(Someone knocks on my door.)

Person #1: “Hello, we are here to complete the survey as explained in the letter.”

Me: “What letter? What are you talking about?”

Person #1: “We sent a letter explaining that we would be around to ask you questions about your household.”

Me: “I received no such letter and I’m not interested.”

Person #1: “We sent the letter. We need to ask you these questions.”

Me: “Who are you?”

Person #1: “We are with [Government Agency that is NOT the census].”

Me: “Interesting. No.”

(I close the door. The person rings the doorbell several times but I go back to watching Judge Judy or whatever. The next day I do, in fact, find the letter. It is from this government agency and it explains they are collecting information on demographics in my area. It also says quite plainly that my participation is optional. The next week, I get a knock on the door.)

Person #2: “Hello, we are here to complete the survey as explained in the letter.”

Me: “No.”

Person #2: “It is very important that we collect this information.”

Me: “No.”

Person #2: “We sent a letter explaining why we need this information.”

Me: “Yes, I found the letter. It said my participation is optional. I opt not to assist you.”

Person #2: “But we really—”

(Door closed. A few days later I get a letter, registered mail, explaining the need for me to participate in this survey. However, the last paragraph again says it is optional. Even if it wasn’t, I will NOT cooperate. The next week the doorbell rings.)

Person #3: “Hello, we are here to—”

Me: “Stop. I have explained twice before that I have no interest in participating. The letter clearly stated this is optional. Do you understand the definition of optional? Get off my porch.”

Person #3: “We just need to know how many kids live in the household.”

Me: “You are absolutely out of your mind if you think THAT is the one question I would answer. Do not return. Do not send someone else. Do not waste government money on registered mail. The answer is no. No. No. N. O.”

(Tax dollars at work.)

(I’m playing on my laptop one night, doing non-work things, with my husband near by when I start to get frustrated.)

Me: “Oh, poopy butt!”

Husband: *laughs* “And that’s how you know you’re a teacher!”

(There is a great local band here that is hired by a couple of outdoor venues several times a year. They play 50s, 60s, and 70s rock and have a very large following. At their concerts, the audience ranges from 2 to 95 and a huge percentage of the audience will get on the dance floor at some point. My daughter has some cognitive disabilities but absolutely loves rock music and dancing. She will recruit random strangers to dance if a song begins that she particularly likes. At one concert, we are sitting in the middle instead of up front. A good song comes on, my daughter hops up and grabs the hand of the elderly man sitting beside her. I try to pull her back at first but the woman sitting on the other side of the man waves me away with a smile. The gentleman obliges and they both begin to dance in the aisle. The woman scoots over to me.)

Woman: “I’ve been trying to get dad to dance all evening. Your daughter has quite a touch.”

Me: “She’s hard to say no to. He doesn’t have to dance to the whole song. I can rescue him in a minute.”

Woman: “That’s fine. He is slipping away from us. He’s always loved music so we came out tonight. He’s been enjoying himself. He’s smiling more tonight than I’ve seen in long time.”

(The song ends and the woman and I get up to collect our dancers. The man put up his hand.)

Man: “Wait. One more.”

(He took my daughter’s hand and they danced to the next song, too, both smiling ear to ear. I looked over at the woman and she was wiping away tears. That made me tear up.)

Me: “Look what you’ve started!”

Woman: “Your daughter is an angel! I can’t tell you what it means to me to see dad not only smiling but dancing.”

(Our dancers finally sat down but they held hands for most of the rest of the concert. My daughter gave her partner a hug at the end of the night and his daughter hugged me so tightly I thought I’d lose my breath. I haven’t seen them at a concert since but I always look. My daughter still grabs strangers to dance with. People hardly ever say no.)

This story is part of the Sons And Daughters roundup! This is the last story in the roundup, but we have plenty of others you might enjoy!

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CONTENT WARNING: This story contains content of a medical nature. It is not intended as medical advice.

(I work at a hotel on the night shift. Tonight, about 20 minutes into my shift, my security guard radios telling us he needs an ambulance to the staff break-room — for himself. We call right away, but he stops responding on the radio and we don’t know exactly what the issue is.)

Emergency Operator: “What is the problem he’s experiencing?”

Coworker: “Well, we’re not sure; he’s at the back of the hotel and we’re at the front, but he has had some documented medical issues recently.”

Emergency Operator: “Well, I need you to go to where he is, and call me again from there with details.”

Coworker: “Okay.”

(She hangs up, and is about to start walking back, but barely gets five feet before one of the housekeeper’s radios again saying that the guard is having a heart attack. Not wanting to waste a moment, I tell my coworker to keep going but call for an ambulance again immediately.)

Me: “I’m calling from [Hotel]; our security guard is having a heart attack!”

Emergency Operator: “Okay, well, is he sitting up or laying down?”

Me: *thinking that the way this transaction should have gone was ‘I say heart attack, you say ambulance’* “What? I don’t know! I’m not where he is right now!”

Emergency Operator: *sounding annoyed* “I told the other girl that she needed to call me from where he is.”

Me: “Yeah, I know, but then we were told he is HAVING A HEART ATTACK! It’s a big hotel! I didn’t want to waste the time of her getting back there!”

(I actually had to radio to the back and get my coworker to tell me things like whether he was breathing and what position he was in before she’d send me an ambulance. Thankfully they got there in time — and yes, it was confirmed to definitely have been a heart attack!)

(It is near the end of my shift and my coworker has arrived to relieve me. As she’s putting her money in her register a guest approaches the counter.)

Guest: “Do you have a holding service?”

Me: “What’s that?”

Guest: “A holding service.” *he motions to the coat on his arm* “You know, some place I could leave this?”

Me: “Oh! No, sorry, sir; not here.”

Guest: “Aw, but this coat is heavy!”

Coworker: “Think how we feel carrying our purses around!”

Guest: “Yeah, but you ladies come equipped with something that helps you carry them.”

Me: *without missing a beat, I cheerily chirp back* “So do you. They’re called muscles.”