I’m a cashier at a well-known Southern grocery store chain known for super nice employees. I like to chat with my customers as they come through my line. This particular customer has just whipped out her cell phone and started talking.

Me: “Hi, how are you today?”

The customer ignores me and switches her conversation to Spanish. I am part Hispanic myself, although very light-skinned.

Me: “Plastic or paper, ma’am?”

The customer, still speaking Spanish, starts talking about “this stupid girl at the store who keeps interrupting me.” I understand almost every word, but I continue as though I can’t.

Me: “Okay, ma’am, your total is $102.40. Will that be credit or debit today?”

The customer swipes her card, all while continuing to insult me in Spanish. I hand her the receipt.

Me: “Gracias, señorita, buenas noches!”

The customer looked up quickly and I smirked at her. Her face turned red and she ran out of the store.

I am fortunate enough to work with talented, fun, hard-working people I consider friends, but like all friends, some of them drive me a little insane. One of the worst is a guy who never listens to anything.

Coworker: “This program is a pain. How am I even supposed to [do a thing]?”

Me: “That’s weird. The tutorial covers that. Did it not display for you?”

Coworker: “I just clicked through it.”

Me: “Okay… Well, hit ‘enter’ to go to the menu.”

Coworker: *Sounding annoyed* “But how do I go to the menu?”

Me: *Pause* “Hit ‘enter.’”

Later, in an email:

Me: “Hey, [Coworker]! I’m working on a promo with [Client], just so you know. I’m going to rope in [Artist] to do the images for it.”

Coworker: “Have you thought about using [Exact Same Artist I Just Mentioned]?”

Me: “That was the second sentence of that email.”

Coworker: “Oh, well, I didn’t read that far.”

Even later-er:

Coworker: “Hey, what are we doing for our launch today?”

I email him a list of items.

Coworker: “But what about [very first item on the list, I’m not even kidding]?”

Me: “You’re lucky you’re my friend.”

He’s a great coworker and friend except for this, and it wouldn’t be an issue if it didn’t happen all the time, and if he wasn’t such a butt when the same thing happened to him.

Me: “I gave [Other Coworker] your new phone number.”

Coworker: “I gave it to him yesterday! I even wrote it down.”

Me: “I know; he couldn’t find the paper when he went to add you to his contacts.”

Coworker: “Ugh, I hate repeating myself! People need to pay more attention to the details.”

Sigh. Love you, buddy.

This happens when I am in third grade, nine years old, and getting the second report card of the school year. The teacher hands them out at the end of the school day, but my mother and I see her at my dance studio that night.

Me: “Ms. [Teacher]? Why did I get a bad grade in reading?”

Teacher: “You didn’t take any of your reading quizzes. You need to read a book every month.”

Mom: “You know her. You know she’s read more books than any other student in your class. What are these reading quizzes you’re talking about?”

Teacher: “The ones on the computer. It generates a report automatically, grading each test and averaging them out with what I put in for your grade.”

Me: “You mean I have to do more? But I already have all my points. Twelve books, twelve quizzes.”

Teacher: “Wait… You already did them all? When?”

Me: “The first month of school.”

By taking every quiz I needed to in the first semester, the software was setting me up with zeros for the rest of the year. They changed it immediately to be one book a month rather than the ten books a year the syllabus had stated.

(I’m taking a finance class. We’re preparing for our midterm, which involves a lot of formulas. The professor is talking to us right before the end of class.)

Professor #1: “Oh! One more thing. You are allowed to use whatever information you can fit on a 3×5 notecard. Class dismissed. See you Thursday. Be ready!”

(I get an idea on Wednesday night. I type up all the relevant formulas in a Word document, shrink the font so that it will fit on the notecard, print it out, cut out the 3×5 square, and tape it to the notecard. The next day, the professor does a card check. When he gets to me…)

Professor #1: *inspects my card* “You typed this? Nice job! I’m gonna keep this in mind as a tip for future students.”

(Fast forward to the next semester. I’m in a Strategic Management class, which is my final course before I graduate. We are a couple of days out from our final exam.)

Professor #2: “Remember, guys, you can use one 3×5 notecard on your exam. Whatever you can fit, you can use. I’ll even let you use the front and back.”

(Everyone groans, as there’s a lot of vocabulary involved, and there’s no way that we can possibly fit everything on there, even if we use the back.)

Professor #2: “Do your best. Now, get outta here. Exam Wednesday. Last thing between most of you and graduation!”

(I remember what I did for my finance class and get to work typing definitions and principles. It takes some extra creativity, but I manage to shrink the text to make it small yet readable, and get about 75% of the content on the study guide onto the notecard. Fast forward to Wednesday. The professor walks in.)

Professor #2: “All right, people! Card check. Bring ‘em out!”

(He gets to me. He picks up my card and inspects it with a raised eyebrow.)

Professor #2: “You’ve got most of the study guide on here. How did you do that?”

Me: “Typed it.”

(He turns it upside down and squints at it.)

Professor #2: “Can you even read this?”

Me: “Yes.”

(He starts laughing.)

Professor #2: “[My Name], you’re a smart-a**.”

(I passed my exam with 90%.)

(My son is talking to me about one of his Lego “Star Wars” sets.)

Son: “I want to try to build it with you later this week. It’s a model of the escape pod that C3PO and R2D2 use to escape to Tatooine in episode four, and it comes with a little Lego C3PO and R2D2!”

(Being a seven-year-old, he’s not very good at keeping all of his Lego pieces organized. There are little bitty Lego pieces all over my house. So it comes as no surprise that he loses a few pieces after playing for a while.)

Son: “I’m missing the two figurines from the set!”

Me: “They’re probably somewhere around the house; we’ll just have to look for them.”

(My wife chimes in, addressing our son.)

Wife: “I think I saw R2D2 under your bed.”

(My wife goes upstairs to get it and sets it on the table next to our son’s breakfast plate. My son sits down at the table, picks up the figurine, and looks at it, speaking very matter-of-factly.)

Son: “Mom, this is not the droid I’m looking for.”

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