I was a very picky eater as a little kid. I was okay eating basic things like chicken, carrots, corn, and steak, but hated trying new things. One dinner, when I was about five or six, I became aware my parents had found a way around this by naming new foods after meals I already liked, and I’d fallen for it for years.

Dad: *From the patio.* “[Mom], I’m about to take the salmon off the grill. Is the table ready for dinner?”

Me: *Confused.* “…The what?”

From where I’m sitting at the table, I can see my mom in the kitchen giving my dad a look. I hear him pause and realize what he said.

Dad: “I mean… uh… the pink chicken is done!”

The gears in my young brain work while my parents finish prep and come into the room with the food, my dad looking like he knows he messed up. I put the pieces together and realize they’ve been tricking me.

Me: “Pink chicken is what? What’s salmon?”

My mom sighs, and they exchange a look like ‘it was good while it lasted.’

Mom: “It’s a fish. But it’s a really tasty fish!”

I’m a little mad but realize I do really love salmon, so I don’t try to pout too much. With this new information, though…

Me: “Wait… so what’s white steak?!”

Dad: *A bit dejectedly.* “…Pork chops.”

We still call those meals by those names when I’m home for the holidays.

This is a story about contract security at a football game. I live in San Diego, California, and one year, I worked security at the Charger Games. It was a great, easy gig. I got paid to go watch the games. The pay wasn’t that great (above minimum wage at the time). But I was paid to walk around and keep the peace. The job was explained to me like this: in between the plays, you walk around the guest seating area. During the play, you stop, so you don’t block the view of the paying customers. If someone is causing a problem, you ask them to stop. If they won’t, call for a supervisor and we will eject them. Simple, right?

Being the new guy, they assigned me with someone who had worked there for a few years. Most of the time, I worked in the view section, aka The Nosebleeds. The biggest problems I dealt with were smoking in the seating area, loud people (talkers), and that’s about it. We did have a really big moron rob a concession stand and go back to his seat. Someone saw him, followed him back, and then flagged down security. Police arrested him right away; I stood back for crowd control. Big whoop!

The view section had five rows in front by the railing, then a walkway behind them, and the rest of the seats rose up from there.

One time, my partner and I were standing in the walk-thru to concessions, waiting on the play, and I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the old lady sitting at the end of the row.

Me: “How can I help you, ma’am?”

Lady: “I want to know if I could get someone kicked out.”

Me: “Of course. What’s the problem?”

Lady: “No problem, but my husband is not paying any attention to me.”

He was seated next to her and had turned his back to her, arm on the railing in front of him, talking to the people behind him.

Me: *With a big grin* “I’ll take care of it!”

I went to the front of them by the rail, grabbed the man’s wrist, and put my handcuff on it.

Me: *Loudly* “Sir! The young lady next to you is making a complaint about you. I’m going to have you ejected from the stadium.”

I started to pull him over the railing. The man looked at his wife.

Man: “Are you f****** serious? What the h***?”

Everyone in the immediate area was stunned. I then took the cuff off him.

Me: “I’ll give you a warning this time. But you’d better start showing some care to your wife.”

Everyone started laughing, realizing it was a joke.

This couple were season ticket holders. I worked those sections for the rest of the season, and that lady kept me fed and in drink all season. At every game, I would challenge the husband about whether he was paying attention to his wife. They were great people; I had fun talking with them.

I work in a national coffee chain, but I’ve been asked to help out at the branch at the convention center as it’s Comicon weekend and they are packed. I’m preparing drinks when another Barista calls out a finished order:

Barista: “Okay, I got a Venti non-fat, sugar-free vanilla, caramel macchiato for Lwaxana Troi, Daughter of the Fifth House, Holder of the Sacred Chalice of Riix, Heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed!” 

I catch eyes with the barista; I guess I must have looked puzzled.

Barista: “It’s Comicon, baby!” 

I see a woman walk up and get the drink, wearing a long flowy robe that seems to mesh sci-fi with fantasy. Turns out it was my boss!

CONTENT WARNING: Spiders (Many, Large)

I read this story and immediately sympathized with the author.

I live in a s***ty apartment with a s***ty landlord. As a result, when things go wrong, I deal with it. As such, when I got a nasty ant infestation, I started to deal — bait traps, vinegar, black pepper, and sealing the cracks as they appeared. It’s under control now.

However, the reason for the sudden ant infestation is that one of my neighbors killed the spider that lived in the fence nearby. I don’t like spiders, but I didn’t have to see this one, and it kept the ants and mosquitoes in check. We have lots of spiders in our fences nearby.

