(I am working in the produce department of a grocery store. I am cutting up fruit with the more experienced [Coworker #1], who is just a little younger than me, when [Coworker #2] who is doing stock for produce, walks in.)

Coworker #2: “Hey, [Coworker #1], a customer asked whether we get our grape tomatoes from Mexico or the US. I told her I’d ask you because I don’t know.”

([Coworker #1] and I look at each other with confusion for a second, wondering why someone would ask that, before [Coworker #1] responds uncertainly.)

Coworker #1: “I… think we get them from Mexico? I’m not sure.”

(As they’re talking about it, I suddenly have a thought. [Coworker #1] goes into the refrigerated room where we keep all the produce stock, and I ask [Coworker #2]:)

Me: “Hey, is the customer an older white lady?”

Coworker #2: “Yeah, why?”

(I laugh and nod my head in confidence before explaining.)

Me: “I bet you that if you tell her they’re from the US, she’ll buy them, but if you tell her they’re from Mexico, she’ll put them back.”

(We both laugh, but I am very confident in my theory, as we live in an area that is pretty close to the countryside and full of elderly white people. [Coworker #1] comes back in and confirms that we do, indeed, get our grape tomatoes from Mexico, and I restate my theory to her. When [Coworker #2] leaves to tell the woman that the tomatoes are indeed from Mexico, I ask him to tell me what she says. Later on, I bump into [Coworker #2], and he tells me what happened. He walked back to this woman who was still holding the small plastic container of the tomatoes in her hand.)

Coworker #2: “So, I just checked with one of the people from produce, and she told me that we get those tomatoes from Mexico.”

Customer: “Oh, okay.”

Coworker #2: “I’m sorry about the wait.”

Customer: *while looking him in the eye* “I’m sorry, too.”

(She then put the tomatoes back and just walked away. I whisper yelled, “I knew it!” and we both laughed about it for the rest of the day. Just to clarify, every person involved in this was white, including me.)

(I am having a conversation with my 92-year-old mother for my parents’ anniversary:)

Me: “Happy anniversary. Sorry I couldn’t reach you yesterday.”

Mom: “I don’t know where we were, but can you believe we’ve been married 73 years?”

Me: “74 years.”

Mom: “No, 73 years.”

Me: “[Sister] will be 73 in three weeks. Did you have her three weeks after you got married?”

Mom: “No! We didn’t do it like that back then. Guess I’ve been married 74 years.”

(This is my grandma’s story, in which she is a customer and another woman is trying to push into the queue.)

Woman: “Let me in front; I’m 72!”

Grandma: “Well, I’m 81, so get back in line!”

My maternal grandfather had an accident with a power tool when he was younger, leaving him with three partial fingers. His pinky was the shortest, ending at the first knuckle, his ring finger was cut off between the knuckles, and his middle finger at the last knuckle.

One thing he loved to do was wait until a kid was watching him, then start picking his nose with his index finger. After a while he’d switch to his next finger, then the next, watching the kid’s eyes get wider and wider. If you didn’t know he was missing parts of his fingers, it looked like he was shoving them farther and farther up his nose. He would finally move on to his pinky stub, making it look like he had an entire finger shoved up his nostril, while the kid’s eyes bugged out of their head.

(I am listening to a talk show about Youth Day and the rights of children. Someone who sounds like an old man calls in:)

Caller: “Children have too many rights these days. They are rebellious, and don’t respect their elders. I think we need to bring back capital punishment in schools.”

Host: *long pause* “I think you mean ‘corporal’ punishment.”

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