(I am 13, and a major fan of the show “The Golden Girls”. I’m at a popular coffee shop.)
Me: “May I please have [seasonal drink]?”
Cashier: “Name, please.”
Me: *makes reference to “The Golden Girls”* “Zulu, Queen of the Dwarf People.”
(Five minutes pass.)
Barista: “I have a coffee for Zulu, Queen of the Nerd people!”
(After picking up my coffee, I proceed to take off my coat, revealing my “Golden Girls” shirt.)
Growing up, my parents never really policed what I watched, and I ended up seeing a lot of R-rated movies by the time I was ten. One time though, when I was about eight, my mom and I were watching one such movie together. Near the beginning, a village was attacked, the invaders unleashed a pack of dogs on the villagers, and my mom covered my eyes. I immediately ripped her hand away, we stared at each other for a couple seconds, me thinking, “What the heck? I’m trying to watch a movie here,” and her expression saying, “Well, if you’re sure,” and we continued watching the movie.
Nearly twenty years later, that was the only scene I could remember, but I found it hilarious that of all the mature movies I had seen, that was the one scene she decided to shield me from. I had absolutely no idea what movie it was from, but was always curious. One day, I was browsing Netflix, started a movie, and realized it was the one from my childhood. I stopped watching it and messaged my mom. We agreed it would be fun to watch it together again, so next time I was at her place, we did so.
We spent the next two hours laughing at the old 80s special effects. And couple of times she said, “Now this scene is what I really should have covered your eyes for,” and laughed even more.
The movie it turned out to be? Conan the Barbarian.
(I am sitting on the couch watching TV, cuddled up in a blanket. I mention to my twelve-year-old son:)
Me: “I’m feeling cold.”
Son: “Mom, are you cold because you’re bleeding internally?”
Me: “We’re watching way too much CSI, aren’t we?”
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(I’m twenty-four and I’ve liked The Beatles since I was sixteen. A new documentary about them has been released to the theatres, so I decide to check it out. Most of the conversation happens in Finnish, but the documentary was released under its English name, “Eight Days a Week.”)
Me: “Hi! I’d like these.” *points to the soda bottle and the chocolate bar that I set on the counter* “And a student ticket to Eight Days a Week.”
Employee: “What?” *says something incoherent*
Me: *assuming I said the middle part too quickly* “A student ticket?”
Employee: “But which movie?”
Me: “Eight Days a Week.” *short silence* “The Beatles film…”
Employee: “A Monster Calls?”
(This film also goes by its English name in Finland.)
Me: “No, Eight Days a Week. Beatles.”
Employee: “A Monster Calls, at what time?”
Me: “No. Eight Days a Week, The Beatles, at [time].”
Employee: *brings up the seating chart for A Monster Calls* “This one?”
Me: “No.”
Employee: *finally brings up the seating chart for Eight Days a Week* “This one?”
Me: “Yes…”
(I wonder how horribly I mangled English to make “Eight Days a Week” sound like “A Monster Calls.” Or maybe I was just too young to be buying tickets to the Beatles documentary.)
This story is part of our Beatles roundup!
(I work as a pharmacy technician and, as part of verifying a patient’s identity, I ask them to verify the address we have on file. A man with three rows of skulls tattooed on his forearm is picking up for someone else.)
Me: “Can you verify the address?”
Customer: “[Street number], uh, gosh, it’s the snowman from that Frozen movie!”
(The street was Olaf. I laughed and sold him the prescription.)
