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.

While I don’t make a lot of money working retail while also being a full-time college student, I try to donate money whenever I can. One year during Christmas time, I print up a wishlist from my local humane society full of supplies they need, as I work in a big box store and can use my employee discount to get things cheaper.

I buy around $250 worth of supplies requested with plans to drop it off at the shelter later in the week. I ask my dad for assistance as some of the dog food and kitty litter is heavy. The shelter is thankful and gives me a sheet to fill out so I can submit the purchases on my tax returns. We are driving home when my dad springs this on me.

Dad: “You should let me fill that out so I get the credit.”

Me: “Why would I do that? I’m the one that bought that stuff with my money.”

Dad: “The only reason you had that money to spend was that you live at home rent-free. So I should be reimbursed for that.”

Me: “I’m your child, not a tenant, so excuse me for living in the house that I grew up in. Even if I gave you rent money, would you have used it for charity?”

Dad: “No, I would use it for things I need or save for something.”

Me: “Exactly, you wouldn’t have used that money for charity and would’ve kept it for yourself. Ergo, I should get the tax credit because I’m the one with the initiative to try and do some good. I’m filling out the paperwork in my name.”

Dad: “We’ll see what your mother has to say when we get home.”

She agreed with me, stating that my dad never donates to charity and thus didn’t deserve it and was being a real grinch.

I love “Bob’s Burgers” a lot. It’s my favorite comfort show, and I’ve seen every episode multiple times. One day, my mom decides to quiz me.

Mom: “When did they get married?”

Me: “Easy, September third.”

Mom: “Okay, now when is my anniversary?”

Me: “I honestly don’t know. I think sometime around Memorial Day?”

Mom: “How is it you remember a fictional character’s anniversary but not your parents’?”

Me: “Same as how Linda remembers in the show. Nine is divisible by three. Get a date that’s easier to remember, and then maybe we’ll talk. Be glad I know when both your birthdays are.”