When one of my cousins got married, she and her husband had a “Generations Dance” at their reception: the dance started with all the married couples on the dance floor, and then anyone married less than an hour — that is, the newlyweds — is told to leave, then anyone less than a year, five years, ten years, and so on, until one couple is left, usually the bride’s or groom’s grandparents.

My grandfather had been married three times, having outlived one wife and gone through a divorce with another before marrying the woman he’d been with — at the time of the wedding — almost thirty years. When the generations dance was announced, he joked to me, “If they count up all of my marriages, I might win!”

My cousin’s other grandparents won, though.

I like comfortable and unusual but not weird shoes, something hard to find for men. I went to a major store and found a pair that was perfect: dark grey, with slightly lighter grey and light grey highlights. I tried one and it was a perfect fit. Last pair in the shop.

Then, I tried the other one and found out why. It was also a perfect fit, but the colours and pattern were different — similar, but not the same. Disappointed, I asked if they had any more in other locations. They said it was old stock, but there was one more pair on the other side of the state. They ordered it and it was seven weeks before it got there.

I went in and looked at it… same problem! They still had the original pair, as well. I said I’d take both. They gave me 65% off.

The sales guy said, “I don’t understand. Why do you want two pairs of mismatched shoes??

I opened both boxes, took them out, said, “Watch this,” and swapped the two lefts. Voila, two pairs of matched shoes. He looked at them for a few seconds and then said, “Ohhhh!”

They must have got mixed up at the factory, and then all of them sold everywhere except those two pairs which no one wanted. I asked him if he was still happy with the discount, and he said, “Fair’s fair. You’ve paid, and it’s old stock. Can’t believe I didn’t work that one out, though!”

I work as a consultant within the retail sector, getting assigned tasks to be performed at different locations. Sometimes I’m on my own, but for larger tasks, a helper is usually assigned. Then, it’s up to me to contact them with the time to meet or any changes.

I am assigned a coworker that I don’t know, so I send a message to my manager asking for her contact details. I receive a reply that just contains a phone number. I don’t have regular physical contact with my manager — we work with emails and messages — and I learned early on to get everything in writing as she rarely answers calls.

Over the course of a week, I send messages to the coworker but get no reply. I phone and leave voice messages. I message my manager and get no reply. With the hope that she has seen my messages, I turn up at the job, but the coworker doesn’t show. I send an email to my manager to let her know what has happened and to say that I am getting another coworker instead and have to reschedule dates. Again, I get no reply.

I get another task with the missing coworker as a helper a week later, and again, I’m not able to contact her, so I arrange to have her replaced. Again, I let my manager know what is going on, and again, I get no reply.  

A third assignment is sent to me. This time, I am unable to do it, so I send an email to my manager a month ahead of time. She immediately replies asking for a screenshot which I send right away. I also remind her that I have never been able to contact this particular coworker. I keep having to email over the next three weeks because nothing has been done to remove this task. Eventually, I get a reply saying that my manager hasn’t found a replacement. I end up talking with another coworker and she agrees to take the task, and because of this, I can contact the head office to do the change.

Again, I email my manager with all the details and again remind her that I still can’t contact the other coworker. This time, I get a single line reply three days later.

“She’s been overseas for weeks; you should have had her taken off and found a replacement.”

When I was a teenager, my dad and step-mom sent me to a Christian camp for a week, citing that my brother had loved his time there years ago and that I would have fun, too. A lot of kids from our church in my age group were going, too, but I don’t think my parents realized that I wasn’t really friends with any of them.

The week started off poorly when it turned out that the only bedding provided was sheets — no pillow or comforter — so I had to use about half of my spending money to buy a tiny and overpriced pillow to use. I have no idea how my parents missed that, as the other campers all had supplies, and I was never given any information beforehand outside of “You’re going; isn’t that great?!”

Days at the camp were filled with mandatory sports activities; anything that I actually found fun, like rock climbing or paintball, cost extra money per session that I now didn’t have due to the pillow problem. While I love being physically active, I hate being told how to be physically active, so I half-a**ed my way through the first day or two until life gave me a blessing.

Right on schedule, that time of the month arrived! I might have been a tad too gleeful telling the counselor that I wouldn’t be able to play flag-volley-fris-ball for the rest of the week, as they kind of squinted at me and asked if I was fine with telling everyone I was on my period, which I was.

The rest of the week, I was able to sit in the shade sketching, and I was only required to attend the daily church gatherings where over-excited twenty-somethings would tell us how important it was to make sure we brought all our friends to God so they wouldn’t end up in Hell. Fun for the whole family!

I finished up the week with a dozen sketch pages filled and a frown on my face as my dad asked me how my time was. I told him exactly what I thought about being sent to camp with no friends and people telling me to do things I hate all day. My dad got a thoughtful look on his face and then said, “Oh, yeah! [Brother] actually hated that camp! Sorry about that!”

While I didn’t commit patricide, I also didn’t get sent to camp again, so small victories, I guess.

I’ve had severe pain in both of my feet on and off for two years. I’ve been diagnosed with tendonitis, mild tendon tears, plantar fasciitis, Morton’s neuroma, and arthritis. I’ve tried everything that two doctors have suggested, plus a few things I learned about doing my own research. I’ve also had an MRI.

I’m getting pretty desperate for relief. This means that I’m willing to see a doctor despite the rapidly spreading illness going around, even though I’m at extremely high risk for it.

At my most recent appointment, the doctor proudly announced that I had metatarsalgia. This was a fancy way of saying that the bones in my feet hurt. No kidding, doc! He recommended highly cushioned shoes — which is all I’d been able to wear for two years — and that’s it.

I’ll be seeking out yet another doctor for this.