This New System Is A New Grade Of Stupid

, , , , , | Related | March 1, 2018

(This story takes place when I am in grade five, and we are receiving our school reports. I am normally a straight-A student. My teacher sits the class down and explains to us that the school has changed their grading system this year. The teacher explains that in the new grading system, students cannot receive an A in their mid-year report. It is impossible to get anything higher than a C, because the new grade reflects what work has been achieved; as half of the assignments are due in the second half of the year, we can only get an A at the end-of-year report. I have no idea why they chose to tell us, the kids, rather than send out a letter or something to the parents. As I am only in grade five, I don’t fully understand the reasoning behind the new grading system — I still don’t, as an adult. Nevertheless, I trot home with my report. Later that evening, my mum sees my report and completely loses it.)

Mum: “What is this?!”

(I look over and see that I have mostly Cs, and some Ds.)

Me: “Oh, yeah. The teacher explained about this. She says we can’t get As because of the new report.”

Mum: “You’re lying. You haven’t been studying hard enough; that’s why you got all these Cs and Ds.”

Me: “It’s true! It’s because we haven’t done the second half of the year… or something… so we can only get As at the end of the year! That’s what she said!”

(This only angers my mum further, because she’s convinced I’m lying about it. I have always been an honest kid, but like I said, I don’t fully understand the teacher’s explanation, and I can’t explain it properly to my mum. She keeps yelling at me until I start crying. She then makes me get out my diary and write about what happened today. I’m still crying as I write, “Today, I got Cs and Ds in my report and I don’t know why.”)

Mum: *looking over my shoulder* “You liar. You know why you got Cs and Ds. You can’t even be honest to your diary.”

(Soon after, my dad came home and was greeted with this commotion: me sobbing, the report strewn all over the table, and my mum still furious with me. He listened to me as I tried to explain what the teacher said. He then said to my mum that we should probably ask the teacher to clarify, if only to double-check if what I was saying was true. My mum was sceptical, but finally agreed. I don’t know how they were able to see the teacher that late in the day — it may have been parent-teacher interviews that night; I can’t remember — but they left and came home a couple of hours later. My dad gently explained to still-miserable, nine-year-old me that I was right. The report system had changed, so according to the new system, I should be really proud of my grades. My mum was in a cheerful mood, because it turned out I did well, after all. She had the grace to look a bit sheepish, but I don’t remember ever getting an apology for her accusations.)

Unfiltered Story #106360

, | Unfiltered | February 27, 2018

I enter the butterfly house with my husband, toddler and baby. There are only a few groups of people inside so it is quite quiet. Near the entrance is a mother talking to her son, who is about 5 years old. He has apparently just touched a butterfly.
Mother: you can’t touch them. It’s going to die now.
Boy: *no reaction*
Mother: don’t touch the butterflies.
They slowly go through the exhibit with another woman and small girl, we follow slowly behind. Near the exit, the mother and other woman are chatting to each other while looking at their phones. The zoo keeper is facing the other way, talking to another visitor. The children are squatting next to a garden bed, and the boy picks up a stick and, holding it like a baseball bat, takes a swipe at a butterfly. Thankfully he misses. The mother takes no notice, and the keeper hasn’t seen it. I stand a few meters away, staring at the boy, waiting for him to do it again. A couple of butterflies pass near him and he starts thrashing the stick around.
Me: HEY! DON’T HIT THE BUTTERFLIES WITH A STICK!
Everyone turns to look and the mother hustles her son out, looking annoyed. I guess violently attacking butterflies is ok so long as you don’t touch them.

Trying To Pad Out The Sale

, , , , , , | Right | February 23, 2018

(We run a business that supplies weapons, clothing, and armour for Live Action Role Play [LARP] and re-enactment. We often set up and sell directly to customers at games, as well as participating in the combat ourselves.)

Me: “So, you want the full set of plate armour? That’ll be [price].”

Customer: “Great. I can’t wait!”

