(I’ve worked managing a telesales route for one of the largest soft drink companies in the world for about a year. There’s a lot of fuss in my department about how you must work there for a year before applying anywhere inside the company, but they never have you sign anything agreeing to it. A position that I’m very interested in opens up in a different city. I mention it to a couple of the managers there who practically beg me to apply, so I do. I get called in almost immediately for an interview, but before I can request the PTO for it, my manager calls me into her office.)

Manager: “Why did I get a call saying that you applied for an internal position?”

Me: “Because I did? I was just about to put in a PTO request for a half day so I can go interview at the other office.”

Manager: “You know that you can’t apply for anything internally until you’ve been here for a year! You haven’t been here for a year yet! The only reason that [Coworker] was allowed to change departments was because she waited out the year.”

Me: “I started working under you in June of last year. It’s now July. I’ve worked here for a year.”

Manager: “The first 90 days that you worked here were probationary and don’t count towards the year time. You cannot apply for an internal position until September. Also, when the time comes you are not allowed to apply for any positions within the company without asking me first.”

Me: “I already applied for this one and they really want me to come in. [Other Manager] is waiting on my reply.”

Manager: “You weren’t supposed to have applied in the first place! I won’t let you go.”

Me: “All right, then. I’ll let [Other Manager] know.”

(My manager started getting daily phone calls and emails from the other manager asking her to let me come in, and I started getting daily phone calls from him, as well, asking if she had okayed it yet. This went on for over a week, with me constantly telling the other manager that I still didn’t have approval to take time off during working hours to go. I finally got called back into my manager’s office and told that I could go interview. When I excitedly called the other manager back, I was told that they were forced to close the position and choose someone else the day before, and that there was no way to get me in anymore. I turned in my two weeks notice and moved across the country shortly afterwards.)

(My spouse and I are having our first child in a matter of weeks. Ultrasounds show that it is most likely going to be a girl.)

Mother: “What baby names have you picked out?”

(My spouse speaks Russian, and the due date is around our nation’s Thanksgiving holiday, so I decide to Google “thankful” in Russian just to see how badly it sounds phonetically in English. I am texting both my mother and spouse about it.)

Me: “Let’s name the baby Blagodarnyy. It’s a name full of gratitude. If it’s a girl it has to be Blagodarnaya.”

(After I don’t get an immediate response, I add some flavor for plausibility.)

Me: “Anaya for short.”

Mother: “Okie dokie, then. Russian? I like the Anaya. No Celtic names? With a surname like yours—”

Me: “I’m kidding, Mom.”

Mother: “Oh, for crying out loud! I was trying so hard to be a good mom and mind my own business, but Dad said, ‘That poor child.’ It had ‘blaggard’ and ‘darn ya’ all in one name. Good grief!”

(I work in a locally owned craft store. An elderly man brings a bouquet of balloons to the register.)

Customer: *hands me the price slip* “I guess you want money now, don’t you?”

Me: “Um… Yes. Just let me calculate your total.”

Customer: “Well, that’s just like a woman, isn’t it? They always want money!”

Me: *speechless*

(I am sitting in the family room with my kids, watching “Inside Out,” when my eight- and nine-year-old sons start talking about the colors of emotions and behaviors, which ends with the following.)

Eight-Year-Old: “Silly must be rainbow.”

Nine-Year-Old: “Yeah. Lonely is white. What color is serious, Mom?”

Me: *amused* “Well, there really is only one color serious could be, isn’t there?”

Eight-Year-Old: *stares down [Nine-Year-Old] as he starts laughing, catching on quickly* “Don’t. Don’t you dare!”

Nine-Year-Old: *ignoring his brother* “Black! Serious is black! Serious Black!”

Eight-Year-Old: *groaning* “I’m going to bed. I’m serious!”

Me: *trying not to laugh* “I thought your name was [Eight-Year-Old], but it’s nice to meet you, Sirius.”

Eight-Year-Old: “Gah!” *flops over on floor and covers his ears* “Stop with the Potter puns!”

(The nine-year-old pokes his younger brother’s arm and tries to stop laughing long enough to add in one last comment to the conversation, which, while not Potter-related, is still too good for him to pass up.)

Nine-Year-Old: “Hey… Why so serious?”

(I sent them both to get ready for bed once I could stop laughing long enough.)

This story is part of the International Joke Day roundup!

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(I am 16 and dance 50 hours a week, as well as being an honor student. I have four students to whom I am teaching solos. All consistently second place or better at competitions, sometimes getting first place out of their whole age group. I decide to open up a fifth slot for a student, because I figure I can manage another one. The mother of my first soloist has helped me recruit students, and because of being my first and helping me find students, I only charge her $15 an hour, compared to the other parents I charge $25. The mom accidentally lets it slip to a new recruit’s mom about her special price, and the following happens at the next tryout:)

Student’s Mom: “I heard you’re taking on another student.”

Me: *smiling* “That’s correct; despite my busy schedule I’ve decided I can take on another student.”

Student’s Mom: “Perfect. So [First Mom] said you will only charge me $15 an hour, correct?”

Me: *heart sinks to my stomach* “No, I actually charge $25 an hour.”

Student’s Mom: “Then why would she tell me $15?!”

Me: “I have been teaching her daughter for four years. She was my first soloist, and that is what I charged when I first started.”

Student’s Mom: “So, why does she get to keep that price!?”

Me: “Because she helped me get started.”

Student’s Mom: “That isn’t fair. You are what, 16? What makes you qualified to get $25 a hour?!”

Me: “Regardless of my age, ma’am, my dances win. Most teachers with a resume like mine are charging $50 an hour. I only charge $25 because I am younger.”

Student’s Mom: “But why do you get to charge that!?”

Me: “Ma’am, I am a busy person. I dance 50 hours a week myself, and I am an honor student, and my choreography wins. I have four other people who are interested in that slot and are fine with paying the $25. I am trying them out this weekend to find out if I can work with their student and them. So far, I can’t work with you, so your daughter is not worth my time.”

Student’s Mom: “Excuse me, young lady?!”

Me: “Ma’am. If my price is so outrageous, why are you still here trying to get me to teach your daughter?”

Student’s Mom: “Because your choreography wins!”

Me: “Exactly! I can charge $25 because my choreography is wanted. Now, $25 is my final price.”

Student’s Mom: “Fine. When can my daughter start?”

Me: “Never.”

Student’s Mom: “What?!“

Me: “I don’t work with divas, and if you’re like this, I can’t imagine how your daughter must be. Get out!”

(She left, muttering something under her breath about me being a b**** and arrogant and many other things. I found a student the next week who received choreography that won, and she ended up staying with me for two years. I don’t teach divas. I still won’t do so.)