When I am fresh out of college, I get a job teaching high school. Educator pay being what it is, I share an apartment with another new teacher who teaches biology. We split chores, with him taking over cleaning the bathroom. For that, he has a special sponge that he uses for everything, including the toilet.

We are supposed to do our own dishes, but being stereotypical guys, we often let them pile up in the sink. On one occasion, when we have dirtied every dish in the place and are each waiting for the other one to blink and do them all, we are visited by three friends — one man, two women — who have lived in the apartment building near us for a few months.

We are talking in the living room when the man slips away. I think he is going to the bathroom, but then I hear a dish noise in the kitchen. I go to check.

Friend: “Oh, hey. I’m just doing some dishes for you. I know how they can pile up.”

However, he is using the bathroom sponge to clean them!

I have two choices: stop him and still have filthy dishes, or keep my mouth shut. I opt for the latter.

Later, I mention it to my biologist roommate.

Roommate: “Well, the danger is really more psychological than actual.”

But for the next few weeks, we poured boiling water over each item before we used it.

I have some groceries delivered, and in one of the bags, there is a wrapped cold cut platter that I did not order. I immediately call the driver and the company, but they do not want to take it back, even though it is expensive, has its original sealing, and has been kept cold. I am a vegetarian, so I call around to find someone who can use a week’s supply of cold cuts.

Friend: “Do you think we are poor?!”

Me: “Of course not. I just thought you might enjoy some free food. The shelters I called all told me they could not accept food like that. As you have a husband and a young child, you were my first call.”

Friend: “Why do you always have to be so condescending? But okay, I’ll take it off your hands if you bring it over within the hour. Happy now?”

Me: “Sure, I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”

Two and a half weeks later, I’m attending their child’s birthday party. When the topic of the relatively new online grocery shopping in my city comes up, I mention my experience to another guest, leaving out the timing and the part that I wasn’t the one to keep the platter.

Guest: *Jokingly* “Hey, [Friend], so was the super expensive cold cut platter you have for us tonight the bounty that [My Name] got? It tasted off.”

My friend directs assorted curse words at me.

Friend: “Anything that [My Name] says is a lie! We can afford the best of the best for our guests! I bought these cold cuts just for tonight, and only a week ago at most.”

Friend’s Husband: “Sorry, everyone. I begged her to let me eat the food, but she insisted it would last until tonight.”

Next time, I’m calling the animal shelters, followed by the rest of the phone book.

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This takes place quite a few years ago when my husband and I have been married for less than a year, and we’re visiting his parents for a weekend. His mother uses copious amounts of salt in her cooking and likes “old-fashioned” food — casseroles, dumplings, steamed puddings, and the like. I’ve always thought her food had a weird taste, and this particular weekend I find out why. We’re sitting at the table eating a full English breakfast.

Husband: “I’ve just used the last of the butter.”

Mother-In-Law: “There’s more in the fridge.”

Me: “I can get it.”

I’m nearest to the kitchen door.

Mother-In-Law: “Make sure you get the oldest one.”

Me: “Um… okay?”

I go to the fridge to find no less than five packs of butter. Three are in date but two are out of date, one by over two months. I bring the oldest of the in-date packs.

Mother-In-Law: “Oh, no, dear, that’s the wrong one.”

Me: “The others are out of date.”

Mother-In-Law: “Oh, don’t take any notice of that.”

She takes the in-date butter back to the kitchen and brings back the old, expired, funky-tasting butter for our toast. I decide I don’t really need any more toast right now.

After the meal, I help to clear up. There is marmalade in a bowl on the table. My mother-in-law asks me to spoon the leftovers back into the jar — the jar which had a ring of green mould around the rim.

Me: “This is mouldy!”

Mother-In-Law: “Oh, that’s fine. I scrape off any green bits when I serve it up.”

I pick up the frying pan with the oil from frying the eggs.

Mother-In-Law: “Just leave that on the stove; the lid’s in the cupboard.”

Me: *Pause* “Pardon?”

Mother-In-Law: “Pop the lid on; keep it fresh.”

It was then I discovered that the pan sits on the stove more or less permanently. The lid “keeps it fresh” and the oil is topped up whenever it gets low. It has never, to my knowledge, been washed… and we’ve now been married fifteen years.

My husband has since realised that his parents don’t have the healthiest outlook on food, but he won’t “rock the boat” and when we visit he will happily eat anything they serve. I have cereal for breakfast, and I’m sure my mother-in-law thinks I’m a fussy eater because I take a cautious bite of my food and leave anything that doesn’t taste quite right. I usually have a stash of cereal bars and chocolate in my overnight bag.

I work at a café/bakery that has some indoor tables, but mostly outdoor ones. Due to the current health crisis, we have some restrictions in place, including not letting the customers use our restroom anymore. A regular and his five-year-old son walk in and make a couple of purchases.

Customer: “And by the way, can my son use your toilet?”

While we occasionally make exceptions, I know this customer, like most, lives close by, so I don’t consider it.

Me: “No, sorry. We’ve restricted it to staff only because of the health crisis.”

Customer: “Oh, I see… [Child]! You can’t use the toilet here. But I’ll help you pee in the garden in a moment. Why don’t you go outside already?”

I am absolutely dumbfounded by his suggestion, so it takes me a moment to reply while he gathers his purchases.

Me: “I’m sorry, but I absolutely cannot let your son pee in our garden. You may let him pee against a tree on the street for all I care, but this is private property.”

He left, confused and irritated, but thankfully, neither caused a scene, nor did the man let his child pee into our outside seating area.

We have several “Do not let your dogs poop/pee here” signs up in the garden. I guess we need one for customers and their kids, as well.

My sister and I have gone horseback riding and have just returned back to the stables. My sister is in front of me and I start to notice that her saddle is sliding.

Me: “Excuse me! Her saddle is sliding!”

The instructors quickly notice and begin to shout directions at my sister.

Instructors: “Lean left! Try and counteract the saddle going right! Lean to your left!”

Despite the fact that my sister is over the age of twenty, she still struggles with her left and right; she leans to the right, causing her to fall into a giant pile of horse poop. However, she has not let go of the reins, trying to remain upright.

Instructors: “Let go of the reins immediately!”

The horse has become spooked and I can tell the instructors are worried about the horse striking my sister. My sister, however, has other worries.

Sister: “But I don’t want to go further into the poop.”

Instructors: “LET GO!”

Thankfully, my sister wasn’t hurt, but she was an absolute stinky mess. They refunded us for our ride and we could tell that they were panicking about us suing them. We are not that type of family, however, and accepted the refund. The only problem was that our parents were late picking us up, so we had to walk a bit back to our campground with her covered in s***. Once they finally came, she was forced to ride in the trunk and throw away her clothes.