In my sophomore year of high school, I took an academic writing class. At the end of each project, we would do peer reviews. I partnered up with a friend of mine, took his paper back to my desk, and started looking over it.

My inner grammar pedant comes out during peer reviews. My friend had some of the worst grammar I had ever seen. Misplaced commas, mispelled words, and homophones abounded. Being an overconfident fifteen-year-old, I pointed out every single one. When it came time to exchange peer reviews, I walked over to my friend.

Me: “I liked the general structure of this, but your grammar is honestly kind of atrocious.”

Friend: “I’m dyslexic.”

Oh, s***.

 I apologized to my friend profusely. He thankfully wasn’t too upset about it. We’re not friends anymore (for reasons unrelated to this tale), but I try to keep him in mind when I’m doing peer reviews these days. The memory still makes me cringe a little.

After a fruitless appointment at the phone store, my dad and I stop for dinner at a nearby chain restaurant. My dad is extra grumpy since the appointment was for his phone, and I’m making up for it by being extra gentle. When we step up to order, the restaurant cashier looks at me.

Cashier: “Are you a [Local Private School] student, too?”

I look down and realize that I’m wearing a shirt for the K-12 school I graduated from a few years ago.

Me: “Oh! No, I graduated a few years ago. How are you liking it?”

Cashier: “It’s good!”

We make our order and sit down at a table. I text my mom to let her know that we’ve stopped for food and that my shirt got a compliment. As is customary, I ask if she wants anything to eat. Initially, my mom says no.

Just as my dad and I finish eating, my mom changes her mind. She texts and asks me to get her a cookie. I head back up to the counter, where the same cashier is still working.

Me: “Hey, can I get an additional chocolate chip cookie?”

The cashier looks me over. She reaches over, picks up one of the sealed cookies, and hands it to me.

Cashier: *Quietly.* “Don’t worry about it.”

Me: “Oh! Are you sure?

The cashier nods and goes back to whatever she was doing. I head back to our table with a smile on my face. After telling my dad what happened, I texted my mom.

Me: “I think my [Local Private School] shirt just scored you a free cookie.”

I’m still not entirely sure if it was indeed the shirt, or me just being extra nice that day. Either way, thank you, lovely teenage cashier! That was just what my dad and I needed.

In an effort to avoid finger strain, my mom dictates texts instead of typing. Usually, my dad and I can tell when the text has gotten garbled. Usually.

Mom: *Over group chat.* “Could someone please bring me water and my comforter before you leave? Thank you!”

Me: “What’s a comforter?”

Mom: “Bedspread-alike.”

Okay, I can do that. I go upstairs, carefully pull the comforter off my parents’ bed, and bring it back downstairs. It takes up both of my hands, so I can’t also grab her water bottle. When I present the comforter, my mom looks confused.

It turns out that what she actually wanted was her laptop COMPUTER. We have a good laugh over it, I return the comforter, and my dad and I head off to the dentist. While I’m getting my teeth cleaned, my dad texts the group chat:

Dad: “I think that Siri undermined Mom. It clearly says comforter rather than computer.”

Mom: “OMG! It was probably me…”

I’m shopping at a store that has a fabric section, but it’s obviously not a central part of the store, nor is it a high priority. It does have a remnants bin, fabric cuts under a yard left over from someone else getting their fabric cut. As I do projects that they’re perfect for, I grab about a half dozen that are all priced between a dollar and a dollar fifty. 

Being that the fabric section is what it is, the labels on them often don’t ring up at the self-checkout properly or at all, so I take them to a lane.

Cashier: “Uh oh, this one, the label says one twenty five, but it’s ringing up at a dollar fifty, do you want me to manually type it in? Or just take them as whatever they ring up?”

Me: “Don’t worry about it, it’s fine to take them as they ring up.”

I know keying it in manually takes a lot longer and is more work, and unless they’re ringing up significantly more, it’s not worth the wait time.

Cashier: “I can do that.”

She grabs the next one priced at around a dollar and scans it; it pops up as ten cents on the register. She pauses, looks at it, and then tosses it in the bag with the next one. The rest all did the same, ringing up between ten and fifty cents instead of a dollar or more. Into the bag they went.

I felt like my willingness to pay more for the first one was rewarded by the rest!

A couple of years ago, I joined a local writing group. We met up at a tea house that had a bar on one side and a restaurant on the other. Since I could not drive at that point, my dad had to pick me up.

My dad has been sober from alcohol for over thirty years. He can be around it without getting a compulsion to drink, but he still can’t have “just one sip”. Due to the family history of alcoholism and my own mental health issues, I am a staunch teetotaler. 

So, when my dad texted to say he would be waiting in the bar area of the tea house, I couldn’t resist replying:

Me: “An alcoholic and a teetotaler walk into a bar…”