My Muslim friend doesn’t drink, but she always thought it was funny when other people did and got a bit silly. Once we were having a small get-together and she decided she was going to mix us all cocktails. Even with our instructions telling her how much to put in, she made them strong; she used at least twice, if not three times as much alcohol as I would use.

Years later, she posted something on a social networking site about being a non-drinker and how annoying people were about it. I remembered this party and the cocktails, so I jokingly replied mentioning it. She went nuts at me, saying it never happened — maybe she doesn’t remember it but it happened — that she had never even touched the outside of a bottle of alcohol — a lie — and that I was malicious for posting it.

I realise that maybe I made a mistake posting publicly, as some of her Muslim friends and family might not know that she used to do things like that, and I have apologised for this. But I do not appreciate being called a liar.

(I answer a call from a number I don’t recognise.)

Caller: “I am phoning to talk to you about reviewing your life insurance policy. Is it all right for us to talk?”

Me: “Who are you looking to speak to?”

Caller: “I am phoning from a company—” *doesn’t name the company* “—that reviews your life insurance company’s policy. Is it all right for me to ask you a few questions?”

Me: “I need to know the person you want to speak to; there is more than one person here.”

Caller: “Well, I… I… I…” *hangs up*

(If you want to review my policy, why don’t you know the name of the person whose policy you want to the discuss, or even the name of your company?)

(I’ve ordered some takeout and I answer the entry phone for the delivery driver. I let him in, but the main door doesn’t make a sound to indicate it’s open, so sometimes people don’t realise it’s open even after you tell them. Gathering that this has happened again, I go to the main door to let him in myself. My apartment door is in full view of the main door, so he’s seen me approach him.)

Delivery Driver: *aggressively* “I thought I’d got the wrong flat; you didn’t let me in.”

Me: “Sorry about that. Sometimes the door plays up.”

(We finish the transaction and all seems normal again, but as I’m closing the door, he shouts:)

Delivery Driver: “That’s what you get for living in a s***hole!”

(I’m picking my sister up from the train. She just finished her final exams at university. She’s a history major.)

Me: “Hey! How are you doing? You look exhausted.”

Sister: “Hello, hey. I’m glad to be finished, truth be told! I started crying when I was looking over some dates yesterday because Abraham Lincoln died.”

Me: “You know what, I’m just not going to ask. I’ll get your bag.”

(Some time later, en route home, I look across and she’s got tears in her eyes.)

Me: “Hey, what’s wrong? Aren’t you happy you’re done?”

Sister: “I was thinking about Abraham Lincoln again.”

(While taking a food order for a really lovely table, one of them has trouble paying attention.)

Customer: “Can I get the rump steak?”

Me: “Of course! How would you like that cooked?”

Customer: “Oh, can I get it with chips?”

Me: “Yeah, sure. Not a problem. How do you like it cooked? Medium? Rare?”

Customer: “It comes with mushrooms? Can I get it without?”

Me: “Yes, definitely. No worries. How would you like your meat done?”

Customer: “And pepper sauce. Is that okay?”

Me: “Absolutely, not a problem. Now, how do you take your steak?”

Customer: *blank look*

(As I’m trying to find a different way of asking one of his friends chimed in:)

Friend: “[Customer]! For God’s sake! How the hell do you want your steak done? The lassie’s only asked you four times!”

(Cue laughter from the rest of the table and the poor chap getting teased, “Did you hear that, [Customer]?!” for the rest of the night!)

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