The Birds And The Bees And The Belly Buttons

, , , | Related | January 10, 2018

(We’re at home on a weekend, and I’m just sitting on the couch, reading. My siblings are very loud, but the loudest is my eleven-year-old brother. Keep in mind that he’s very smart. He’s actually quiet at this time, so I ask what’s on his mind.)

Me: “What are you thinking about?”

Brother: *with hand on chin* “Oh, just about the pain a mother must be in during birth.”

Me: “Uh, yeah. It’s quite painful.”

Brother: “How long does it take for the belly to go back together? Or does the doctor do it?”

Me: “What?”

Brother: “You’re a girl; you must understand. After the baby comes out of the belly, does the doctor stitch the stomach back together or does it do that by itself?”


Brother: “Oh, come on, [My Name]! You know, when a baby comes out of the mom’s belly button!”

Me: “Who told you babies come out of the belly button?”

Brother: “Well, why do you think it poked out so much when Mom was pregnant with [Younger Sister]?”

Doctor’s Note Versus Musical Note

, , , , , , , | Learning | January 10, 2018

(I’m a senior and in the top audition-only choir at my school. It’s near Christmas, and I have come down with a nasty case of the flu. My doctor has ordered me to stay home for at least a week. My mom drops by the school with a doctor’s note, as I’m so sick I can’t drive. She runs into the office while I stay in the car. She comes back out with a frown on her face.)

Mom: “[Choir Director] wants to see you.”

(I’ve got a fever of 103, so I’m very out of it.)

Me: “Huh?”

Mom: “He wants to see you. He left word with the office that he doesn’t want a note; he wants to see you, personally. Something about missing two performances. He wants proof you’re really sick.”

Me: “But I’m sick. And I’m in my PJ’s.”

Mom: “I know, honey. I’ll walk with you.”

(I slowly shuffle to the choir room. I open the door, and am greeted by the shocked faces of my classmates. The director drops his sheet music and books it over to me.)

Director: “You’re sick. You’re actually really sick. What are you doing here?”

Mom: “You told the office you wanted to see her. Here she is.”

Director: “No, no. I didn’t—”

Mom: “Yes, you did. You told the front office that you wanted to see her, because you wanted to make sure she was really sick.”

Director: “Okay, I did say that. But so many students lie about being sick, and I just wanted to make sure that she was actually sick. I believe you. You ladies can go home.”

Mom: “We have a doctor’s note. You always tell them to bring one in if they can’t sing.”

Director: “Ah… no. That’s not necessary—”

(Normally, I’m very quiet and well-behaved, but I’ve lost all patience.)

Me: “I had to drag myself out of the car to come in here and present myself to you. YOU ARE TAKING THIS DOCTOR’S NOTE! Have I ever missed a performance in three years of singing for you?! NO! Why would I lie about missing one now?”

(He takes the note. My mom gently guides me toward the door.)

Director: “I… ah… really do hope you feel better.”

Me: *under my breath* “I hope you get all my flu germs.”

(One of my friends, who was sitting near the door, snorted. I went home. The director didn’t talk directly to me for a month.)

Salty About The Chips

, , , , , , , | Working | January 9, 2018

(I’m a carer for a young man who has autism. Like a lot of autistic children, he can be picky about what he will and will not eat. As a reward for recent good behaviour, I take him to the local fish and chips shop for some hot chips.)

Server: “What can I get you?”

Me: “Can I please have a large chips, no salt?”

(The server sighs and stalks away. I think it is weird, but I let it go. The server cooks up a fresh order of fries… only to add salt to them.)

Me: “Sorry, but it was a large chips with no salt.”

Server: “Oh. I forgot. No big deal, though, right?” *tries to give me the chips*

Me: “No. Big deal. I need you to make a fresh order with no salt, please.”

Server: “C’mon, I know that this is just a ploy that people do to get a fresh batch of chips, and you’re just going to add salt to them. You saw me cook them fresh, so it’s fine.”

Me: “No. If I give [Boy] chips with salt, he will lick off the salt and not eat the chips. Please give me what I ordered, or I’ll be forced to ask for a manager.”

(The server sighed, rolled her eyes and muttered up a storm, but eventually she gave me an order of saltless fries. I think I’ll try somewhere else to get hot chips, next time.)

You’ll Want To Be Sitting Down For This One

, , , , , , , , | Working | January 7, 2018

(I’ve spent eight hours flying, and am looking forward to finally arriving at my destination. I use a personal wheelchair to get from gate to gate, which means I leave it when I board the plane each time, and it should be waiting for me as I exit. It’s not there when I arrive. I ask the crewmember overseeing the strollers and other gate-checked luggage:)

Me: “Um, sir? Where’s my wheelchair?”

Crewmember: “Oh! That was yours?”

Me: *panicking now* “Yes! What happened?”

Crewmember: “Well, this old lady was having so much trouble walking, we thought it must be hers! She’s being taken to… well, probably wherever her next flight is, or maybe home.”

Me: “But I have a luggage tag! I put a tag on it! You were supposed to check it!”

Crewmember: “Well, I guess we can try to track her down.”

Me: “My wheelchair costs $1,500 and I can’t function without it!”

Crewmember: “Let me call for a transport wheelchair for you. My coworker will be able to help you catch up to her.”

(I panic more as I wait, because the longer it takes, the more likely I’ll never see my chair again. Finally, his coworker arrives.)

Coworker: “Hello, ma’am. I understand you need help finding someone in the airport?”

Me: “He gave away my wheelchair and now she’s God knows where!”

Coworker: “No problem. We’ll track her down in no time.”

(Surprisingly, we do. I’m so relieved. The lady and I switch wheelchairs, and she goes on her way. Before the coworker leaves, I ask him one final question.)

Me: “Don’t you want to check my luggage tag to make sure everything’s right this time?”

Coworker: “Nah! I’m sure you’ve got it!”

(He walked away as my jaw dropped to the floor. I did check it myself, at least!)

Tattoo The Word “Gullible” On Their Forehead

, , , , , | Right | January 6, 2018

Customer: *stops me over by the face painting section* “Excuse me, I’m trying to find the stuff you spray on top of the body markers to make it permanent.”

Me: *baffled* “I’m sorry, did you say permanent, like lasts your whole life permanent?”

Customer: “Yeah, I was told there’s a spray that you can put on body markers to make it permanent.”

Me: “Well, ma’am, there’s setting spray which will make face paint last longer that might work on the markers but spray to make it last your whole life doesn’t exist.”

Customer: *getting huffy* “My daughter has a drawing on her arm that she says is ink made permanent with spray. Are you telling me it doesn’t exist?”

Me: “Ma’am… are you sure it’s not a tattoo?”

(She stares at me in shock, then in utter fury before whipping out her phone and starting to dial. She yells into the phone as soon as she gets connected.)

Customer: “Did you get a tattoo?!”

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