In the UK, “pants” typically means what Americans would call “underwear”, and they use “trousers” to mean what Americans call “pants”.

Customer: *In an English accent* “‘Scuse me. Where can I find boys’ pants?”

Employee: “Right over… Sorry, do you mean in the American or the British sense?”

Customer: “Just pants!”

Employee: “Right, but… trousers or underwear?”

Customer: “What? Neither! Pants!”

Employee: “Uh… children’s clothes are right over there.”

A few minutes later, the customer comes back, gesturing at her basket.

Customer: “Look, this is what I meant! No American or British or anything. Pants!”

Employee: “Ma’am, those are socks.”

When I was sixteen, I took my very first job at an amusement park. I was hired to work the games. One day, I was asked if I could help on the rides as an attendant. I said yes, and I was sent to the roller coaster ride to work. My job was to make sure riders were a certain height to be able to ride. There was also a sign at the beginning of the ride that all riders must be this tall (forty-eight inches) to ride.

The very first customer was a young man, and he was holding a baby. The baby may have been about a year old if even that. He tried to take the baby on the roller coaster ride, and I stopped him.

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, the baby cannot ride.”

Guest: “Yes, he can. He’ll be sitting in my lap.” 

Me: “Sir, you cannot have a baby on the ride. It’s against the rules.”

Guest: “C’mon, man, he’s gonna have fun!”

It took the other two ride attendants working the ride to get this young man and his baby off the ride. The young man was very angry about it, but he did finally leave.

Later, I was working the games. I was the game attendant for a game where mostly adults and some teenagers tried to test their strength by ringing a bell.

We also had a children’s version of the game, and it had a height maximum. No children over thirty-six inches could play.

I had a little girl maybe ten to twelve years old walk over to try to play the children’s high-striker. I took her over to the sign where I could measure her, and she was about four inches too tall to play.

Me: “You’re a little too tall to play the children’s version, but you can take a chance if you want to and play the adult version!”

The little girl just shook her head no and walked away. A few minutes later, the little girl came back with her mom.

Mom: *Yelling at me* “Why can’t my daughter play?!”

Me: “Ma’am, your daughter is too tall.”

I showed her against the sign where I measured her. The mom saw it and told a little girl:

Mom: “Crouch down a little bit.”

Me: “Unfortunately, she is too tall.”

Mom: “Get me your manager!”

Me: *Pointing* “The manager’s office is in that building there.”

About five or ten minutes later, I saw her walking back with my supervisor. My supervisor was a no-nonsense kind of guy. He was built like a football player, and he looked very intimidating.

The supervisor took the little girl over to where the sign was and measured her. He then went back to talk to the mom. The mom and a little girl walked away, and my supervisor came over to me. 

Manager: “You were right; she was too tall. I don’t know why the mother couldn’t have seen it to begin with.”

At first, I really thought he would side with the mom and still allow a little girl to play in order to keep our customers happy like some of the other managers do.

I am in apartment maintenance, so my bad customers don’t go home after they make me miserable; they ARE home. I see them practically every single day.

I have one tenant for whom nothing is ever right. He hates everyone. Any inconvenience is a major emergency; any work order is a guaranteed call-back.

It is South Georgia, back in the 1980s. Summer. The kind of hot that makes you stick to yourself. This tenant calls.

Tenant: “My air conditioning is broken! Fix it now!”

Me: “I’ll get to it as soon as I can. Everyone is running their AC ragged right now, so there are a few—”

Tenant: “I said now, and I mean now!” *Click*

It’s typical of him to not seem to understand that he isn’t the only one suffering in the heat and probably a dozen units have failed already today. My helper and I are able to get them all up and running, and our last call is [Tenant].

My partner runs over, and I stop to make an order. The heat wave has exhausted our parts supply, and I need to make sure we have materials for tomorrow.

[Tenant]’s AC luckily just has a small problem; a capacitor going bad. My guy radios me.

Partner: “Can you run a capacitor over?”

Me: “I used the last one an hour ago. Pull one from a vacant unit for now.”

[Tenant] hears that and goes ballistic — I can hear it over the radio — so I go over to calm him down.

As I approach, I can already hear him yelling twenty feet from his door. I politely knock, and he flings the door open, red-faced and shaking. Before I can say a word, he starts screaming in my face.

Tenant: “Stupid piece-of-s***, sorry motherf*****s, cheap-a** b*****ds, trying to give me used parts! For as much as I pay, I deserve better! Neither one of you losers is going to f*** with my s***! I deserve a professional! I demand someone who knows what they are doing!”

Me: *Smiling* “Are you asking to have an outside contractor repair your unit?”

Tenant: “I’m not asking you a g**d*** thing! I am telling you what is going to happen!”

