(A local theater company my family has been involved with for many years has recently gone through a change in leadership, resulting in some… unique situations. Many of the recent decisions have come across as direct attacks against me and my family, including the recent shutdown of a popular, successful, and influential teen group that I was president of, only to be replaced a few days later by a group that has no apparent differences except that we are not involved and the board, presumably, has much more control. While I hold no ill will against them for this, my parents are less forgiving.)

Mom: “Sometime before the first meeting of the new group, I want to post exactly what led up to the shutdown of the first group.”

Me: “Uh, okay, great, but… when you post it, can you try to be a little less confrontational than will come naturally to you?”

Mom: “Oh, don’t worry. I’m going to phrase it as an apology.”

Me: “Oh, okay.”

Mom: “Yes, I’m going to apologize that we got the group shut down by refusing to be the board’s doormats.”

Me: “…”

Mom: “Because we stood up for what we believed in, instead of bowing down to their so-called supremacy created through shadow government. They decided the only solution was to snatch the group away from all of the teens and create a new one where they have all the power.”

Me: “…O-Oh.”

Mom: “Not what you were thinking?”

Me: “I think we’re back to my original question.”

(At my theater, a recorded message plays out the usual safety rules.)

End of Recorded Message: “Thank you for listening, the show will begin in just a few minutes.”

Stage Manager: *over headset* *LIES!”

(I’m trying to get a monitor to connect properly with a video camera. I’m down in the orchestra pit making sure the camera stays on, while another stagehand fiddles with the settings on the monitors. There are other people working around us, and it’s hard for people on stage to hear people in the pit at the best of times, never mind in the wings, so I decide to text her rather than shouting. Let’s say her name is Lindsey. I have a Lindsay in my phone, so I think that must be her.)

My Text: “The camera is on.”

(I don’t get a reply for several minutes. When I look at my contacts again, I realize I have texted Lindsay rather than Lindsey. Then I realize how horrifying it would be to get that text out of context from someone you don’t text with regularly!)

Me: “I’m so sorry. I know how creepy that sounds. I texted the wrong person!”

Lindsay: “That’s okay!”

(Couldn’t. Stop. Laughing. And no, everyone else in the building didn’t clap, because they were all too busy to ask/care what I was laughing about.)

(I’m taking the payment for a reservation a customer just made.)

Me: “Okay, I just need to get that three-digit code on the back of your credit card.”

Customer: “Where is that?”

Me: “There should be two sets of numbers after your signature. I need the second set of digits.”

Customer: “I didn’t sign my card. Where would it be, then?”

(I am working the concession stand at a popular stage theatre in Niagara. There is a regular who has a five-year-old daughter, and one day, during an intermission, the daughter is in my line up, while her father is sitting at a table waiting for her. The line isn’t that busy, and the girl is patient. Finally, when her turn comes, this happens.)

Five-Year-Old: “Hello, miss. May I please have—”

(Suddenly, an older man shoves her aside.)

Man: “Out of the way, kid! I would like…”

Five-Year-Old: *tapping his shoulder* “Excuse me, sir? I was about to order. Can you wait?”

Man: “May I please have…”

Five-Year-Old: “Sir. It hurt me when you did that. Please don’t butt.”

Man: “As I was saying…”

Five-Year-Old: *close to tears* “Please, I won’t take long.”

Man: “Whatever, let me have a—”

(Suddenly, the girl taps him on the shoulder, glaring.)

Man: “What?”

Five-Year-Old: “Get your a** to the back of the line, buster!”

(Everyone’s jaw dropped, and the man is horrified. He sheepishly leaves as the people who heard her laugh.)

Five-Year-Old: *smiling sweetly and placing $10 on the counter* “May I please have a cream soda?”

(I gave her that, plus a free chocolate bar. I later found out that man had been doing that to her for a while, and she finally got fed up.)