We are interviewing people for a room in the flatshare I live in. As two rooms are available at the same time, the only people interviewing are [Flatmate] and me. We find a couple of people we like and meet with them, and after they have agreed, we have them come to sign the contracts.

The first guy comes over, and we chat amicably about nothing too serious. Suddenly, [Flatmate] starts telling us how she really wishes she could learn to appreciate boobs. I have no idea what to say to this and try laughing it off with a joke. At this, she starts ranting.

Flatmate: “I can’t wait until 2049 when the vaccine for heterosexuality will be available. All humans will have to take it and become homosexual so they never have kids, and global warming will be solved.”

I am trying to keep a straight face, as this is completely out of character for her. I am also praying to any deity right there and then that the new guy doesn’t tear up the contract and walk out of there. Luckily, he doesn’t, but I am creeped out.

I think that will be the end of odd conversations, but at the signing for the second room, we get another one. This time, [Flatmate] rants about the brilliance of communism and how Stalin was right with the purges. Yeah, she’s now advocating mass murder, but it’s okay as it was done by the left.

I find myself breaking my atheism for the second time that week praying to deities known and unknown. The second guy signs up and I breathe a sigh of relief.

[Flatmate] left a few months later, and my other flatmates and I still get a chuckle out of this at dinner occasionally. She’s the craziest flatmate I’ve had, and that was really out of character for her. I’m still surprised it wasn’t some kind of really weird test from her side.

I work for a beverage distribution place in a very ritzy resort area. One client’s assistant shows up and says he needs a pallet of [Bottled Spring Water] for his boss’s house.

No problem. We load it on the truck, drive it up to his house, and unload it.

Me: “Where do you want this, sir?”

He leads us into the garage.

Client: “Can you help unload it?”

We started down-stacking and carrying cases of this expensive spring water into what I thought would be the kitchen or pantry.

Nope. We went straight through the house to the back deck. Oh. Okay, he was going to have a party? You would think so. But no.

He had us set the water down. I went back to get another dolly of packaged water. The assistant and some other household staff are already at work, uncapping individual bottles and dumping them out.

“Where?” you might ask. He was filling his hot tub with [Bottled Spring Water].

I told my boss about this, and he didn’t even bat an eye. It wasn’t even among the top ten contenders for weird things rich people did.

Related:
H2-OMG!, Part 2
H2-OMG!

This story is now a famous example in my household of how my lovely fiancé — an engineer and a very intelligent man — doesn’t always realize something is outside his scope.

It was his birthday, and I had spent an amount of time making him a very special birthday cake from scratch. (He hates chocolate and most sweet things, so it was a very tricky cake to cater to everyone’s tastes.) The time had come to remove it from the oven and then from the pan. I had enlisted the birthday boy to do this because I have trouble bending.

[Fiancé] later told me the reason he did what he did was that “That’s how you get resin molds out” in his experience. I didn’t know what he was going to do, or I would have informed him that cake and resin are not the same things.

All I saw was him picking up my cake, turning it upside down, and dropping it.

He just dropped the cake.

After I had calmed down from my quiet, seething rage, I managed to scrape together something that, with icing and decorations, didn’t look half bad. It was only when cutting into it later that we all saw the state of the baked good and turned to look at [Fiancé], who then blushed and let everyone in on how it turned out like this.

Luckily, everyone found it as hilarious as I did. It was still a very tasty cake, and now he knows to let cakes cool before removing them from the pan.

I wrote this story where my grandma, the drama queen, called an ambulance because she had a tickle in her throat and didn’t want to wait at the hospital, and this story where my grandma, the narcissist, refused to understand that my gluten-intolerant mother might actually know a thing or two about what’s in certain foods.

Grandma has been diagnosed with one of the least threatening forms of congestive heart failure, given medication to take, and told to go on a low-sodium diet. Some people in her situation might say, “I’m ninety-two years old; I’ll eat whatever I [expletive] want to eat.” Not her. She insists that she needs to go on a low-sodium diet. The problem is that she doesn’t really know what “low-sodium” means, and she won’t listen to us because we aren’t doctors.

One day, shortly after Grandma gets back home, we have chicken parmesan for dinner. While she was in the hospital, she asked for a grilled cheese sandwich and a nurse told her the cheese had too much sodium in it, so Grandma has written off all cheese. We make her a piece of plain chicken for dinner while the rest of us have chicken parmesan. My mom has prepared a salad and gives Grandma some.

Mom: “What kind of dressing do you want?”

Grandma: “Ranch.”

Dad gives her the ranch and she proceeds to completely drown her salad in it.

Dad: “Would you like some salad with your dressing?”

Grandma: *Laughs* “Good thing it doesn’t have too much sodium in it.”

Mom: “Yes, it does!”

Grandma: “No, it doesn’t.”

Mom takes the ranch bottle.

Mom: “It has [about 300] mg of sodium in it.”

Grandma: “That’s for the whole bottle!

Mom: “No, that’s per serving.”

Grandma: “No, that’s for the whole bottle!”

Mom: “No, that’s for one serving, and one serving is only two tablespoons. You’d be better off with your usual blue cheese dressing, which only has [about 250] mg of sodium.”

Grandma: “I can’t have cheese!”

Mom: “They probably served American cheese on their sandwiches, but other cheeses are lower in sodium.”

Grandma: “I can’t have cheese! It has too much sodium!”

We let Grandma eat her dressing with a hint of lettuce. She also ate three slices of Texas Toast with extra butter, but we didn’t say anything about that.

It wasn’t until about two weeks later when a home-help nurse came over and told her that ranch dressing was high in sodium that she gave that up.

Related:
We Should Totally Just Drug Grandma! (Not Really), Part 2
We Should Totally Just Drug Grandma! (Not Really)
We Should Totally Just Stab Caesar! (Salad), Part 2
We Should Totally Just Stab Caesar! (Salad)

I’m coming off a breakup, and my ex-boyfriend is having trouble understanding that the relationship is over. This exchange happens at the tail end of a lengthy text conversation.

Ex-Boyfriend: “Then go f*** yourself, you soulless happy!”

Ex-Boyfriend: “*Harpy. Autocorrect, sorry.”

Me: “Do you really need to apologize when autocorrect f***s up a message to someone you hate?”

Ex-Boyfriend: “You ALWAYS apologize for autocorrect.”