Me: “Do you have a gambeson?”

Customer: “What’s that?”

Me: “It’s a type of padded jacket you need to wear underneath most armours. It’s great for protecting your real-world squishy meat sack from the physical force of the blows, and—”

Customer: “Nah, it’s fine. They’re just toy swords. How much damage can they do?”

Me: “Again, it’s full, steel-plate armour, and without a gambeson to pad it, a lot of the force on it is transferred straight to your body. I suppose if you have, like, a puffy winter jacket—”

Customer: “Listen. Stop trying to upsell me, all right?! I’ve been doing this stuff for years! Just… the d***… armour.”

Me: “All right. It’s your call, mate.”

(I processed the sale, and then assisted him into the armour, as it’s very difficult to achieve alone, and the customer had no friends to help. An hour after that, full combat started, and I could see this guy running down the field at full tilt. A minute later, a Code Red was called for a serious injury that required the medical officer. The customer had fallen over and cracked a rib inside his own armour, because there was no padding.)

Very Accessible Back-Stabbing

, , , , , | Working | February 13, 2018

(I have to lay out a section at my job. I know I have to make everything accessible for our customers and I have tested it myself. The job needs to be complete for an inspection by our very strict owner. As I’m finishing, my manager comes along and decides to move one of the shelves I have put up so she can put other stock up high on the fixtures. I do feel a bit miffed that she’s changed my work but I don’t say anything. I tidy up where I am and go to move a basket where she is, but she tells me she’s still using it. That evening, I am relating a dream to a friend, who tells me that the meaning to that dream is that I have to keep an eye out for someone who’s about to stab me in the back. I get in after the owner has done his inspection and has already left.)

Manager: “[Owner] wasn’t very happy with how you left things. I had to tell him it was you who did that job. He said the work was unacceptable, so he wants to take it further, and I have to give you a verbal warning.”

Me: “Why? What was wrong with it?”

Manager: “You put the stock much too high for customers to reach.”

Me: “I don’t think I did; I’m not tall and the edges of the top shelves were at my head level. I didn’t have to stretch to take anything off them.”

Manager: “Well, what about how high the shelf with [items] on it is? Oh, wait a minute. I moved that, didn’t I? But what about [items]?” *I raise one eyebrow* “Oh, I did that, too, didn’t I? But what about the basket that was left on the floor?” *I keep my eyebrow raised and cross my arms* “Oh, that was me, too, wasn’t it?”

(I have no idea whether she’s recorded that she’s given me a verbal warning, but as I walk out of the office, much more miffed than I was last night, she still throws a little dig in.)

Manager: “So, you now know that you have to keep to the standards that [Owner] expects, don’t you? No excuses.”

Always Room For A Gift

, , , , , , | Related | February 9, 2018

(I am about 13. My parents are on the brink of divorce. My mum refuses to sleep in her room with my dad anymore; instead, she sleeps in my bed, with me. I am weirded out by this, but she’s being unusually sweet and affectionate with me, reading with me, and so on, so I let it go. One day we have a fight — over something I can’t remember, now — and I tell her I don’t want to sleep with her anymore. How strange does that sound?)

Me: “Just leave me alone, Mum!”

(She continues arguing, but I cut her off again.)

Me: “Get. Out! This is my room. Get out of my room!”

Mum: *blows up* “Your room? What do you mean, your room?”

Me: “This is my room! You have your room; I have mine! Get out of my room!”

Mum: “This is my house! All the rooms in this house belong to me! How dare you claim this as your room?!

(My dad has not interfered in this argument up until this point, but he’s finally had enough. He walks up to my room and pokes his head in the door.)

Dad: “[Mum], this is actually my house. I paid for it, and the title of the house is in my name, so it’s my house. [My Name], I hereby gift you this room. It is now your room.” *walks off*

(I was grinning from ear to ear. It was a glorious victory for me, although my mum immediately and inevitably turned her wrath on my dad. They ultimately divorced the next year.)

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