This started the year before my high school graduation (around the 2000s) and continued into my graduation year. In my English class, the teacher had a student teacher from Finland who did the best she could. She was not marvelous, just a normal, nervous student teacher.

Halfway through the year, we got the message that our teacher had had an accident and can’t come in for a while. She had sliced off the tip of one finger of her left hand with a cheese knife. We were horrified but quickly reassured: no, not the top, the tip. It was just a tiny slice and would heal soon enough. However, the incident had been so traumatic, she had to take a break from work and [Student Teacher] would take over. She couldn’t take over all the classes, so our classes were halved.

After about a month, we started wondering when [Teacher] would come back. Hadn’t her injury healed? When we asked about it, we were told she couldn’t handle the chalk and dust from our blackboard. And she couldn’t write with that hand.

Wait… wasn’t she right-handed? And she always just used an overhead projector with sheets; she never wrote on the blackboard. But, [Student Teacher] did, so maybe that was it?

After three more months, [Student Teacher] let us know she would stay for another two months instead of going home to Finland. However, she couldn’t take over all the missing classes. There was one other qualified English teacher… who had been home with burnout for two months already.

So, better than nothing, I guess? I have no idea what the school board was thinking. And our own teacher was still home sick after that incident with the cheese knife? If you don’t explain what’s going on, teens start making up their own stories, which luckily all ended with “she just wants extra vacation”.

Two months before the end of the school year, [Student Teacher] had to go home… and there was no replacement teacher. At all. And the school seemed okay with it.

They also seemed okay with the fact that we had no English Teacher at the start of the next year. [Teacher] hadn’t recovered and [Student Teacher] was way back in Finland. [Burnout Teacher] was still home sick.

It took until halfway through our graduation year before [Burnout Teacher] recovered enough to take up some lessons. And his lessons were: “Here’s some text. Read it and fill in the multiple-choice questions.”

So, for almost a year, we had little to no English classes, which were supposed to prepare us for our national exams.

I do not know which deity was bribed by whomever, but we all passed for some reason.

In college, I get the assignment to “create something personal, meaningful, and/or symbolic, using one abstract word”. There are no other requirements, though we are advised to show our plan to our teacher.

The teacher also shows some examples: a paper bridge on a blue sheet of paper with a paper flower to represent someone’s love for the art of Monet (representing tranquility), a self-made plush to represent youth, and a box with the face of a white (literal white) woman behind golden strings: treasure (because the woman is supposed to be Cleopatra and she was Julius Caesar’s treasure). They are fine crafts, by the way. Very skilled.

I decide on the word “friendship” because I have a friend overseas and together we have been working on a story for over four years. So, I design a funnel where ideas from both of us go in, and what comes out are scenes of our story. The teacher approves of this plan, saying she looks forward to it.

Now… I do admit my plan does not go smoothly. Craft-wise, I have a LOT to learn. The funnel looks wonky and doesn’t want to stay upright without some extra support. We get twenty hours for this project and I need every moment of it. The teacher checks by every time, giving no advice. She barely acknowledges me unless I ask her a question.

And then… the grading happens. 

Teacher: “I’m afraid I can only give a five out of ten for this.”

This means I fail the class and have to retake it; I need a six to pass.

Me: “What? But why?”

Teacher: “Well, I understand what you wanted to create, but it’s too unclear and abstract. No one else but you will understand this work.”

Me: “But… it was supposed to be a personal project — symbolizing something personal.”

Teacher: “Yes, but others have to understand it, as well.”

Me: “What is there not to understand? Two different ideas go in, one idea comes out.”

Teacher: “I’m sorry, but I just don’t see it.”

Me: “Why didn’t you tell me anything sooner? You approved of my plan!”

Teacher: “Plans often change. I was hoping it would become clear eventually. I’ve shown you enough examples.”

Me: “The teddy bear I understand, but the bridge and the treasure were very abstract, as well. How would anyone understand that that lady was supposed to be Cleopatra, or that this was connected to Julius Caesar? It was a white face in a box, nothing else.”

The teacher is silent, with an annoyed face.

Teacher: “Fine, you’ll get a six. But you still should’ve done better.”

And you should’ve taught, teacher. The most ironic thing? This was a college to become an elementary school teacher. This teacher taught me how NOT to teach.

A couple of years ago, my husband went to a certain supermarket after work to get some groceries and wine. We usually bought about two cases of six bottles at the time as they were cheaper there and we didn’t go there every week.

When he got to the register to pay, he put one bottle on the belt and the rest stayed in the cart because the cashiers like it that way, as long as you tell them how much you’re buying. So, my husband told the cashier he had twelve bottles and paid the total. As he was tired and in a hurry to get home and relax, he didn’t pay much attention to the total.

When my husband got home, however, something felt off, and he checked his receipt. It turned out that he had only paid for one bottle. That didn’t sit well with us, so we called the corporate office of the store and asked what the best course of action would be.

Corporate: *Laughing* “You got lucky! Don’t worry about it.”

Nope, not happening. If it had been one unpaid bottle, maybe, but eleven?

So, we went back to the supermarket the next day and told the store manager about the mistake.

Manager: *Astonished* “I can’t believe you came back! Well, you got away with it, and we can leave it at that. But if you insist, you can pay the balance.”

