I find the bug, patch it all up, and start testing. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but somehow the feature “test as live” is on. This feature is always off, and this is the first time I did not check it. So, as you can expect…

The bakery first gets an invoice for 666 spoons.

The bakery then gets an invoice for one tomato bagel.

The bakery then gets an invoice assigned to Mr. B. R. Ead (B. R. Ood).

The bakery then gets an invoice for several items for a Baguette Party

Since I’m on a roll, I test the system about thirty times, before my manager hurries to me. He asks me what I’m doing and for how long, while he has his phone ready. I explain it and he turns to the phone. 

Manager: “Yeah, all is well. My developer is testing things. You may ignore all the invoices from the past hour.”

I look confused, and my manager points to that dreaded checkbox. My manager is laughing with whoever is on the other side of the line while I turn beet-red. 

Turns out the bakery thought it was funny and, “Ah, things like that can happen,” and you can rest assured that I will triple-check if that box is on from now on. 

The worst thing is that I sometimes shop there. I’m too ashamed to return, even if they don’t know it was me.

The veterinary clinic where I work has the most employees in the area; we often have students from the local tech school, and on any given shift, we have at least eight people working in the treatment area alone. This is well known by other clinics, and it is not uncommon for us to get referrals because someone’s regular veterinarian just doesn’t have enough staff to perform the procedure.

We get a call from a clinic with only three people on staff asking if we can do a C-section on a labrador retriever named Panda that has been in labor for hours and no puppies have been born yet. Labs generally have larger litters, and with a C-section, you need a person to stimulate each puppy until it wakes up. No way can that clinic handle more than five puppies. This will also be a great learning experience for our students.

So, our doctor agrees, and the patient is brought over and anesthetized. The procedure goes well, the dogs are recovering, and I get tasked with calling the other clinic to let them know how it went.

Me: “Hey, [Receptionist], we just got done with that C-section you sent over.”

Receptionist: “Oh, really? How’d it go?”

Me: “Great! Panda is recovering fine, 100% survival rate, nursing well.”

Receptionist: “Oh, wonderful. [Doctor] will be so glad to hear that.”

Me: “Did you guys take bets on how many pups there would be?”

Receptionist: “Given how big Panda was, we figured twelve or so. How many?”

Me: “One.”

Receptionist: “What?!”

Me: “One. There was one puppy — average-sized, too, not a giant. We had all the kids lined up ready to get puppies, the doctor handed the pup off to the head tech, and she started demonstrating how to stimulate. Then, the doctor called out, ‘That’s all, folks!’”

Receptionist: *Laughing* “Of course. You know what [Her Coworker] said when we called you?”

Me: “No.”

Receptionist: “He said, ‘I’ll bet there is only one puppy.’ We asked why, and he said, ‘Because Pandas don’t breed well in captivity.’”

A group of coworkers tried a new place for lunch. Something I ate there must have been disagreeable. By the time I left work, my stomach was bloated and baby-looking. I have personal issues with blowing up public restrooms, so I did my best to hold it in until the end of the day. I got outside and got stopped by [Nosy Coworker].

Nosy Coworker: “Oh, my gosh, [My Name], that restaurant today—”

Me: “I’m sorry, [Nosy Coworker], I’m not feeling well. I’d really like to just go home.”

I touch my stomach, trying to convey my point without saying it.

Nosy Coworker: “Ooh.” *Winks* “Right, well, you just go on home, baby.”

I know she thinks I’m alluding to morning sickness or something, but at this point, I don’t care. When I get to my car, I pass some gas and my stomach feels much better… but then the passenger door opens and [Nosy Coworker] plops down in the seat.

She takes a deep breath before looking around and then speaks in a dramatic, hushed voice.

Nosy Coworker: “So, when are—”

Her face contorts as her nose registers. She turns red trying to pretend nothing is wrong but also apparently trying to avoid breathing.

I act as if nothing is wrong.

Me: “Yes?”

Nosy Coworker: “Um… I… are you driving around with garbage?”

Me: “No. Why? I don’t smell anything.”

Nosy Coworker: “You… don’t?”

Me: “No.” *Sniffs my armpit for show* “It’s not me.”

Nosy Coworker: *Forcing a polite smile* “You know, I have to go back inside. Have a nice night, [My Name].”

Me: “You, too!”

She exited my car quickly and I drove off. At first, I was embarrassed at the idea that she would now be telling everyone my car smelled bad, but then I realized it may be a gift to have her avoid following me around. And my stomach also recovered overnight.

I’m shopping in a large department store with many levels. As I’m looking for a particular dress, I overhear a loud (not angry) customer with a five-ish-year-old asking an employee for an item.

Customer: “Thongs! I’m looking for thongs for my daughter!”

Employee: “Uh, no… We don’t sell those. I doubt anyone does?”

Customer: “Yes, you do! I’ve bought thongs for her before! Where have you put the kids’ thongs?”

Employee: “Look, I don’t know what to tell you. We don’t sell thongs for kids — especially not little kids! That would be inappropriate!”

Customer: “You what?! You’d better—”

Me: “Excuse me, are you looking for flip-flops? They’re on level three with the shoes; they changed the layout this year.”

They both look at me. The customer thanks me, gives the employee a pointed look, and walks off.

The employee stands there, shocked. 

Me: “It’s okay. In Australia, they call them thongs. I could hear her accent and figured I’d help.”

The employee was so relieved!