Last night, I stopped at a motorway service place in the UK. I’m not going to be more specific because I bet what these guys did is against policy, and I don’t want them to get into trouble.

I had had a long day and was looking for something to eat. All the concessions were already closed except for the [Famous Fried Chicken], and as I approached their counter, it was clear that they, too, were trying to close.

Worker: “We’re about to close. Would you mind ordering quickly, please?”

Me: “I don’t mind. Is there anything you don’t have? I don’t want you to have to start cooking something new and make you stay later.”

Worker: “We have most things.

When I ordered, he told me they had everything I wanted.

Five minutes later, I opened up my bag and found that the chips were a little old, but the box of chicken pieces was CRAMMED to the top; it would barely close. They had loaded it with as much of the stuff they would otherwise have had to throw away as they could fit in.

Guys, be nice to retail staff; they’ll be nice to you!

When we first adopted our Maine Coon cat (from an ethical breeder), we were told she wouldn’t need to be brought to the groomer and weekly brushing was fine.

That may have been the case for someone experienced with intact long-haired cats, but one, she was our first long-hair (we also have two domestic short-hairs [DSHs]), and two, when she was spayed, her hormones thickened her coat.

As a result, within four months (and granted we weren’t as diligent about brushing as we should’ve been), she had very visible matting, bad enough that we desperately started looking for a groomer!

We found one that took feline clients about a half-hour away, and unfortunately, she needed to be shaved. It broke our hearts that we had failed her so badly! (Fortunately, she’s a former show cat and is used to being groomed.)

Now, she has a “spa day” every two or three months to ensure that this never happens again! Additionally, we have begun a daily ritual of “Brushies!” for all three cats (it helps keep shedding down for the DSHs). Dusty has learned to enjoy Brushies, and one of our DSHs thinks Brushies are the Best Thing Ever, but the other (who sheds the most, naturally) isn’t as thrilled, even when bribed.

I’ve got a pair of regular customers who are just absolutely adorable: a father and his little girl. Their usual order is a small cheese pizza for the little one.

One day, the father called in and ordered his daughter’s usual pizza. He then asked if we had mushrooms, intending to order a second pizza for himself that day. However, the little girl overheard the dreaded M-word uttered from her father’s mouth. From my end of the phone, I heard this typically angelic child absolutely melt down crying at the thought of having mushrooms on her pizza, not understanding at all that it was never for her. Her father interrupted himself upon hearing this, as he is absolutely wrapped around this girl’s sweet little finger, and told me never mind the second pizza.

That is when I knew what I had to do. I prepared two pizzas: one mushroom and one cheese. I paid for the mushroom one myself.

They came in, I handed them both pizzas, and this man started absolutely sobbing in my lobby. Apparently, they were tight on money this month, and this was the act of kindness that turned his whole outlook around.

He thanked me profusely, and a few weeks later came back with a teddy bear and flowers for me, all smiles. This time, it was my turn to cry, as customers had been berating me all week and I was beginning to feel really underappreciated. 

They come back regularly still, and his girl is just as sweet as ever — no tears. They’re still some of my favorite customers in my fifteen years of pizza.

I was buying some .22LR ammunition at Walmart a few years back. It is the cheapest caliber to shoot, and you could get a “brick” of about 550 rounds for about $16. I planned to go out shooting with my grandfather he had a .22LR revolver and would take my 10/22 rifle.

The cashier rang up my box of ammo and, as expected, the age checker beep happened. She then asked me if I was using the ammo for a rifle or a handgun. I asked her to clarify. She informed me that I needed to be eighteen to buy rifle ammunition and twenty-one to buy handgun ammunition.

In case it isn’t clear, it is the same ammunition regardless of my answer. It isn’t going to magically stop working in handguns if I say it is for rifles. I asked a few questions to make sure she wasn’t messing with me. Satisfied she was serious, I said it was for a handgun, showed my ID, and that was the end of it.

This was during the global health crisis. I was (and still am) living with my grandparents, and due to life difficulties that are outside the scope of this story, dependent on them. I had come out to them as nonbinary a year before, and though it confused them, it was never in a way they refused to accept.

No better was this shown than during this story.

I’m a walking bane to chargers and earbuds and am regularly forced to ask my grandparents to buy me more. I don’t know why; I’m not even rough with them! But anyway, after I asked for one, I popped into their Amazon account just to see how long it would take to arrive.

What I saw in addition was a mask. It was not just any mask; it had “THEY/THEM” emblazoned proudly on the front, in the colors of the nonbinary flag.

I hadn’t asked for it. They had meant to surprise me with this.

I broke the news that I’d found out when I got it, and they were a little disappointed, but I wore it everywhere while masks were still necessary.

If you take any moral away from this story, it’s that anyone can be accepting of identities — even grandparents who are over seventy years old.