Nice Saves On Not-So-Nice Subjects

, , , , , | Romantic | March 18, 2018

Husband: “Would you be mad if you fell asleep and I started doing you…”

Me: “…”

Husband: “…”

Me: “…”

Husband: “…a …huge favour by rubbing your back?”

(On another occasion… Note: My husband works as a barista.)

Husband: *referring to a very attractive woman we had just met* “Wow, I would make sweet, sweet…”

Me: *raises eyebrows*

Husband: “…coffee for her?”

(My husband is the king of nice saves.)

Unfiltered Story #107353

, | Unfiltered | March 14, 2018

(I work for a large grocery chain with locations all around the country. As part of my job, I get a staff card that entitles me to a 5% discount when presented. The only rule is that we can’t give it to others to use, but we are allowed to use it for family and friend’s purchases as long as we are the one presenting the card. One day, I tag along with my mum as she does the weekly grocery shop so she can use the discount. The store we visit isn’t the one I work at. We get to the checkout and I present my card.)

Cashier: “Are you the one paying for this?”

Me: “No, my mum is.”

Cashier: “Then I can’t scan your card. You have to be the one paying.”

Me: “It’s fine to do as long as I, the cardholder, am present. That’s the rule.”

Cashier: “No it’s not. I can’t accept it. It’s against the rules. Technically, I should be confiscating your card just for suggesting it.”

Me: “What?”

Mum: “But we’re here together. They always let us do it.”

Cashier: “Sorry.”

Me: “That’s how it’s done at my store.”

Cashier: “Then you’re breaking the rules.”

Mum: “I have the money here. If I handed it to him to pay you, would that be okay?”

Cashier: “Yes, that would be okay I guess, because then he’d technically be the one paying.”

Mum: “But if I just give the cash straight to you, without going via him, we can’t get the discount?”

Cashier: “Correct.”

(My mum makes a big show of handing me the cash, which I then hand to the cashier, along with my staff card, which she finally accepts, with a look on her face like she’s put us in our place. The following day I mentioned this to my manager, who agreed that the cashier was in the wrong. We tend not to do our grocery shop at that store any more, and I’ve since learned that that particular store isn’t held in very high regard by many of my fellow employees.)

An Alarming Lack Of Alarming

, , , , , , | Working | March 13, 2018

(My mother and I are staying at a hotel. It’s around three am and I am woken by an alarm in the room. It sounds like a clock alarm. It’s not my phone, so I go over to my mother’s bed and look for her phone.)

Mum: *wakes to me trying to locate her phone in the dark* “Wha… What’s that noise?”

Me: “I think it’s a phone alarm. Is it yours?”

Mum: “I don’t use the alarm. What is it? Turn it off; it’s annoying.”

(She rolls back over to go to sleep. I unplug the hotel alarm clock, but the noise continues. I move towards the window and I hear another sound coming from outside, this one sounds like a fire alarm a little way off. Opening our door, I notice a fire door has closed across the hallway.)

Me: “S***! Mum, get up! It’s a fire alarm!”

(We head out into the hall to find [Friend #1] standing there, looking dazed. Other friends are still in their room. We knock on one of their doors, and they answer right away.)

Friend #2: “Hey, what’s up? Hey, [Friend #3], the noise is out here, too. What’s going on?”

Me: “It’s a fire alarm.”

Friend #2: “What? We thought it was an alarm clock. We’ve been searching the room trying to find it for the last five minutes.”

(Another group of friends had slept through it and only woke to our banging on their door. We made it down the fire escape. Thankfully, it was a false alarm — some kids had set off a fire extinguisher on another floor — but it would have been nice to have something more defined as a fire alarm, rather than something that sounded like an annoying alarm clock. I wonder how many people wouldn’t have made it out of that hotel if there really had been a fire.)

It’s A Man’s World Of Pain

, , , , , | Healthy | March 12, 2018

I have an eight-and-a-bit-month-old child, and I’ve been having some pain during sex, so I book in to see my OB-GYN.

The appointment is really straightforward and I’m told to go get a cream. I also have a birth control rod inserted whilst I’m there. I wander over to the pharmacy and hand over my script. I’m not asked for my Medicare card, but I’m asked if I have concession.

I reply no, with no more thought into the answer. I wait and collect my script and note that I’ve been charged a concession price. Not thinking too much into it, and thinking that I must have one linked to my Medicare card, I pay the $12.80 instead of $50 to $80 for my items and head back across the road.

I get the rod implanted and continue about my day, a bit perplexed how I got charged concession. It’s not until later that night when I’m reading the script again that I realise they’ve put it under the wrong name. I’m a Mrs. [My Name], and they put it under a Mr. [Same Name].

I burst out laughing that they have given a man vaginal cream and contraception, at an OB-GYN.

Driven To The Only Logical Conclusion

, , , , , , , , | Related | March 8, 2018

(When I was little, I didn’t have that many toys. I always envied my friends when I went in their rooms and saw beds covered in plushies and teddy bears. I am at my mum’s friend’s house. They have two kids and a room FULL of toys. It is like heaven to six-year-old me.)

Me: “[Mum’s Friend], can I please play with the toys?”

(My mum shoots me the “don’t embarrass me” glare I have learned to recognise. I ignore it and put on my best puppy face.)

Mum’s Friend: “Of course you can! Go have fun.”

(I gleefully go play with the myriad of toys. I am being a bit rambunctious, and I can hear my mum grumbling her disapproval and her friend loudly brushing her off: “Oh, let her have some fun!” That is all the encouragement I need. After about half an hour, I spot the jackpot: a little red toy car — the kind big enough for kids to get in and ride — partially covered under a desk. Again, I scurry over to my mum’s friend:)

Me: “There’s a red car under the table in that room. Is it okay if I drive it a bit?”

Mum: “No. You need to sit down and behave.”

Mum’s Friend: “Oh, there’s no need to be so harsh, [Mum]. You only get to be a kid once! Of course you can play in the car, honey. Have fun!”

Mum: “No. She’s had enough fun. Other kids can sit quietly when their parents take them out; so can she. She’s being disrespectful to you in your house.”

Mum’s Friend: “Oh, stop it, [Mum]. I don’t mind her at all. It’s fine, sweetie. You can go play in the toy car.”

(I look between my angry mum and her smiling friend as they go back and forth a little more. Then my mum says this to me:)

Mum: “[My Name], if you go play on that toy car, you’re going to get a beating when you get home.”

(Perhaps contrary to her intentions, this ultimatum made it much easier for me to decide what to do. I could drive the little toy car and get a beating, or I could forego what might be my only opportunity ever to drive a little toy car — I was only going to get bigger as I got older, after all — and there was no guarantee I wouldn’t get a beating in the future, anyway, for other offenses. With this sound logic, it was not a difficult choice. I rode that little toy car around the house to my heart’s content, careful not to crash into anything. I did get a beating when I got home, and it was 100% worth it.)

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