We were completely flabbergasted at this, and we insisted on paying anyway because we wouldn’t have felt right about it.

After all these years, I still cannot understand their reaction. They didn’t even thank us for being honest and wanting to pay what we owed. They acted as if we were idiots to do that.

My wife and I have some experience with trying to sell stuff we don’t need anymore at an online marketplace. The reason we do this is that we don’t like wasting something that could be useful to someone else, but also that, occasionally, it is easier to have big stuff like furniture or an old mini-oven picked up by someone rather than having to get rid of it by yourself.

We’re trying to sell off our laminate floor because it is partially damaged. Our first post asks for some money for it but it gets no response. My wife changes it to “free.” Now, responses come flooding in.

Keep in mind that the ad says that you have to pick up the floor yourself and that we like to discuss who will remove the flooring and who will get rid of the damaged bits as this job would incur a payment.

Customer #1: “I’d like to pick it up.”

Wife: “Great. Now the question: who is going to get rid of the damaged parts? If you do, the floor is yours for free.”

Customer #1: “You. Your ad says I don’t need to do that.”

Wife: “The ad says we want to discuss this, yes, and that’s what we are doing now. You don’t need to take the damaged bits, but in that case, we would like a little payment in return. since getting rid of it will cost us a bit because we don’t own a car.”

Customer #1: “Sorry, I don’t own a car, either.”

Wife: “Well, you said you were going to pick the floor up. This implies you have some kind of transport, right? So, here’s the deal: you make it a bit easier for us and we make it free for you.”

His tone changes.

Customer #1: “Never mind, ‘cause apparently, you can’t read! Just changing it all by the minute! I said I don’t have a car and I don’t want the damaged parts! And now I don’t want any of it!”

Wife: “Okay, bye.”

It was quite clear he thought “discussing” meant he was going to tell us what he wanted and that we just had to obey his wishes.

And then, there was this person who didn’t read the ad:

Customer #2: “I’d like part of the floor, but only if it could be sent over to my place in [Town on the other side of the country].”

A day before a journey to a foreign country, my dad drops his phone and it doesn’t work anymore. I give him one of my old phones and I plan to go to a phone repair shop the next week. I already saw that his screen is broken (it’s not cracked), so it might just be a loose connection. The shop I visit has been in my town for over a decade, so it must be trustworthy. 

I am greeted by an older man who speaks little Dutch, but we manage to communicate. He calls someone, speaks to them in another language, and then gives me a (reasonable) quote. He asks me to go to the repair shop. I didn’t know it was separate, but it’s about 200 meters away and they can fix it within six to eight hours. Sounds great.

I go to the repair shop and I am greeted by a younger man. (He later introduces himself as the older man’s son.) He sees the phone and starts talking in the same language to his coworker. He does mention the brand of the phone a few times, so I know they are talking about the phone. He puts the phone on his workbench on some sort of plate. 

Man: “Miss, I can fix this phone for [slightly higher but still acceptable quote], but wouldn’t you rather have a whole new phone? I have this phone, which is the next gen, and it’s only 50 euros more.”

He shows me a phone out of its package, with a barcode sticker on the back and fingerprints and scratches all over it. I can see that even from the distance I’m standing away from him.

Me: “Oh, like a refurbished phone?”

Man: “No, no, this one is brand-new! It would be a lot better than changing the screen on this phone. I can do it — in thirty minutes, even — but I can’t guarantee that will make it as waterproof as before. This old phone is slow and already two years old.”

The coworker starts talking in their language again to the man who is helping me. I get a weird feeling, especially after seeing that banged-up “brand-new phone”.

Me: “Well, it’s actually my dad’s phone, so—”

Man: “Then he should definitely upgrade! This new phone here is very easy to use, and I can move any data from the old phone to the new one. You’d be doing good by not repairing this and just getting a brand-new phone for him.”

I’m feeling pressured, so I decide to trust my gut.

Me: “I’ll have to consult my father on this. Thank you.”

The man doesn’t move, speak, or anything.

Me: “May I please have the phone back?”

Man: “Why? Didn’t you want it repaired?”

Me: “Yes, but I need to talk to my dad about what he wants: a repair or a new one.”

The man hands me the phone.

Me: “Why is the phone so hot?”

Man: “Ah, it was on the heat plate, to ‘melt’ the glue. It will cool down soon.”

Me: “Sure, thanks. If my dad wants the upgrade, you’ll be seeing me again.”

I turn around, and immediately the two start talking in their language again, one slightly annoyed. When I am home, I call my dad.

Me: “Yeah, don’t go to that place. They tried to pressure me into buying a banged-up secondhand phone, out of the box, claiming it was brand-new. And I don’t know if they were talking about me, but my gut told me to get out of there. I’ll look for another store.”

I went to a phone repair shop that was recommended to me in the next town over. They looked at the phone, gave me a quote HALF the price, and told me they’d be done in about three hours. I did some shopping, had a drink at a cafe, and was called back half an hour later than estimated. When I got back, the shop owner showed me the broken screen (and what exactly was broken) and the now wonderfully working phone. The phone had even been charged.

Dad was very pleased when he came home from his vacation.