(My mom and I are doing our weekly grocery run to get stuff for my infant daughter. As we are ringing up our purchases, another older couple comes up behind us and smiles at my daughter sitting in the cart.)

Man: “Oh, what a cute little boy. Hey, little fella!”

Woman: “That’s a little girl.”

Man: “No, it isn’t.”

Me: “Yeah, she’s a girl.”

Man: “But… she’s wearing blue!”

(My daughter is wearing a dark blue onesie. I look down at my men’s jeans and combat boots.)

Me: “That doesn’t mean anything. She plays with cars as much as she does her tea set. And I use power tools more than my husband does.”

(My daughter took this moment to pick up her pink security blanket and start sucking her thumb. The lady was laughing at this point. The guy looked SO embarrassed, so I cut him a break and finished checking out without further comment.)

There are two small prisons on the outskirts of our little town; one sits right beside the road, and the other you have to drive a half-mile down a dead-end road to get to in the dense woods. Despite this, people will “accidentally” stumble upon the second prison and “lose” their drugs, phones, etc.

But these two guys take the cake.

In the middle of broad daylight, these two guys decide to play football in the woods and then “accidentally” throw their ball over the fence. Once the ball flies over the barbed wire, they take off running back into the woods while the guards call deputies to the scene.

The ball is intercepted by the guards who realize the ball is actually being held together by duct tape. When they open it up, it’s full to the brim with drugs, pills, and cellphones.

The guys are arrested, and to this day have been the most creative in doing a drop-off.

(I work in a very rural county where there are only one high school and two stop lights, and the main highway that leads to a city across the Virginia state line runs through the middle of town and past the sheriff department. It’s one of those ‘everyone knows everyone’ kind of Southern towns. It is an early Sunday morning; a state trooper is finishing up a report at our desk from an earlier accident while I am processing a public intox just brought in by a deputy.)

Dispatch: “Communications to any unit in [Town]?”

Deputy: “Go ahead, Communications.”

Dispatch: “[Deputy], EMS [Truck #2] advises they are behind a wrong-way driver heading into town.”

(The driver is all over the roadway and has nearly run off the road multiple times. It’s a possible DWI. The deputy and trooper practically run towards the door. While our county may be rural, the highway is frequented by big rigs and the occasional wayward livestock this late at night.)

Deputy: “Communications, I’ll be in route with [Trooper].”

Dispatch: “10-4, EMS has lights and sirens on, but the driver is not slowing down.”

(The two run out the door just as my coworker comes into the office.)

Coworker: “Oh, boy, DWI?”

Me: “Yup, going the wrong way down the highway.”

(Not even a half-hour later the two return, along with the patrol sergeant, and in between them they are escorting an intoxicated woman.)

Woman: “I swear I’m not drunk!”

Patrol Sergeant: “Ma’am, you just drove nearly five miles the wrong way, flew through a red light, and almost ran over one of my deputies!”

Woman: “Oh, he’s okay. Besides, I only had one shot.”

Trooper: “Ma’am, you blew twice the legal limit.”

Woman: “Okay, so it was more than one shot of gin.”

Coworker: “Oooh, she’s in so much trouble!”

Me: “What do you mean?”

Coworker: “Her mama is a minister at the church down the street. She’s gonna get it.”

(I am working with a friend who has a table at a HUGE local farmer’s market. I’m a woman in my early 20s, and I am decked out in a T-shirt and an old, dirty pair of overalls. Mostly I am giving advice on planting and helping customers with their purchases. Right in front of our table are a pair of exhausted-looking young parents with their SCREAMING two-year-old in tow. She keeps tugging away from them and running off into the crowd. Filthy farmer girl that I am, I go up to them and ask…)

Me: “Mind if I take her off your hands?” *wink* “I could use an extra pair of hands mucking stables.”

Father: “Sure! She’s all yours.”

Mother: *nods*

(I pick up the child and start walking away from the parents slowly. They can still fully see me, but the child can’t see them. After a few yards, she starts shrieking and reaching towards where she last saw her parents. I put her down and watch her race back to them and hold both of their hands tightly, no longer fussing about anything.)

Both Parents: *mouthing* “Thank you.”

(I gave them a nod and they continued shopping, in peace.)

(I’m working at a small, nonprofit, no-kill animal shelter. All animals are spayed or neutered before being adopted. Most of our dogs are mixed breeds of some kind.)

Customer: “Do you have any male [rare, specific breed of dog]?”

Me: “No, I’m sorry. I don’t think that’s a breed we see here very often, if at all. Maybe [something similar]?”

Customer: “No, it has to be [specific breed]. I’m looking for a male to match with my female so they can have puppies.”

Me: “Oh, okay. Even if we did have one, all of our animals are spayed or neutered before being adopted, so you wouldn’t be able to breed them.”

Customer: “But what if I wanted him to keep his penis?”

(I debated explaining how neutering works — that the penis is not actually removed — but ultimately decided that it wouldn’t be a productive conversation and let it go.)