I recently had my septum pierced, which made my mom incredibly upset to the point she bribed me with a puppy to have it taken out. Ironically, it was pierced wrong, and no matter what, I was going to have to take it out. At least I was getting a puppy out of it! I insisted, though, that I wanted to adopt.

I am browsing for dogs online when my dad approaches.

Dad: “Make sure you get a pure breed.”

Me: “Why does that matter? And also, it’s going to be incredibly hard to find a pure breed that’s up for adoption and not just for sale.”

Dad: “Our last dog was a pure breed, and she was a good dog.”

Me: “But that has nothing to do with it! She was a good dog because we raised her well and she was just incredibly gentle and patient. You’re crazy. We’ll get whatever dog we get.”

Later on, though, my mom also hits me with this caveat.

Mom: “Don’t get a pit bull, a rottweiler, or any other type of bully breed. They’re dangerous and I don’t want an accident.”

Me: “Okay, but a dog’s temperament is usually based on how they’re trained. The aggressive nature thing is usually just a bad myth and leads to those dogs not getting adopted as much.”

Mom: “My house, my rules. No bully breeds.”

Finally, though, I settle on my dream dog up for adoption. She is a German shepherd labrador mix, so my dad lost out on his pure breed nonsense. Later on, we discover that that mix of dogs is considered one of the best you can get because of how loyal and loving they are. And during the first week we have her, my mom takes her to the vet just to make sure she doesn’t have any issues we need to be concerned with. The vet tells my mom that the dog might have a bit of rottweiler in her based on her appearance. 

Mom: “That’s okay. We love her anyway!”

She brought so much love and joy into our lives, and I still love how she basically was something that my parents were totally against but ended up loving in the end.

My very first glass bead torch has finally arrived! We had scrimped and saved for it, and I no longer have to borrow a friend’s setup. I’m very excited. On the way to said friend’s house for a glass bead jam — she’s still teaching me techniques — I stop at the local mom-and-pop hardware store to pick up MAPP gas, used for its high-flame temperature.

I’m not wearing a bra — synthetic fibers and a torch flame do NOT mix well — but I have an overshirt on to help disguise my “ample assets.” Apparently, that makes no difference to the owner’s grandson, who is running the cash register.

Me: “Hello, just these, please.”

I set the two MAPP canisters on the shelf. The owner’s grandson locks eyes with my boobs.

Owner’s Grandson: “Uh… you know that’s not propane, riiiiight?“

Me: “Yes, I know it’s MAPP gas. That’s what I need.”

He keeps staring at my chest.

Owner’s Grandson: “Uhhhhhhh, you know you need a special torch head to use these, riiiiiight?“

Me: “Yes, I do know. I have an oxygenated torch head back at the house, ready to go.”

Owner’s Grandson: “Uhhhhhh, you know that gets really hot, riiiiight?“

He’s still talking to my chest.

Me: “Yes, up to 1,400 degrees Fahrenheit. That’s what it takes to make glass beads on the torch. Can you ring me up now?”

The guy is still having a rapt conversation with my chest.

Owner’s Grandson: “Uhhhhhhh…”

The owner, his grandfather, shoves the kid out of the way, breaking his eye contact with my “eyes,” rings me up, takes my money, and hands me change.

Owner’s Grandson: “What?!”

I just roll my eyes and giggle out of there.

On a different day, I’m about to do a long session of pewter casting in my kitchen, and I notice that my old protective gloves are not as protective as they used to be.

I hop up to the hardware store for a pair of welder’s gloves, but since I’ve never been in their welding section before, I’m not sure where it is. I step in — wearing a bra this time — and guess who’s on the cash register?

Me: “Hi, where’s your welding section?”

He’s still staring at my chest; I didn’t know it was such a fascinating conversationalist!

Owner’s Grandson: “Uhhhhh, whaddya need?”

Me: “Welding gloves.”

Owner’s Grandson: “To the right, third room, to the left of the door.”

Me: “Thanks!”

