Remember the good ol’ days of Internet security, kids? When we were all taught that you don’t leave bank information on places it can be swept up and sold?

This all starts with Mom who, to her credit, is trying to pay me back for groceries and fund my new obsession with bowling. [Credit Union], following the Great Trends of Machinery, recently decided in their infinite wisdom to bestow an entire system overhaul of their website, a new app, and a brand-new “experience” on us.

My mother is pre-home computers. This may be important later.

She logs in and tries to transfer money.

Mom: “Oh, honey, you’re not signed up for [Money Transfer System]. Can you sign up real quick?”

Me: “Uh, I’ve been signed up since I started using the bank. What email are you using?”

Cue a “Who’s On First?” moment about emails, names, and any potential variations I might have signed up with when I was all of twelve and got my first bank account.

Me: “You know, they did just update everything recently. Are you using the new app? There might be some system issues.”

Mom responds with all the confidence of a pre-tech Boomer.

Mom: “Oh, obviously not. You must have forgotten you capitalized a letter in your email address.”

Me: “…what?”

It goes downhill from there.

My mother’s arguments vary from, “But the computer says you’re not enrolled!” to, “They can’t have system issues; it worked just fine for your brother!”

At some point, I try to log in.

This is obviously a mistake. I am using [Browser #1] with a password generator — as one does — and it isn’t working. I get kicked out and have to reset my password. Twice.

Me: “Well, this isn’t working. Can you call the [Credit Union] people and ask for help?”

Mom: “I’m trying to transfer money to you! This is your job!”

Me: “You do know that the nice people who will get a lot of federal jail time if they mishandle your money might not want to talk about your account with me, right?”

Mom: “But if the computer says that you’re not enrolled, it must be your problem!”

I break first and drive down to the [Credit Union]. I walk in, show my ID, and try to word things in a way that does not violate federal law…

Me: “Hi. My mom and I are having two problems: first, I can’t get my password manager to work on [Browser #1] with your site. Second, the money transfer system says I’m enrolled on my end, but my mom’s device says I’m not. What’s going on?”

Teller: “Uh…”

Passing Teller: “Oh, I know! The money transfer system has been doing that; she just has to re-add her contacts. And [Browser #1] is inherently outdated, so it’s incompatible with our site!”

I pause and translate this from Non-Computer Speak into “Wait A Minute, Didn’t [Browser #2] Just Update Its ‘Security’ Policy?”.

Then, I say my thanks and leave.

I return home and tell my mom that she needs to re-add me as a contact. She does so, and all is well.

Then, I opened my instant messenger to speak to my much more savvy sister at college.

Me: “Remember when [Browser #2] decided they were going to collect data, sell it to the highest bidder, forbid [Ad Blocker], and leave you open to every bug on the planet? Someone in [Credit Union]’s web developer team apparently decided that means they’ll get more money from their end-user if their site is only compatible with [Browser #2]. And then told their wife that [Browser #1] is ‘outdated’. I’m pretty sure a middle manager somewhere is making a web designer cry into a beer for the Days of Yore when browser compatibility meant more than, ‘We think this is Cool With The Kids and Hip and also makes money.'”

Now I’m off figuring out how to keep [Browser #2] from stealing my friggin’ bank password. And losing my faith in humanity.

I am on a family trip with my parents, my uncle, and his three kids. My uncle’s wife divorced him, leaving him to take care of his kids. My parents run a small leather business, so they’re going to be selling to gas stations and a few other places. They dump [Uncle], the kids, and me at the hotel, which has a casino inside. I watch TV for a bit, and then [Uncle] comes to my room.

Uncle: “Hey, I’m going out. Watch the kids?”

He then leaves before I can get a word in edgewise. I go down to the front and find that they also have a daycare center. Thank God. I ask them to charge it to the card the hotel is on, and then I head off to the casino. Eventually, [Uncle] comes over.

Uncle: “Where are the kids?”

I point him to the daycare center. It is of note that he has had anger issues in the past. These come into full effect as he starts yelling at me. I ignore him and go back to my game.

Security comes over, and [Uncle] is suddenly meek and quiet.

Uncle: “I asked [My Name] here to watch my kids, and now they’re nowhere to be found.”

Me: “He didn’t ‘ask’ me; he just said, ‘Watch the kids?’ and left. They are now at the daycare.”

It becomes a he-said-she-said situation, so I stand up, beckoning for them to follow, and lead them to the daycare.

Apparently, [Child #1] was too wild, and [Child #2] had hit another child and made them bleed. [Child #3] is coloring. [Uncle] has to pay an extra fee, and [Child #2] has to be moved to a special group.

Eventually, my parents come back, wondering what this charge on their card is. The hotel staff explain, and they are not happy.

Tomorrow comes, and guess what? [Uncle] takes off again, this time without telling me. I only find out when [Child #3] knocks on my door. Apparently, his brothers pushed him out and locked the door behind him. He asks if we can go back to the daycare, and I ask the hotel staff to charge me this time.

I eventually go back to the casino and play a few rounds, but the hotel staff come to me, saying there’s been a noise complaint. I ask them to call my parents’ number, and they agree.

Eventually, I run down on cash and go back to my room. My parents and [Uncle] are in the middle of the hallway, arguing. I slip past them and into the room and turn on the TV.

Later, I come out for a snack, and they turn to me, asking why I didn’t check on the kids. I tell them [Uncle] didn’t even knock on my door; [Child #3] did. I then realize he’s still down at the daycare, and it is quite late. I run quickly down and find he’s playing hide and seek with a few other kids. I bring him back up.

My parents and [Uncle] are still arguing. It’s a mess.

