During my senior year of high school, the last day of classes before Christmas break was interrupted by a fire alarm. We all evacuated, thinking at first that it was just a drill, but quickly realizing that the first floor of the building was filling with smoke. There was so much that it started setting off people’s asthma.

Still, everyone was able to evacuate safely and there was no visible fire, so no one was worried. We just enjoyed the impromptu break from classes and being able to be outside, since it was nice weather, despite being late December.

We were outside for quite a while, while the fire department cleared out the smoke–so long that we ended up missing three periods. The whole time, we were talking about what was going on, debating on how the fire could have started.

After they gave us the all-clear and we returned inside, we were informed of what happened. The fire had started in the chemistry lab–by the chemistry teacher, who thought it would be a good idea to throw hot, burning embers into a trash can full of paper towels.

(The dentist’s assistant has treated me like a child the whole time because I said I have a needle phobia. Important note: I am in therapy for this, and the coping mechanism I learned was to steel myself for it, to watch it. I know most nurses think that it’s better not to watch, but I got the phobia from a bunch of medical students practicing on me at age 10, and not letting me say no or have any control over the situation at all. They practiced until my parents came in and threatened them. Since then, I have needed to prepare and watch.)

Assistant: “So we’re going to give you some numbing, okay, sweetie?”

Me: “Okay. Just tell me when you’re using the needle. I need to know.”

Assistant: “Of course, honey. Now I’m just going to make sure your teeth are squeaky clean for the procedure.”

(She starts using different tools, and I let my mind wander… until I feel a needle pierce my gums. I jump.)

Me: *mumbling because of her hand* “Hey! I told you to tell me!”

Assistant: “Tell you what, sweetie?”

Me: “When you used the needle!”

Assistant: “There’s no needle, silly!”

(I push my tongue against the side. I can also feel it on my lips. This is freaking me out worse than if she had told me.)

Me: “Uh-huh!”

Assistant: “Stop being ridiculous!” *finishes the injection, pulls out the needle* “There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

(I started having flashbacks so I couldn’t even respond. I got up and ran into the bathroom, barricading the door. The dental assistant acted confused and surprised and asked me what’s wrong. I didn’t answer her. The dentist ended up rescheduling my appointment, but brushed it off when I told him what she did. I didn’t let her touch me again.)

(I am a customer in a supermarket. There’s a group of five obnoxious teenagers — three girls and two boys — with a middle-aged woman at the checkout. They are being rowdy, and while staying somewhat close to the woman, they’re wandering around the aisle that connects all the checkouts, getting in people’s way, and shooting superior glares and smirks at the people they’re blocking. Most other customers aren’t even TRYING to get past the teenagers, and instead, are going all the way down an aisle and coming up another aisle that takes them closer to a checkout that’s away from the teenagers. The woman the teenagers are with isn’t scolding them, but she looks as though she’s been trying to make them behave but finally decided to stop wasting her breath. She looks very annoyed and VERY embarrassed by their behavior. I place my items on the conveyor belt, then bend down to place my hand-basket in the stack under the overhang of the conveyor belt. Someone had dropped a basket on the floor earlier on, so while I’m putting my basket away, I pick up the other basket, upright it, fold the handles down, then add it to the stack of baskets, as well. One of the teenage girls addresses me.)

Teenage Girl: “Why’d you do that?”

Me: “What do you mean?”

Teenage Girl: “Why’d you put it away? It wasn’t your basket.”

Me: “Because I did?”

Teenage Girl: “But why?”

Me: “Because it didn’t take any effort and it was the right thing to do.”

Mother: *loudly* “That is how I raised you to be! I don’t know what the f*** happened!” *she waves her hands in exasperation*

Cashiers: *giggling*

(All of the teenagers suddenly looked mortified, shut up, stopped meandering into other people’s way, and stood calmly around the woman they were with.)

(We farm goats. Sometimes first-time nanny goats have twins, and sometimes they reject one of the twins. When this happens, we have to bottle-feed the rejected kid. The first few weeks, it’s pretty much a 24/7 proposition, but not one that’s too hard to take as kids are mobile pretty much from the get-go, and small enough to be portable. It also helps that they’re adorable. Rather than cancel a camping trip, I take a red-brown female kid trailer-camping with my family.)

Campers #1, #2, and #3: *all separate occasions* “What kind of a dog is that?”

Me: “She’s not a dog; she’s a goat. I’m bottle-raising her.”

(Reactions range from “cool!” to “that’s stupid,” and I quickly grow weary of folk who can’t tell a goat from a dog.)

Camper #4: “What kind of a dog is that?”

Me: “She’s a Chupacabra-doodle.”

I was “kidnapped” by a friend for a week-long vacation to a popular Orlando theme park. We drove down in my car, and I was ridiculously excited to do valet parking for the first time in my life. It was an amazing wizarding adventure, and something I’d never have been able to afford myself. (Thanks, [Friend]!)

The day of our departure dawned and we were packed up, checked out, and chatting with the bellhop as we waited for my car to be brought around. After a while, the bellhop went to check what was taking so long. A few minutes later, a valet approached us with a look of dread on his face. He said, “Well, here’s the thing. Your car won’t start.”

My ancient car had never failed to start before. I became increasingly upset as the reality of the situation sank in, and my friend wasn’t much better. It was Sunday, so most car repair places were closed. The valet did some research, and let me use his personal cell phone to call the only open repair place to have my car towed in and checked over.

My friend and I sat in the lobby to wait for my dad, who would arrive in about eight hours. The valet introduced us to a high-up management-level man who bought us each a cup of hot chocolate. A bit later, the valet returned and introduced us to a manager, whom he had briefed on our situation. The manager arranged for us to check back into the hotel for the day, and asked us to let her know if we needed to stay the night. Meanwhile, the valet told us he had arranged for my dad to have free valet parking when he arrived.

I’ve got Asperger’s and anxiety issues, and do not handle unexpected situations well. Getting to wait in a private room, away from other people, was a huge comfort for me. I calmed down, called my dad to discuss “rescue” arrangements, and let the hotel know we’d be staying another night. The manager charged us less than the in-state resident rate (a massive discount for such a nice resort hotel), and arranged for a roll-away bed to be brought in for Dad to sleep on. (It was the nicest roll-away bed I’ve ever seen; it was a real mattress.)

Considering my car trouble was in no way the hotel’s fault, the staff went far above and beyond to help us. I know customer service is a big priority for tourist resorts, but those individuals certainly went the extra mile. They helped turn what started as a disastrous day into one that ended with relaxed smiles. To all of you working at the resort that day, thank you!