During elections, I frequently volunteer to help at the polling stations. In the Netherlands, you are allowed to enter a polling station with other people, but once you’re handed your ballot paper, unless you have a very good reason to (for example, a blind person, or someone who can’t tick the right box because of Parkinson’s), you’re legally mandated to enter the booth on your own, so that your vote is kept secret and no one can force you to vote a certain way.

It’s not illegal to say who you voted for, but it is illegal for someone to be able to check, in case of abuse or vote-buying.

A crucial piece of background information: I am autistic, and as I look like a relatively well-put-together woman, I do not fit the “stereotypical” look.

During the last elections, I was at one point stationed next to the booths to ensure no one entered together and to provide help in case someone needed it. Enter two women who come in together. They hand in their voting passes, receive their ballot papers, and move towards the booths, the younger of them going in first, at which point I notice the older woman moving to enter the booth right alongside her. I step in.

Me: “Pardon me, ma’am, but you’re not allowed to enter the booth with someone else. The next one over is available.”

Woman: “Oh, no, it’s okay, I’m her mother.”

Me: “I’m very sorry, but because of the right to keep your vote a secret, that would be illegal.”

Woman: “Oh, but she needs my help! She’s autistic, you see!”

Me: “Oh, so am I! But you’re still not allowed in!”

The woman stared at me, completely shocked at what I just said. I think she was looking for a new excuse, but by then her daughter had already left the booth, ballot folded tight, so the woman deflated and went to cast her own vote. I hope the daughter is doing okay, and I’m glad that at least that day she managed to vote for whoever she chose.

The latest Jurassic Park/World movie has just come out, so our store is selling a few branded items to coincide with it.

Customer: “Bah! Dinosaur bull-s***! They were put in the ground by Satan to confuse mankind and make us think the earth was millions of years old!”

Me: *Head down, scanning quickly.*

Customer: “This store shouldn’t be selling that stuff.”

The customer behind my current customer has been eye-rolling for a moment, but decides to get involved. The next customer winks at me and then turns to the current customer in a panic.

Next Customer: “It’s actually worse than you think! Liberals actually put the dinosaur bones in the earth just a hundred years ago to destroy religion. They said so on Breitbart.”

Customer: “I knew it!”

Next Customer: “But that’s not the worst thing to worry about right now. Did you know the government is putting dihydrogen monoxide in the water now!?”

Customer: “I bet they’re doing it to control us!”

Next Customer: “And it gets worse! They can’t attack smart ones like us, as we know too much, so they’re going after the kids! Did you know every American schoolchild is forced to learn Arabic numerals from a young age?”

Customer: “This is why my sister homeschools!”

This carries on like this until I am able to finish scanning and take the customer’s payment.

Customer: *To me.* “Make sure this liberal dinosaur trash is gone before I come back!” *To the next customer.* “Keep fighting the good fight, brother!”

The customer leaves, with only the next customer and me remaining, making eye contact.

Next Customer: *Happy sighs.* “That was fun.”

Our family likes to rib each other a lot, and it can sound mean to an outsider, but it’s all said in jest.

My best friend’s dad is the classic high-expectations type, so my best friend is a very high achiever at school, to the point where it’s actually ridiculous.

Dad: “Why can’t you be like [Best Friend]? He’s younger than you and already got into Stanford. I am so ashamed of you sometimes.”

Me: “Why can’t you be like Obama? He’s younger than you and was already president! I am so ashamed of you sometimes.”

Mom starts cough-laughing (I know it’s a cliché, but she was genuinely drinking some water when I said that).

Mom: “He’s got you there, hun!”

Related:
Obama Drama, Part 10
Obama Drama, Part 9
Obama Drama, Part 8
Obama Drama, Part 7
Obama Drama, Part 6

I’m running in the Boston Marathon this year. I’ve told a few coworkers about it, as they’ve expressed a willingness to donate to the charity I’m running for, but I haven’t made a big deal about it at the office.

A coworker I know mostly in passing and from some meetings spots me and walks over.

Coworker: “I heard you’re running the marathon this year.”

Me: “That’s right.”

Coworker: “For charity?”

Me: “That’s right. For [Charity Name].”

Coworker: “What do they do?”

Me: “They help immigrant youths, especially kids separated from their families.”

Coworker: “You know that’s a scam, right? Those charities just undermine America. Half of them are funneling money to domestic terrorists.”

Me: “…What? Where did you even hear that?”

Coworker: “Podcasts. I don’t trust the mainstream media like the rest of the sheep.”

I can’t help laughing at this point, because this is the same guy who worships the CEO of his Tesla and treats every word from a certain bald podcaster as scripture.

Me: “You follow everything the richest man in the world says, and your main source of truth is a $100-million-a-year podcast. Buddy, you couldn’t get more mainstream if you tried.”

I push past him, get my coffee, and head back to my desk. Training for twenty-six miles seems a lot easier than running laps around his logic!

I work in a store that does custom clothing printing and embroidery. A woman has come in and is telling me all about how her and some other moms in her group all do an annual long weekend getaway, no husbands or kids.

Me: “That sounds amazing.”

Customer: “Yeah, it is! So, we always have group t-shirts or something made, but this year we’re going somewhere colder, so we’ll all be in jackets. I thought maybe you could stitch the group’s name onto some caps for us instead?”

Me: “We can do that. What’s the name of the group?”

Customer: “Moms’ Annual Getaway Adventure!”

Me: “So you want just that written across the front of the cap?”

Customer: “Just the initials. We’ll all know what it means.”

Me: “I think maybe everyone else who sees it might think they know what it means, too.”

Customer: “What do you mean?”

Me: “Turning ‘Moms’ Annual Getaway Adventure’ into an acronym for a cap would definitely make an impression, it’s just…”

Customer: *Eyes go wide in realization.* “Oh! Oh my god! D*** it! We’ll have to change the name of our group!”

She storms out, angry (but not at me), worrying about having to change the name of the group.