Praise To The Lamb(ing Sheds)!

, , , , , , , | Related | June 30, 2020

I suppose I should start with a mild warning as this story, while funny, is also kind of gross. Welcome to my life.

Allow me to start with a little back story. My father’s wife appears to have done all of her research on how to be a Step-Mother in certain children’s books. I don’t mean she could be a little grumpy; I mean she got cease and desist letters from The Mouse.

On the Sunday evening in question, I had just gotten home and was trying my d***edest to get out of my boots, an effort hampered by the fact that, despite being fifteen, I had worked thirty-six hours in the lambing sheds that weekend and was so tired I had walked home, right past the motorcycle I had ridden to work.

As soon as she heard the front door, she started in on me through the door that separated the kitchen from the front hall, screeching at me that I hadn’t done my chores and I had better get caught up right now or no supper for me.

I said, “I’ve been at work all weekend; you know that. You insisted I take the job.”

As soon as I said the words, I knew it was a mistake, and sure enough, she ripped the door open and took a deep breath to engage in her favourite pastime: berating me for being a waste of skin and air.

Sadly for her — but not me — she took the deep breath after she opened the door.

After thirty-six hours in the sheds, I was covered in… I’m not going to be specific, but suffice to say that if it was liquid and could be found inside a sheep, I was wearing it. (I ended up having to throw all of my clothes out because even a boil wash couldn’t get the smell out.)

Her eyes bugged out, she went green, and she dived past me to throw up in the downstairs bathroom. I finished undressing, threw my clothes and boots out the front door, and went upstairs to scrub myself down with Swarfega: proper manly, gritty cleanser.

You’d think that would be an end to it, right? Wrong.

As I fell asleep — passed out — it was to the sound of her howling at my father because he wouldn’t let her wake me up to vacuum the downstairs and do the dishes.

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We Sold Out Because The Sale Did Its Job, Idiot!

, , , , | Right | June 30, 2020

I am working as the lead assistant at a local retailer. We are beginning a pre-Black-Friday special on a brand of canned vegetables all week. Due to all the local food drives, supply quickly runs out.

About an hour before we are going to close, an older man walks in with his wife. The wife turns to me with a scowl.

Customer: “And where are all of the [Brand] vegetables in your ad?”

Me: “I am sorry, but we have sold out.”

Customer: “And why is that?”

Me: “Honestly, ma’am, we have a lot of local charity groups that buy them for food drives.”

Customer: “This is stupid. Shouldn’t you limit the amount they can buy? That would be the fair thing to do.”

I can tell she is fuming mad, so I ask for the ad she is holding and point at the bottom.

Me: “The ad says here that there is not a limit on any sale items. And also, being that the winter season is coming, I am not about to limit food that is purchased for the less fortunate. We will be having another sale on the [Brand] vegetables before Christmas, or you can try one of our other stores.”

As I’m saying this, one of our well-known regulars is approaching my register with her purchase, as I have let my clerk take a smoke break.

Customer: “I demand to speak to the manager. This is an outrage!”

Before I can speak, the other customer enters the conversation.

Customer #2: “Can’t you read, lady? He is the manager! And frankly, with the fuss you’re making, he should have kicked you out long ago. Now git!”

With that, the first customer storms out of the store stating that she will never return again.

Customer #2: “What a holiday spirit that one has, huh? In all the years you’ve worked here, I’ll never understand how you handle that!

This made me smile, and I wished her a happy holiday.

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Bye-Bye, Bigot!

, , , , , , | Related | June 26, 2020

I’m on the phone with the grandmother I have an already rocky relationship with. Out of nowhere, she says this:

Grandma: “I don’t like that gay people can adopt.”

Me: “What?! Why?”

Grandma: “What will two women do with a son? They’re women! They don’t know how to raise a boy!”

Me: “That is the dumbest f****** thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

Grandma: “Don’t use that language with—”

Me: “You were a single mother who raised a son and you spoke to the judge to make sure my mother — your own daughter — didn’t get me in the custody battle instead of my single father.”

Grandma: “W-well… Well, I had help from family! And so did your father!”

Me: “And gay people won’t? Gay people don’t have families?”

Grandma: “I just don’t like gay people! I’m old and set in my ways, and I don’t like them and think they’re disgusting and wrong.”

Me: “Well, I’ve decided that I don’t like you and I think you’re disgusting and wrong.”

Grandma: “Why, because I don’t like gay people?”

Me: “I generally don’t like people who hate me, so, yeah.”

Grandma: “I don’t hate you! When did I say I hated you?”

Me: “Just now. I’m gay. So, since you hate me so much, I’ll just never talk to you again! Bye!” *Click*

Several weeks later, I got a letter in the mail from my grandmother demanding I “change my mind about being gay” because she’s “too old to change.”

I’ve spoken to her a total of two times since then and each time she spouts more hateful nonsense, even going so far as to ask me if I was getting divorced two months after I married my wife. The kicker? Her OLDER sister came to the wedding and absolutely loves my wife; they swap recipes.

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What About “If You Can’t Say Anything Nice…”?

, , , , , | Related | June 25, 2020

My son is four and is learning that some truths are best left unsaid. A larger lady with close-cropped hair joins the queue behind us.

Son: “Mummy, look at that really fat man!”

Me: “Darling, that’s a lady, and you should be polite!”

Son: “So, she is really fat, just not a man?”

Me: “What would you do if someone said that to you?”

Son: “I would crash through the floor, and then through the earth, and then into the lava.”

Lady: *Having heard everything* “Then I’m taking you with me, sunshine! Better start running away now; keep you nice and slim!”

My son shrieked and laughed, and now remembers that exercise keeps you healthy. Thank you to the lady for being so understanding!

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Moving In And Shaking Things Up

, , , , , | Related | June 24, 2020

My dad has fallen on some hard financial times due to a variety of factors. I live nearby and help out where I can — replacing the leaking washing machine, picking up bills, helping with groceries/shopping, etc. — but he’s still struggling. We’re both people who strongly value their independence, so when he starts making comments about me moving back in and taking over his mortgage, we laugh it off at first.

But the comments keep coming. He starts giving me some variation of “If things don’t pick up, I’m probably going to have to have you move back in by [some arbitrary date always one or two months out].” He also either disregards or says he will, but never does, any of the advice I give him to make extra income, not even the ideas he comes up with himself.

After month upon month of him sprinkling “you’re probably going to have to move back in” into nearly every conversation, I’ve about had it, so I come up with a solution to find out once and for all how serious he is. The opportunity comes when I’m just getting ready to leave after visiting him.

Dad: “Bye! I’ll see you Monday. By the way, if I can’t pay the mortgage this month, I’m going to have to have you move back in.”

Me: “That’s fine. Then I want the house.”

Dad: “What do you mean?”

Me: “Well, if I need to move back in, I’m going to have to assume you can no longer take care of yourself and can’t afford to live alone any longer. So, if I’m paying for the house, this will become my house and my rules.”

Dad: “Is that so?”

Me: “Yes. Those are my terms. By the way, since it will probably come up if we’re living together again: I’m gay.”

Dad: “Oh.”

Me: “Anyway, think about it and get back to me. Love you. I’ll see you Monday.”

I guess the “tough love” approach worked, because he called me the next day to tell me that he agreed to surrender the house to me as a last resort, but he wasn’t giving up yet. Years later, he still has his house, and I’m working on buying my own home now in the same neighborhood. When we told my uncle about the purchase, my uncle asked why I wasn’t just moving back in with my dad and my dad responded, “We have an agreement.”

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