(A lady comes in with a child who looks to be about eight or nine. The lady is talking on her cell phone.)

Me: “Hi! How can I help you?”

(The customer throws her ID on the counter and continues talking.)

Me: “Ma’am?”

(She gives me a dismissive wave and continues talking. Meanwhile, her daughter is eyeing my basket of lollipops, and a line is starting to form.)

Me: “Ma’am? What can I help you with?”

Customer: *to caller* “Hold on.” *to me* “$300 cash, obviously! Geez.”

Me: “And how would you—”

(She turns her back on me, and continues the conversation.)

Me: “—like that back? Great. A guessing game. How fun.”

(I process the transaction, and wait for her to finish up her call so I can count back the cash. Her daughter scoots closer to the counter.)

Child: “Excuse me, miss lady. May I please have a lollipop?”

Me: “You sure can! You can have more than one, for being so polite.”

(She smiles, selects two, and quickly puts them into her jacket pocket.)

Child: “Mom? MOM? The teller lady is all done! Can we go now?”

(The lady waves off her daughter.)

Me: “And YOU get two more lollipops for being patient! Here you go!”

Child: “Cool! Thank you!”

(The mother hung up her phone, snatched her cash off the counter, and headed out the door. The daughter was right behind her, hiding her lollipops behind her back.)

I didn’t have the best of times in elementary school, and most of my memories of it are the negative kind. However, talking with my mom about this years later, she told me about a day that she remembered in particular.

My fourth grade teacher, for whatever reason, decided that she didn’t like me. I always figured it was because I was shy, tended to stay out of classroom activities, and would always try to read books under my desk (understandably something I shouldn’t do). What my mom told me is that the teacher also apparently hated how I would arrange my desk, the kind with the cubbies underneath to stow books and pencils in. My desk was always messy and never organized, and definitely not to the teacher’s standards. This made her absolutely furious.

One day, my mom happened to drop me off at my classroom before the rest of the kids were there, but the teacher was in. What we found was the entire contents of my desk; pencils, books, worksheets, everything, dumped on the floor and thrown all around the room! If I’d gone into class with all the other students, I would’ve had to pick everything up in front of the whole class and been completely embarrassed.

Seeing as how she caught the teacher red-handed, my mom had every right to go off on her, but instead, Mom simply stood as I gamely gathered all my things and stared my teacher down, unblinking. Then when I was done, she stared a little longer, and left without a word.

I didn’t have trouble with that teacher for the rest of the year! My mom scared her enough to prevent anything else from happening. I can’t believe I don’t remember this event today, but it’s probably thanks to chance, and my mom, for saving me from being humiliated in front of the entire class!

(I’ve just gotten back from the pharmacy, having filled a new prescription for some anti-anxiety medication. The prescription was for a much larger supply than I’m used to. Also, my boyfriend works in mental health, and as such is fairly familiar with psych pharmaceuticals.)

Me: “So, do you think they gave me enough?” *showing him the huge prescription bottle*

Boyfriend: “Whoa. They’re tiny, too. Is that, like, a year’s supply?!”

Me: “Not really. See, look: they’re in little bars. It just looks like lots of tiny pills.”

Boyfriend: “So it’s Xanax?”

Me: “Um, the doctor said it’s BuSpar.”

Boyfriend: “BuSpar is a Xanax analogue. Not one-to-one, but still, you could sell those for $15 a pop!”

(He gives a thoughtful pause, then turns on the voice chat with his friends on his computer, which he’d muted to talk to me.)

Boyfriend: “Hey! Anyone wanna buy some Xanax?”

(He was joking, of course.)

(I’ve recently moved to a small town in Texas and I’ve started working at a country club that also has a bar. I don’t work in the bar, but I know the general workings of it since the whole place is so small. One afternoon the regular bartender can’t find anyone to cover the bar for her so she asks me to work. She tells me the basics and everything seems good. The problem is that she has lived in this town her whole life and has worked here for almost 20 years, and therefore knows everyone’s names and families, and exactly what everyone drinks. This becomes a problem, because I don’t.)

Me: “Hello, sir. What can I get you?”

Customer #1: “Oh, I’ll just have my usual.”

Me: “All right, and what would that be?”

Customer #1: *sigh* “My usual. Are you deaf, girl?”

Me: “No, sir, I just haven’t learned everyone’s drinks yet. I’m sorry.”

Customer #2: *sitting next to him* “He always gets [Drink].”

(I go to make the drink and I grab the glass I was told to use for that type of drink.)

Customer #1: “No, no, no! That’s the wrong glass! I always have the other glass!”

(I grab the other glass, fill it with ice, and go to put the liquor in first.)

Customer #1: “No! The soda always goes in first!”

(It really doesn’t make any difference, but I put in the soda anyway and grab the liquor again.)

Customer #1: “I hate that liquor; I always drink [Other Liquor]! And don’t forget my lime and olives!”

(At this point, it’s not even the same drink that he ordered, and I’ve never seen limes or olives in this type of drink, but I finish the drink and hand it to him.)

Customer #1: “Finally! That took way too long; they should fire you! [Bartender] always has it ready when I walk in. Where is [Bartender]?”

Me: “She has the day off today; it’s her granddaughter’s birthday.”

Customer #1: “Well, I don’t give a d***! She should be here so I don’t have to wait all day for a drink!”

(The bartender apologized the next day for forgetting to warn me about him and said that he was notorious for being difficult and everyone just kind of ignores him.)

I was with a group of coworkers and we were grabbing a bite to eat. Not long after we were seated and eating, a man who seemed to be in his 60s sat at a table nearby so he was facing us. Then, the whole time we were eating, he glared at us. He never once looked away and definitely gave a look that could kill. As soon as we finished and vacated the table, he quickly moved to sit there. My coworkers and I exchanged glances, then shrugged it off.

The next time we were there, we spotted the older guy glaring at the family sitting at “his” table. They eventually grew uncomfortable and left quickly. Once again, the guy took a seat at the table.

Guess where we sat the next time we came in?