I can never say no to things. So, when I get a call from a telemarketer, I tell them I’m busy, and they ask if they can call back, so of course, my reply is always “yes.” This one in particular is for life insurance. They constantly call and I ignore them but they still keep trying. 

One day, I have had enough, but I still just let it ring. I am with my younger sister at the time, so she asks if she can answer it. 

Sister: “Hello?”

Telemarketer: “Hi, is [My Name] there?”

Sister: “No, she’s dead.” *Hangs up*

They stopped calling me after that.

In high school, I take a sewing class. I am in no way a natural — it takes me three days to learn how to thread a bobbin — but I still learn. Our first big project is a pair of pajama pants. My teacher is checking my cut fabric pieces before I start pinning them together. It should be noted that I am only five feet tall and nearly always the shortest person in the room, but I have no problem poking fun of my own height.

Teacher: “These two pieces seem a lot shorter than the others.”

Me: “Huh. Yeah, it looks like it.”

Teacher: “Did you forget a piece of your pattern?”

Me: “I don’t know, but I can look.”

We find the problem pretty quickly: the pattern has two different pieces for the legs. The smaller one is meant to be cut out and taped onto the end of the larger one. I’ve done it with two of the four total pieces, but now I have two long pieces and two short pieces. The teacher tells me to cut out the smaller pieces and sew them onto the two shortened leg pieces so all four are the same length.

Me: *Joking* “I’m so short that maybe the short ones would actually fit better!”

Fast-forward a few weeks. My pajama pants are much further along, and it’s time to put them on for waistband measurements. The legs are long, so I have to roll them up a few times.

It only takes a few seconds to realize that the amount of fabric I’ve rolled up is equal to the amount of fabric in the smaller piece I’d sewn onto the shortened legs. The shortened legs really WOULD have fit better.

My family owns a Chinese/Thai fusion restaurant in our hometown, and while at university, I work as a host.

I receive a phone call at the host booth from someone who sounds like a movie stereotype of a stoner. The conversation does nothing to change this impression.

Me: “[Chinese Restaurant], how may I help you?”

Stoned Customer: “Hey, um, do you guys do delivery?”

Me: “No, I’m sorry, we don’t. Have you tried [Food Delivery Service]?”

Stoned Customer: “Nooooo, duuuuude, I don’t want someone else delivering it; I want the actual restaurant people to deliver it so they get the money.”

Me: “I can respect that, sir. Unfortunately, we cannot accommodate you.”

Stoned Customer: *Half groaning, half whining* “DUUUUUDE! I really wanted Chinese food!”

Me: “We’re open for dine-in or carry-out.”

Stoned Customer: “I can’t. My car is in the shop.”

Me: “Oh, bummer.”

Stoned Customer: “Heeeeey, I got an idea! I’ll make you a deal: you come pick me up at [Apartment Complex], and I’ll get you some pot.”

Somehow, I am not surprised to hear he has pot at the ready.

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, we cannot accept that as currency.”

Stoned Customer: “Nah, nah, nah, not as currency, dude. This is just a little… perk… you know… on the down low.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but I cannot do that. You might want to call a restaurant that offers delivery.”

Stoned Customer: “Maaaaaaan…” *Click*

I just put my head down on the host booth and sighed deeply.

I’m working at a summer camp. We are doing staff training the week before the kids arrive. In this training session, we are discussing safety.

Camp Director: “For every camper that gets hurt, three counselors will get hurt.”

After a couple of moments…

Counselor: “Oh, you meant statistically.”

A friend comes over for movie night. I want a period piece and he wants to stay awake. We compromise with “Pride And Prejudice And Zombies,” that most delightful tribute to the spirit of Miss Austen’s wonderful women and their zombie-slaying abilities. We are both single and very platonic male-female friends. A common bond is that our jobs leave us no time to date and acceptance of our eternal bachelor(ette)-hood.

A scene comes up where the women are getting ready for a dance, which includes lots of shots of knives being hidden under garments on shapely legs in boots, and guns in bustiers.

Friend: “There, that’s all I want! Is that too much to ask?”

Me: *Pauses* “You mean, a woman who is incredibly attractive, the essence of feminine, yet can still kill you with a hairpin?”

Friend: “Yes! Exactly! And who can cook!”

Me: “Yes, [Friend], that is too much to ask.”

He enjoyed the movie.