I am an American working as a foreign English teacher. Most of the two-hour classes for the three older age groups are done by two teachers. One teacher teaches the first hour, and then there is a fifteen-minute break followed by a second hour with a different teacher. 

For one of my higher-level classes for the seven-to-ten-year-old age group, I am the first teacher; however, my co-teacher is unavailable this day. This is not uncommon, and usually, another teacher would be assigned that slot to substitute teach for that day. However, in this instance, I am the only teacher who has that hour free and is qualified to teach that level. As such, I find myself in the rare position of covering my own class. 

The students are not informed when they are having a substitute teacher, so after my hour is done, I gather my materials for the second half of today’s lesson. I walk back upstairs, open the door, and see seven surprised and confused faces wondering why I have returned when they were expecting my co-teacher. One of my ten-year-old students decides to vocalize his surprise with a western colloquialism he has picked up.

“What the f***?!”

Well… at least he used it correctly.

Oh geez…

(I was in the school library finishing up homework and decide i needed a break, so i pulled out my phone to go onto this app called iFunny. While swiping through I come across a vine with my audio FULL BLAST as it continued to play,
GO SUCK A D***, SUCK A MOTHERF***ING D***)
Embarrassed with my face red and smiling awkwardly.

Librarian (about 60 or so): HOLY SHIT IFUNNY!!!

Randm person: That made my f***ing day!

Glad my clumsey, embarraing self can bring smiles to others
:”)

(I get a job as a music instructor at a small music school outside a big city. About a week into working there, I get assigned a new student, who is presented to me by the student’s mother.)

Mother: “Hello, this is [Student]; she’s your new student.”

Me: “All right, thank you, ma’am.”

(I start to take the student to the practice rooms.)

Mother: “Um… I’m sorry, what are your qualifications?”

Me: “What, ma’am?”

Mother: “What are your qualifications?”

Me: “Well, I’ve played piano for fourteen years, was trained as an opera singer, and have competed internationally in musical theatre competitions.”

Mother: “Oh, that won’t do. You see, I’m a musical theatre education major, and I hold the highest standards.”

Me: “Ma’am, I assure you I am qualified for this position.”

Mother: “I assure you, you are not.”

Me: “Ma’am, you may find another instructor, or, if you desire to be so rude, you could simply teach her yourself. You are a music education major, are you not?”

Mother: “Why would I want to teach my own child?”

Me: “Because she’s… yours, ma’am?”

(The mother stormed out with her child. Two weeks later, we got a call at the academy from the same mother asking for the best instructor for musical theatre, which was me. My coworker asked what I would like my response to be. I said I would rather try and teach a stick to sing; mother nature would be nowhere near as much a b****.)

(I regularly follow yarn-related workshops, mostly — well, always — attended by women only. Invariably, just before lunchtime, some phones are ringing and I witness the following conversations or variations thereof.)

Conversation #1: “No, I’m not home for lunch. I told you yesterday and this morning. You will need to take care of yourself.”

Conversation #2: “The bread is where it usually is. Yes, it is. I bought a new loaf yesterday. Well, you can put anything you like on it. The fridge is full.”

Conversation #3: “No, I won’t be home. That is why I left money next to the phone, so you can order pizza.”

Conversation #4: “Yes, you can eat the leftover soup. Use the microwave.”

(I wish I could say it was all teenagers calling, but the pizza money? That was actually the husband calling.)

For eighth grade, I went to a Catholic school that babied the students. Every day, we were required to have our parents sign our notebooks. These notebooks held our daily grade, a little note about the day, and nothing else. If our parents didn’t sign it, the teacher would lecture us and call our parents. If the parents didn’t answer, they would hold us after school until our parents arrived to get us, even if you were a straight-A student with no discipline problems.

My mom knew I was an A and B student, and hated this policy. She did not care about signing the book at all. After the first few times, Mom just initialed it without reading it. My teacher seemed to accept the initials. I had As and Bs, after all.

I ended up forging mom’s initials half the time; we’d both forget and it was just easier.

One day, my mother received a nerve conduction study — the way I explained it, “the doctor shot electricity up her hand.” Her initials were super shaky that day. My teacher opened the book and accused me of forgery. “Of all the days,” I thought to myself. My teacher called the English/history and the math/science teacher, and they all had a loud whisper conversation where they discussed how “that wasn’t a real carpal tunnel test,” how weird it was that someone would initial the book, and how I’d been totally forging it from day one. They called my mother and told her that only a face-to-face meeting would suffice.

Mom was not happy. She explained the nerve conduction study better than I could, and told them how ridiculous their “nanny book” was for a good student. It became a rather heated affair.

In the end, the teachers demanded that she sign the book instead of just initialing, and I learned how to forge my mother’s full signature.