I’m visiting my parents for a few days. It’s just after eight in the evening. My dad and I are watching the news and my step-mum is half watching, half doing a crossword puzzle. The time is important, because around eight in the evening is when my dad wants coffee, and when I’m visiting, he has a habit of expecting me to make it. It was just the two of us for a long time when I was a teenager, and he made a private game of finding more creative versions of saying, “[My Name], go make me a coffee!”. Examples of what he came up with: saying, “Yes, I’d love a coffee. Thanks for the offer, [My Name]!”; asking, “Where’s my coffee?”; or texting me, “Coffee!!” when I was in my room.

Today, he surpasses himself. It starts with Mum asking for help with her puzzle.

Mum: “One of the Gorgons, six letters?”

Me: “Medusa.”

Mum: “Yes, that would fit.”

Dad: *Pointing at me* “Drink of the gods, usually served at eight.”

I think, “What is he talking… Oh!”

Me: “You want coffee?”

Dad: “You got it!”

Mum bursts out laughing and I throw up my hands.

Me: “That’s it! That is definitely the most original version of, ‘[My Name], go make me a coffee,’ you can come up with. You’re not going to top this! Peak Dad humor achieved!”

Knowing him, he’ll take it as a challenge.

I am standing by my car on the road, with the bonnet open. A man walks past.

Man: “Doing some work to your car?”

Me: “It’s getting scrapped tomorrow, but I want the battery out. It’s nearly new. I’ll flog it on eBay.”

Man: “You would get some good money for those wheels, too.”

Me: “Maybe, but the recovery truck will be a bit confused about how to lift it, then!”

He walks on. I remove the battery in two minutes and let the hood drop. I just need to lock the car. I insert the key in the driver’s door… and it won’t turn. I try the handle. It won’t open, either.

It dawns on me that the car needs the power from the battery to operate the lock. How is the car going to be winched onto the recovery truck if the recoverer can’t get inside it to steer? I can almost hear Laurel and Hardy shouting, “Here’s another fine mess you’ve got me into!” I phone my father for advice.

Me: “He’s going to have a tough time recovering the car. Oh, there’s something else inside the car he needs: a parking brake!”

Dad: “To put the battery back in, you’ll need to open the bonnet. Where is the open bonnet switch?”

Me: “Passenger footwell.”

Dad: “Which is where?”

Me: “Inside the car. Oh, crap. I can’t steer, set the parking brake, or open the bonnet to put the battery back in.”

Dad: “Either deal with it in the morning, let him drag it on with the winch, or get a brick and smash the window in.”

I should have taken the man’s advice and just removed all four wheels!

I work in a furniture store as the office manager. A woman recently placed an order with us that is over $12,000. She is moving into a new home, but it won’t be ready until September at the earliest. She didn’t have the address at the time of purchase but knew the area was close to her mother’s house, so we used her mother’s address for a place filler. That’s fine; we can hold the items up to a year, and as long as the new address is on the same route, we can change it fairly easy. Her mother has been a customer of ours before and has always been known for being a little crazy. The salesperson put both of them under the same account. Ugh.

One day, I get a call from the mother. We are exchanging a table base for her. She starts yelling at me.

Mother: “Your delivery drivers won’t pick up my table base because someone at your company is a moron. Why the h*** would you send a separate truck to pick up? D*** it, I just want to be done with your company!”

Me: “Okay, let me lo—”

Mother: “Is anyone there competent at all?”

OH, H*** NO!

Me: “Let me see what is going on, then.”

I look up her account and see that my boss put it on the delivery for her daughter.

Me: “Okay, let me reach out to distribution and—”

Mother: “D*** IT, I AM DONE WITH YOU G**D*** COMPANY! I DO NOT WANT THEM HERE ANYMORE…”

She proceeds to go on and on.

Me: “Ma’am, the longer you keep me on the phone, the longer it is going to take me to resolve the issue.”

Mother: “AND ANOTHER THING! WHY THE H*** ARE YOU DELIVERING MY DAUGHTER’S FURNITURE TO MY HOUSE IN JUNE?! I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN! CHANGE THE D*** ADDRESS. MY GOD, YOU ARE INCOMPETENT! SHE’S NOT EVEN CLOSING UNTIL SEPTEMBER!”

Me: “At the time of purchase, your daughter didn’t have an address, so we used yours. Second, we can only schedule out three months in advance. The system prevents that. Third, the table base will be picked up today, but only if I can get off the phone with you and call distribution.”

Mother: “UGH… FIIIINE! JUST AS LONG AS I DON’T HAVE TO SEE YOUR TRUCKS AGAIN! YOU KNOW, THIS IS THE FOURTH TIME THEY HAVE DELIVERED THIS JUNK! I HOPE MY DAUGHTER DOESN’T HAVE THE SAME ISSUE I DID! UGH!”

Me: “I’ll call you back.”