Sometimes they make themselves known with webs over various surfaces. I don’t sit on my patio as a result. (We’re ludicrously calling a cement stoop facing a cracked peeling parking lot a patio.) We also end up with spiders in the apartment occasionally. When spiders are outside, I leave them alone; they are in their home. When they come into my home, sorry, you eight-legged monster; you don’t pay rent.

So, when the ants got in, the spiders followed. Similar to how I was dealing with the ants, I was dealing with the spiders, freaking out each time.

My breaking point was a few nights ago. The ants had found a new point of entry. I wasn’t sleeping, my cat was being a nightmare, and I had a friend needing massive amounts of emotional support. A big hairy spider was on the wall. I got up, killed the spider, and removed the body to keep the ants from having food besides the bait.

Five minutes later, I swear to the holy spaghetti monster in the sky the ghost of this spider was on my wall in the same spot. I got up and killed it, feeling slightly unnerved. Five minutes later, I took out another one and was now feeling freaked out. As I was returning to my seat, I noticed a little jerk crawling across the ground. Before I could deal with it, it scurried under a cat trap AKA an empty box.

Moving the box revealed floor, no spider. The only thing worse than a ghost spider is a disappearing spider. I set the box down, and the cat took a nap in it. Another spider was on the wall; maybe it was the disappearing spider.

I decided I needed a break. It was three in the morning. I took out the trash. As I lifted the lid of the trash can, I felt it: the brush of web and then the legs. I freaked out, screamed, dropped the lid, dropped the trash, and backed all the way across the lot practically hyperventilating.

Lights flicked on and curtains flipped open. I felt bad. I cleaned up my mess, waved sheepishly at the tired, concerned faces of my neighbors, and went inside. I constructed a NextDoor post and settled in to huddle on the couch and freak out.

The cat was my breaking point. She was playing with something on the floor. She plays with trash, dirt, and sometimes nothing, so I rarely pay attention, but I heard nails hit cords. I turned on the responsible pet parent and leaned down to redirect her only to see what she was playing with: a big f****** spider, on the couch, only a few inches from my leg and now outstretched arm.

I screeched like a bloody banshee, practically threw my laptop across the room, vaulted off the couch, and found myself standing in the spare room with the light on sobbing as my girlfriend rushed out with her MagLite flashlight.

Girlfriend: *Still mostly asleep* “Wass happenin’?”

Me: *Ashamed* “Spider. Cat drove it up the couch and toward me. It’s like the seventh I’ve dealt with tonight.”

Girlfriend: “Come to bed. We’ll find the beastie in the morning.”

Me: “Bold of you to assume I can sleep with that evil thing in the apartment.”

I was right; I didn’t sleep. I still haven’t found that spider. It’ll take at least forever before I stop checking the couch cushions for it.

Related:
The Only Thing Worse Than A Spider Is A Flying One

When I was a teenager, my widowed father got remarried to a woman with two adult sons living in other parts of the country. A few years later, my parents (and I) moved across the country to be near my stepmother’s family, including one of the aforementioned sons. Thus, for the first time, it became significant that this stepbrother’s birthday was the day before mine.

In the lead-up to our birthdays, my parents told me we would be going out to a Mexican restaurant on [Stepbrother]’s birthday. I wasn’t thrilled about this, since I’ve never been a fan of Mexican food, but I figured my stepbrother had the right to pick his birthday venue and I shouldn’t complain. I ordered a dish that looked halfway tolerable, and… “halfway” was too generous. It was the worst food I’ve ever had in a restaurant. Add in the fact that my stepbrother and stepmother were chattering away about people I didn’t know, and I spent the evening thoroughly miserable. The only way I got through it was by constantly reminding myself that it would be my turn the following night.

And then, finally, the evening ended and we went home. Almost as soon as we got through the door, I told my parents that I would like to go to [Diner] for my birthday dinner the next day. They were quite surprised by this; apparently, the whole Mexican restaurant outing was intended as a joint celebration for both my stepbrother and me.

Emboldened by this new knowledge, I informed my parents that I had absolutely hated the restaurant and spent the entire night keeping quiet because I was trying not to rain on my stepbrother’s parade. My parents were again surprised, and they informed me that my stepbrother hadn’t picked the restaurant at all; he apparently didn’t care where we ate, and my parents had picked the restaurant specifically for me.

Um… did I mention I’m really not a fan of Mexican food?

I’m not sure what’s worse: the fact that my parents were so confidently wrong about my tastes, or the fact that it seemingly never crossed their minds to actually ask where I wanted to eat (or to even tell me that the celebration was for me, too).

Fortunately, my parents took me out to [Diner] on my actual birthday, but the whole incident left a bad taste in my mouth (both literally and figuratively).