This goes on for several days. [Uncle] tries to dump kids on me, I refuse, and I either go to the arcade, stay in and watch TV, or go to the casino. I eventually rack up quite a bit of money. I had $150 at the start, and that turns into almost $400.

It’s been almost a week here, and everyone is getting really sick and tired of [Uncle]’s crap. [Child #3] can now walk down to the daycare and back, all on his own. [Child #1] and [Child #2] get lost several times and have to be found by hotel staff.

This all boils up when the hotel manager knocks on our door, telling us that we’ve had several noise complaints, broken items, and wandering children.

I point out that it’s not us, it’s [Uncle], so he should pay for it, or at least be here. Lo and behold, who opens his door? It’s [Uncle]. In the split second that his door is open, I can see the broken TV, towels and blankets all over the floor, and the curtains ripped down.

The hotel manager apparently misses this, asking about the noise violations and crashes they’ve been hearing. [Uncle] becomes increasingly agitated and aggressive. During this, I see [Child #3] come around the corner on his way back from the daycare. I quickly wave him away, and he turns to leave. But then, my mother sees him. She begins to question [Uncle] on why [Child #3] is out. I slowly walk [Child #3] back to the daycare.

But when I get back, the argument has reached a fever pitch. I hate yelling, and [Uncle] is screaming. He turns on me.

Uncle: “Your job is to watch the kids, and you couldn’t even do that!”

At this point, I’m done. I’ve been sharing a room with my parents for a week, I can’t go anywhere without getting harassed by [Uncle], and I can’t stay in cause of the noise [Child #1] and [Child #2] make. I turn on [Uncle] and start screaming.

Me: “YOU THINK I WANTED TO WATCH YOUR TWO LITTLE BRATS? YOU DIDNT EVEN ASK! YOU JUST DUMPED THEM ON ME AND GOT ALL TICKED OFF WHEN I BROUGHT THEM TO SOMEONE WHO COULD ACTUALLY GIVE THEM ATTENTION! LITERAL DEMONS WOULD BE BETTER THAN THOSE BRATS YOU CALL KIDS! NO WONDER [CHILD #3] DOESN’T WANT TO BE AROUND THEM! THEY CLEARLY LEARNED THEIR LACK OF MANNERS FROM YOU! THANK GOD [CHILD #3] IS ACTUALLY SANE! IT’S NO WONDER YOUR WIFE LEFT YOU IF YOU ACT LIKE THIS!”

I turned and marched back into the room, flopped on my bed, and turned on the TV. I snubbed my parents when they came back in, seeing as I was still mad.

It turns out they had paid for all of [Uncle]’s mess (again), and we were now banned from the hotel. Including me.

I yelled, but what else did I do?

A few years ago, I went to a very large week-long conference in Las Vegas. One of the evenings, our company was throwing a massive party for our customers. These parties were known to be epic, and everyone there to work the booth looked forward to it every year.

But, at the last minute, the CEO, wanting to keep costs down, decided that engineers weren’t allowed at the party because of the cost, despite the fact that we had been busting our butts for weeks for the show. Our Vice President protested and was told just to take us all out for dinner — on the company’s dime. 

So, our VP took us all to a VERY expensive restaurant on The Strip.

VP: “Get anything you want. Let’s max out my company card!”

Everyone got Wagyu steaks, expensive wine, OLD Scotch, and all of the desserts. The bill came out to around $15,000 — at least ten times what allowing us in the party would have cost.

I was working in a call center. During one of our “slow periods”, my coworker was talking about her oil painting hobby. Because art is an interest of mine, I later said to her:

Me: “I would love to see your paintings. Do you have pictures of them?”

She looked at me like I had just asked her for a date in front of her husband.

Coworker: “Say that again?”

Me: “Do you have pictures of your paintings?”

The woman turned her head with a “Can you believe the nerve of him?” look on her face. Thinking that she was upset about me listening in on her conversation about her hobby, I felt myself turn red as I quietly returned to my desk and mentally berated myself for not minding my own business.

The following morning, I received an email requesting me to report immediately to the human resource manager’s office. I’d actually had a very good working relationship with her over the previous seven years, and at one point, she had helped me get transferred to another project when I had expressed a growing amount of dissatisfaction with the one I was on. I had no worries at all about being summoned to her office.

The HR manager greeted me with a warm smile and asked me to take a seat. Then, she produced what I recognized as a complaint form for employees.

Manager: “Yesterday, you approached [Coworker] and asked her a question. Could you clarify for the record what that was?”

Me: *Seriously confused* “She was talking to someone about her painting hobby, and I asked her if I could see her paintings sometime. I asked if she had any pictures of them—”

Manager: “UGH!” *Tosses her pen on her desk* “Thank you. That’s all.”

Me: “Okay?” *Slowly getting up*

Manager: “You’re good. You can go back to work. Thanks for coming in.”

As I was walking down the hall, I heard her yell, “He said PAINTINGS, not PANTIES, you idiot!” followed by the sound of a phone receiver slamming down.

The day after a heavy wind storm at our house, a small pine tree in the front yard has come down and is leaning against the house. Since I have to work, my adult son thinks he will help and cut up and remove the tree for us.

He is up on the roof with my Sawzall and a bright orange extension cord. Partway into the project, the local SWAT team arrives.

SWAT Officer: “Lay down the weapon and put up your hands!”

He was being held at gunpoint by several officers in full riot gear. He gently put down the saw and, as they instructed, carefully climbed down the ladder.

After he explained to the officer in charge that it was a saw, not a rifle, the guns were finally lowered, although one rookie kept his hand on his sidearm until told by the lead officer to go back to the van and wait there.

It seems a neighbor had seen him up on the roof with something in his hand and called 911. We laugh about it now, but at the time, staring down the barrels of several anxious police officers’ guns, my son almost had to change his shorts.