One of my older cousins gets married when I’m about eleven years old. At the reception, I want to go on the dance floor but need a partner for the song that’s playing, so I seek out a boy who looks my age, even though I’ve never met him before.

Me: “Hey, do you wanna dance?”

Boy: “No.”

While I’m initially disappointed, one of the men on the groom’s side of the family saw the rejection and offers to dance with me, instead.

I get tired a few dances later and come off the dance floor. The boy comes up to me again.

Boy: “Hey, uh, do you have a crush on me?”

Me: “No. I just wanted to dance.”

Boy: “Oh.”

Take note: if someone asks you to dance, maybe they just want to dance!

This story is part of our Dancing roundup!

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This story is relayed to me by my old manager only a month or so after I quit my marketing job at a small, private company.

With a marketing campaign strategy meeting happening later in the day, my manager sends over plans and mocks via email to our CEO so they can look at them before the meeting. In response, the CEO immediately forwards the marketing strategies to ALL department managers and asks them to weigh in — sales, HR, accounting, etc. The first to reply is the HR manager:

HR Manager: “These sale email mocks don’t look very exciting. What if we had [Graphic Designer] make a whole story of a warrior who has a sword and goes on an adventure? You keep scrolling as the email goes on and on and you watch their story as they go through their adventure. They get to the end of their adventure and they are victorious because they chose our product! That would be really exciting.”

The CEO replies minutes later before my manager can even say anything.

CEO: “PERFECT! That sounds like fun. Let’s try that.”

A carefully planned marketing campaign derailed before they could even get to the meeting to discuss it. Things like this were a common occurrence and why I ended up leaving in the first place.

My parents, fiancé, and I are touring wedding venues. We show up for an appointment that we made with a woman named Michelle. We were not given a last name when we made the appointment.

We approach the front desk and there is a woman standing there.

Woman: “Hi, can I help you?”

Me: “Yes, hi, we have an appointment with Michelle to view the wedding venue!”

Woman: “Okay! Let me give her a call!”

The woman picks up the phone and dials. It rings for a bit but no one picks up. The woman hangs up the phone and pauses with a very confused look on her face. Then, she suddenly looks up at us.

Woman: “Oh! I’m Michelle!”

The rest of the tour went pretty smoothly and we ended up booking the venue, but it definitely was a strange first impression!

I’m running a deposit for a customer. I’m female. For those who may not be familiar with banking, “the Fed,” or Federal Reserve, controls the rise and fall of interest rates.

Customer: “Just throw it in my checking. The savings isn’t getting enough interest to make me want to put anything in it, anyway.”

Me: “I’ve got the same struggle with mine. The Fed is extremely frustrating right now.”

Customer: *In a patronizing tone* “Well, the Fed is controlled by the markets, you know.”

Me: “Actually, I do—”

Customer: “—and if the markets are down, well, the interest rates aren’t going to move.”

Me: “Sir, I—”

He continues in this vein for several minutes. I stop interrupting and just wait for him to run out of steam. I put my brightest customer service smile on.

Me: “Actually, sir, I did know all of that.”

Customer: “Oh? How so?”

Me: “I’d hope I’d know something about the Fed, considering I’ve been a banker and loan officer for over five years.”

Customer: “I, uh—”

Me: “And considering my degree is in business, you know.” *Big grin*

Customer: “Oh. How… nice.”

Me: “Now, can I help you with anything else today?”

Customer: *Deflated* “No.” *Walks out*

My father is filling out an online form that requires my information. I’m in my mid-teens and he asks me to check if he has the right birthdate.

Me: “You don’t know your oldest child’s birthdate?”

Dad: “Just come check it.”

I check. It’s completely wrong.

Me: “I was born in October, not September, on the twenty-sixth, not the fifteenth, and it was in [one year later than the one he entered]! Where did you even get that date?”

Dad: “I based it off of when we bought the house.”

Me: *Half-joking* “Wow. You remember when you bought the house, but not when your oldest child was born. I see where your priorities lie.”

An hour later, I recount this whole affair to my mother, who is more offended than I am.

Mom: “You don’t know your oldest child’s birthday?!”

Dad: “I can’t keep track of all four kids’ birthdays!”

Mom proceeds to rattle off my birthdate and the birthdates of all three of my brothers without stopping once.

Dad: “. . .”

Mom: “I remember their birth weights, too.”

He had to admit defeat.