No problem. I have a decent budget, and although I do have an HVAC vendor to use if things are too busy to handle, I have to explain it to the manager first.

Me: “Okay. Do you mind if I use your phone?”

I tell my manager that Mr. Problem Tenant refuses to let us do our job because he doesn’t think we are capable.

Me: “He’s demanding an outside contractor.”

Manager: “Okay, but I need him to verify that.”

I hand [Tenant] the phone, and of course, he goes off on a long rant. Then, he hands me the phone back.

Manager: “Go ahead and set it up.”

Problem Tenant is looking pretty smug now.

Tenant: “Need to use my phone again?”

I say yes and call it in. He’s grinning ear to ear as I state the address and tell the contractor what I need.

Me: “You’re all set.”

Tenant: “What time can I expect the repairman?”

Me: “Before 5:00 pm… On August 9.”

Tenant: “What?! That’s almost two weeks from now!”

He starts screaming again, and as I turn to walk out the door, he grabs my shoulder. I hold my arm up and look at my watch. It’s 5:15 pm, fifteen minutes past my work schedule.

Me: “Are you sure you want to do this? I’m off the clock.”

His hand drops, and so does his face. When he replies, his voice is very different.

Tenant: “Please put the used part on.”

Me: “Do you trust my ‘stupid a**’ to do that?”

Tenant: “Yes. Sorry I said that.”

He was never a problem again.

Related:
He’s All Hot Air

It’s the 1990s, and I am the depressed and often bullied child of a single mother. So often (though I’ve become an overachiever later in life) I can’t be bothered.

At school, we have an assignment to make a model of a cell — extra credit if it’s edible and can be shared with the class. 

It’s the morning of the assignment, and I’m eating breakfast.

Mom: “I have to take you now, or you’ll be late.”

Me: “Oh, wait.”

I go to the cupboard and grab the heel of a stale loaf of bread.

Mom: “What—”

Me: “I’m making a plant cell. Give me a minute.”

I grab Cool Whip from the fridge, a couple of plastic baggies, and food coloring, and quickly make squeeze bags. I draw the various organelles, and we rush to school.

Mom: “Why did you make… that?”

Me: “Extra credit!”

I go to class and have to present my cell. I stand in the front, ready to take the abuse I will receive regardless of effort.

Teacher: “That’s disgusting! What is it?”

Me: “You told us to make a diagram of a cell. I was about to explain to the class about the plant cell, using this.”

Teacher: “This is insulting. I expect people to put effort in. Your classmate brought a Jello casserole. Why would you bring a slice of bread?”

Me: “Plant cells are rectangular and fibrous, like this bread. And my classmates had their parents help, or do all of it.”

Teacher: “But… you could have drawn a picture! What is this?”

Me: “This is a stale bread heel with colored Cool Whip. You said you were giving extra credit if we made our project into food to share with the class.”

Teacher: “But that is disgusting! I am not giving you credit. That is obviously not what I meant.”

Me: “I am confident that I have brought enough for everyone who wants some to get a piece.”

Teacher: “What do you mean? It’s one price of bread and twenty students.”

Me: “I could break this into twenty-five in case some people want seconds. But let’s see.” *Looks at the class* “Raise your hand if you want some of this stale bread I’m holding.”

The class looks at me. Some laugh, and some make retching noises. One kid raises his hand.

Me: “Unless anyone else wants this, I’m giving it to that guy. Looks like I had enough to share with everyone who wanted it.”

I give it to the kid. The teacher gives me the stink-eye.

Boy: “This actually isn’t too bad. It’s gross, but I expected worse. I’ll eat it.”

No one liked that kid, either, and this didn’t help him. I don’t remember what happened after that, but I will always be inspired by that audacity whenever I’m doing something last-minute.

My parents got divorced when I was about five, shortly after my mom started law school. She would bring me to law school with her. I remember one class in particular, though I don’t remember the topic.

Mom: “All right now, you have to sit very quietly for two hours. Do you have something to do?”

I nodded silently and held up my little backpack. I didn’t really talk much back then. We sat in the very front row, a few seats left of the middle. 

Professor: “Oh, a new student! I expect you to keep up and take notes!”

I nodded dutifully and got out paper and crayons. I did try to pay attention, though I had little ability to understand. I drew a “My Little Pony” that I had brought with me. We would always sit in the same seats, and I would draw ponies. 

Professor: “Everyone, turn in your essays on your way out!”

I turned in a pony drawing.

Professor: “Wait, you don’t actually have to give me that!”

Me: *Whispers* “I want to.”

Shortly after that, I wasn’t allowed to come to class anymore. Another student complained that I was looking at her too much. I remember her. She was pretty.

As such, my law school career was short-lived. I’m pretty sure I got an A on that pony, though.