I hang up and get on the phone with distribution; they pick up the base. I call the mother again to tell her.

Mother: “They already left, okay?” *Hangs up*

Me: “Okay…”

The next day, the daughter calls. I brace myself, but I never expected this.

Daughter: “My name is [Daughter] and my father’s wife called the other day and then texted me all freaked out about a delivery that’s going to her house in June.”

I start mentally beating my head against the wall.

Me: “Ah, yes. I informed your mother — sorry, your dad’s wife — that we are only able to schedule things three months out at a time. The system literally will not let us schedule any further. I also informed your mom at the time — or your father’s wife — that at the time you purchased you never provided us an address so we just used hers.”

Daughter: “Ah! Okay, that makes much more sense.”

She gives me the information I need, I change it, and everything is good.

Me: “All right, we are good to go now. And the reason we are scheduling a date and pushing it out is that the supplies and the merchandise are being delayed significantly due to the health crisis; we are holding any items that we can to make sure that by the time you do need them, you will have them. I know that you are not closing until September, so we will keep pushing the date back until September, and we’ll check in with you then.”

Daughter: “Thank you very much. I am so sorry about my dad’s wife. She’s a batty nut job. She drives me nuts. She’s been married to my dad since I was ten and she and I have had our issues over the years.”

She goes on for another fifteen minutes. A customer approaches the desk, thank God.

Me: “I am sorry to cut you off, but I do have another client I need to assist. I am glad we could get that taken care of.”

Daughter: “Thank you, [My Name]. And don’t pay attention to what that crazy woman says. There was nothing wrong with the other tables; she’s just insane.”

She hung up, and all I could do was laugh.

I’m working concessions, trying to get my line down as quickly as possible. Two boys, maybe thirteen and fifteen years old, order two popcorn/drink combos, one with a soda, the other with a beer.

In Germany, you’re allowed to buy some “soft alcohol” (e.g. beer) when you’re sixteen, but of course, we’re supposed to confirm, and even though the older boy might be sixteen and just looked younger, I’m not so sure.

Me: “Can I see your ID?”

Boy: “Oh, it’s not for me; it’s for our dad. He’s already inside, saving our seats.”

This makes me suspicious. We have assigned seating — no need to save any seats — and what father would send his underaged son to get him some beer from the concession stand when the laws are pretty well-known?

Me: “Sorry, then I can’t sell you this beer. It’s against the law. I need to see that you’re over sixteen. Your father will have to buy it himself.”

The boy seems disappointed but nice about it. They both take their other stuff and leave. Two minutes later, a middle-aged man comes over, skips the whole line, and waves his ID in my face. He has a passive-aggressive smile that looks more like a snarl.

Man: *In a sarcastic, sickly-sweet voice* “So you need my ID, too?”

I blink at him in confusion for a few seconds in which he still bares his teeth at me. Finally, it clicks.

Me: “Well, I can see that you are over thirty.”

He just scoffed, still smiling, threw his money on the counter, took the bottle out of my hand, and storms off, leaving me utterly confused as to why he was so angry that his underaged son DIDN’T break the law by buying alcohol.

I sew as a hobby and have been occupying my free time by making clothes for my toddler. I’m showing my mother some patterns I got on sale and a bunch of fabric. The fabric has cute stories behind it: extras from prior projects, fabric and trim I found while helping clean out my late grandmother’s place, and fabric I bought at an estate sale for a nice old lady I traded tips with.

She is not impressed.

Mother: “Well, with all this talent you have, why not make some clothes for work? That’s far more practical than all…” *waves hand over my cutting table* “…this.”

Me: “Because most of what I have are scraps. A yard or two is plenty to make clothes for a kid, but not enough for a grown adult.”

Mother: “You could use those scraps to make me some pants instead of spending your time going to thrift stores and making all this frilly stuff. Is [Daughter] even going to wear this?”

This is not the first time she’s made snide comments about my hobby, but I’ve had it at this point. I put on my best customer service smile.

Me: “You know, I have six yards of black twill I need to use up. Why don’t you grab my tape measure and give me your measurements? Waist, hips, and inseam.”

She does this, feeling smug as heck. I compare them to my master sizing chart and go through my stock of patterns, pulling out every pants pattern in her size. There’s a variety of styles, but they are all “women’s” or “plus” patterns.

Me: “Okay, pick one.”

Mother: “Um… these are all… big women’s patterns.”

Me: “Yes, your measurements put you in women’s sizing and not misses’. Pick one, please.”

Now it’s my turn to be smug, as I watch the realization dawn on her that vanity sizing (a common retail practice of labeling a garment as smaller than it is) doesn’t extend to sewing patterns. She puts the patterns down and starts backing out of the room.

Mother: “I guess the pants I have are fine.”

Me: “I guess they are.”

She left it alone and I go back to designing for my daughter. She loves her new outfits! The ladies in my moms’ support group are starting to offer to pay me to make clothes for their kids!