I wander off… only to find out that the little pipsqueak led me to the gardening section, with lady’s gardening gloves to the left of the door. These are the thin, plastic-covered ones, great for welding hot melted plastic to one’s skin when pewter casting. I stomp back, fuming.

Me: “That’s not what I need. I asked for welding, so I can get welding gloves!”

Owner’s Grandson: “Uhhhhh…”

The owner again appears out of nowhere and his grandson yelps.

Owner: *Calmly* “To the left, second room on the far right wall.”

It took me thirty seconds to find the size I needed, return, and have the owner ring me up, while the grandson sulked in the corner. As I left, I heard the beginnings of a grand lecture being delivered on customer service!

My parents hate tattoos, so after I got my second, I sort of stopped telling them I was getting more and just wore long sleeves. However, one day at work, my mom stops by unexpectedly and sees the other four tattoos she did not know about and, of course, she tells my dad. When I get home, he wants to see them.

One thing to say, though, is that all of my tattoos are tasteful and really well done. One, in particular, is a design of a woman sitting in a crescent moon. I frequently have people stop and tell me how beautiful the piece is.

My father, however, doesn’t really look at the design or anything. No, he immediately zooms in on one detail and eloquently says:

Dad: “I can see a booby.”

It’s another Saturday in retail and, as usual, my store is crazy busy. I’m about an hour into my shift when a family comes up to my register: parents, toddler daughter in the cart, and older daughter — maybe six or seven — watching me with big eyes behind round glasses. She looks a bit like I did at her age, which amuses me, and the mom and I make pleasant small talk as I ring up their items while the dad keeps the toddler entertained. All in all, they’re nice people.

Me: “Are you interested in applying for a store credit card today?”

Mom: “No, thank you.”

Daughter: “Can I get a credit card?”

Me: “Oh, no, honey. You have to have a job to get a credit card.”

Mom: “That’s right. You have to be at least eighteen.”

Daughter: “Oh.” *Thinks about this for a few seconds* “But I don’t want to get a job, and I don’t want to be eighteen! I like my life!”

The parents and I burst out laughing.

Me: “That’s the best thing I’m going to hear all day. I need that on a T-shirt.”

It is three weeks after Christmas. All of our Christmas merchandise has been on sale for 50% off with the exception of the Christmas storage — you know, the special boxes for wreaths and ornaments and that sort of thing.

I come to work after being off and am told that Christmas merchandise has now dropped to 75% off. I’m helping to cover the register when a woman pushes a cartload of Christmas stuff up to me.

Customer: “I have a problem. When I check the prices on your self-scan machines, most of this stuff comes up 75% off, but the boxes are only 50% off.”

Me: “Well, let’s take a look at that. I was off yesterday, and I only just got here, so I’m not sure about the sale. As of two days ago, storage wasn’t on sale at all yet.”

I scan the merchandise and, sure enough, the storage is 50% off. I radio the other supervisor on duty to check on the status of the sale; she confirms that the storage is now 50% off. I relay this to the customer.

Customer: *Getting snotty* “Well, your signs all say, ‘All Christmas 75% off.'”

Me: “Yes, ma’am, but our storage containers aren’t part of the regular sale.”

Customer: “Show me where it says that on the sign, then! I read the sign and there was nothing about storage being different! If you can show me where it says that on the sign, I’ll pay it, but I don’t think you can!”

I’m not sure if she’s expecting me to simply cave or to be too busy or lazy to actually go and get the sign. At any rate, she certainly looks surprised when I step out from behind my counter and walk over to where one of the signs is positioned by the remaining Christmas trees. I bring it back.

Me: *Pointing* “It says here in the large print, ‘All Christmas 75% off.’ But down here, in the smaller bold letters, it says, ‘Excludes Christmas storage.'”

Customer: *Stares for a moment* “Okay.”

Me: “Did you still want the storage items, ma’am?”

Customer: “Yes.”

She paid for everything and left. My co-supervisor high-fived me as I went to put the sign back.