During the 2020 health crisis, we order carryout from a local pizza chain. There is a queue to enter the restaurant in order to maintain social distancing. When I finally enter the store, I see that the only workers wearing masks are at the front desk. Only a few of the folks making pizza are wearing masks. The few that are wearing masks are wearing them around their necks and not covering their noses and mouths.

Me: “Uh, your workers don’t have to wear masks?”

Cashier: “They have respiratory issues so they don’t have to wear masks.”

Me: “So, of the twelve people working here, ten of them have respiratory issues?”

Cashier: “Well, we don’t ask for documentation of the illness.”

Me: “Cancel my order.”

CONTENT WARNING: This story contains content of a medical nature. It is not intended as medical advice.

My mum and I live together. There’s a global health crisis, and we’ve been potentially in contact with someone who tested positive, so we have to self-isolate for ten days. I’ve checked all the stuff, and apparently, we’re not able to get tests because we’ve got no symptoms; it’s a stupid rule, considering you can be asymptomatic with it, but what do I know? One symptom is losing your sense of taste and smell.

We are day four into isolation, and Mum has to open the giant jar of garlic puree she panic-bought but can’t, so she enlists me to open it. After lots of grunting, copious swearing, hitting the lid, and attempting the tea-towel technique, we finally get the jar open by her holding the body of it and me using both hands to unscrew the top. We cheer! But then we fall into a coughing fit, eyes streaming, as we’re both smacked in the face with the very pungent smell of garlic.

Me: “I’m gonna smell garlic forever! Oh, God!”

Mum: “At least we know we’ve not got symptoms!”

Disclaimer: I do not condone panic-buying; please do not panic-buy. I’m just saying my mum’s panic-buying of a single giant jar of garlic actually… paid off. A little. That was a SINGLE jar, though, not fifty rolls of toilet paper.

I work every Tuesday at my kid’s middle school store. An eighth-grader that I know comes up and asks for $13 worth of gummy fruit snacks.

Me: “That’s a lot of fruit snacks. Are you going to share with all your friends?”

Eighth-Grader: “No, I’m eating them all for lunch.”

Me: “But you have braces, and I’m going to see your Mom on Friday. Do you think she’ll want to hear this?”

Eighth-Grader: “I don’t care; it’s my money.”

Friday, I see his mom and tell her. 

Mom: “So, that’s why he had a stomach ache and wouldn’t eat dinner!”

I work for a school for students with special needs. Most of the parents are great, but some are idiots.

I am working in a first-grade classroom. One of the teachers takes one of the kids to the bathroom while I am helping the other teacher hand out breakfast. We suddenly hear a small scream, and the teacher comes out, holding the kid under the armpits.

Teacher: “He’s got ringworm! Get him to the nurse, quick!”

I grab the kid and take him to the nurse’s office, which is a closed-off area of the main admin office. The nurse is just about to go on her medication rounds but quickly checks the student, confirming it is ringworm, and goes to call his mother. It’s a small office so I hear the whole conversation while I keep the kid entertained.

Nurse: “Hello, [Mother], we just discovered that your son has ringworm. Could you please come get him?”

Mother: “Yes, I know. I saw it this morning.”

Nurse: “Excuse me?!”

Mother: “I put a bandaid on it. Didn’t you see?”

Nurse: “Ma’am, you cannot cure ringworm with a bandaid. You need to pick up your son and bring him home. He cannot return to school until a doctor confirms that the ringworm is gone.”

Mother: “I’m at work.”

Nurse: “You still need to come pick him up and take him home. How soon can you be here?”

Mother: “I’m at work; I can’t get him. He has to stay there for today.”

Nurse: “No, you need to pick him up. He has a contagious fungal infection and cannot stay here!”

Mother: “I’m at work.” *Hangs up*

The nurse turns back to me in shock.

Nurse: “Can you believe this?!”

Me: “Yes, but good news: she doesn’t work. She brings [Student] a hot lunch every day, so she’ll be here in a few hours.”

The nurse just looks at me, incredulous, but then goes out to the secretary and talks to her before coming back in and filling me in on the plan. She then leaves for her rounds, leaving me to watch the student and keep him isolated.

After two hours, when it’s almost time for our class’s lunchtime, the student’s mother drives up. The nurse has just returned, and she and the secretary leap into action.

The secretary lets the mother in but then stands by the door to the outside. The nurse comes out of her office, leading the student. I stand by the door leading into the school, blocking anyone from getting in.

The nurse marches up to the mother, who is dressed in a T-shirt, yoga pants, and flip-flops — definitely NOT a working uniform — and holds the student out to her.

Nurse: “Your son has a fungal infection that is contagious via skin contact and he cannot return here until you have a doctor’s note stating that the infection is one-hundred percent cleared up. It will be at least a week. Make sure your doctor includes a phone number because I will be calling to check and be sure [Student] was cleared. You may go now.”

The mother silently took her son and exited via the door the secretary was holding open for her. The student did return fully healed, but she never tried to pull that trick again!

While at university in the 1990s, I am flat-sharing with a couple of other chaps. I am studying in my room and can hear the sound of rhythmic chopping from the kitchen. The sound stops, shortly followed by a cry of pain. I dash to the kitchen with the thought that my flatmate has done himself a mischief with the knife. I arrived to see my flatmate with a weeping eye.

Me: “Are you okay?”

Flatmate: “I was cutting some chilis and rubbed my eye! F***, it hurts!”

Me: *Suppressing laughter* “You numpty. I’ve got some hayfever eye drops in the bathroom cabinet. They might take the sting out of it.”

A couple of minutes later, there is a scream from the bathroom. I make my way to the bathroom and knock on the door.

Flatmate: “F***, f***, f***…”

Me: “You all right in there, mate?”

Flatmate: *Pained* “No. I decided to use the toilet while I was in here…”

Me: “And you didn’t think to wash the chilis off your hands first?”

Flatmate: *Still pained* “No.”

Me: “I’ve heard milk is supposed to take the heat out of it. Shall I get you glass to dip into?”

His reply would have made a sailor blush. He eventually left the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, holding it away from his crotch. For the rest of the day, I couldn’t look at him without giggling.