Dad Makes Interfering With Art An Art

, , , , , | Related | November 14, 2017

(I’m working on an art project for my friend’s birthday. I have spent two days sketching out everything, and I’m ready to start inking it. It should be mentioned that I have liked art for a long time and have done my own research on how to make a presentable piece. Because I have spent so long sketching my poster, I am scared to start inking the poster, in fear of messing up all my hard work. My dad thinks he has better ideas, and suggests a few as he is walking by:)

Dad: “Just colour it in as-is! Then just add black paint and make it artistic or something.”

Dad: “Just scan it! Then colour it in on your laptop and print it out!”

(We only have an A4 printer and scanner, and we have very little coloured ink left.)

Dad: *as I’m finding a new fine-liner because the one I’m using is running out* “Why are you wasting your time? Just use this pen!” *holds out a dollar store pen that isn’t even black*

(Once I finish inking and start to rub out the lines and colour things in:)

Dad: “Why are you wasting the eraser? It’s fine; STOP RUBBING OUT THE LINES!”

Dad: “Why don’t you just give it to her in black and white?”

Dad: *as I’m doing characters from my friend’s favourite animes on the poster, the eye colour and outfits can’t be changed or they would be unrecognizable* “Eww, why are the eyes blue? Why can’t you make them brown?”

Dad: *snatches pencil and starts stabbing some scrap paper, effectively destroying the pencil* “You need to colour it in like this! Why are you making all of this so light?!”

Dad: *watching me draw a Pokémon* “Why is that so ugly!? Why is there a flower growing out its back?!”

(Thankfully, I was able to finish the poster without my dad destroying the poster.)

Too Hot To Handle It

, , , , , | Working | November 2, 2017

(I am shopping with my nana during summer when we decide to stop at her favourite cafe for a drink. It is warm outside, over 35° Celsius, or 95° Fahrenheit. I order a coffee for Nana and, because I don’t drink coffee, I order a hot chocolate for myself. I can almost hear the record scratch as the employee stops in his tracks at my request.)

Employee: “A hot chocolate? It’s summer! Who drinks a hot chocolate in the summer?”

Me: “What’s wrong with a hot chocolate?”

Employee: “It’s summertime. It’s just not right.”

Me: “Hold on. You’ve been making scorching hot coffees all day. Why is it okay to drink those, but not a practically identical hot chocolate?”

Employee:  “I’ll have to get someone else to make it for you; you’ve freaked me out.”

The Law Is A Sticking Point

, , , , , | Working | October 31, 2017

(I am putting out stock that was packed away. The stock was discounted, but now is back to full price. I am peeling off the price stickers.)

Manager: “[My Name], what are you doing?”

Me: “I have to remove the stickers from these.”

Manager: “But it says $7.99; that’s the right price.”

Me: “No, that’s $1.99. It would be good if I could leave it at that.”

Manager: “Oh, yeah, it is. They have to be done; they need to be full price. Just get a pen and change the one to a seven.”

Me: “I can’t do that.”

Manager: “Why not?”

Me: “Ah, because it’s illegal.”

Manager: “Oh, yeah. It is, isn’t it? You better get peeling, then.”

(I sat for the best part of two hours peeling stickers off a few hundred items, only to have to reprice them back down to $1.99 two weeks later.)

Their Hearts Were No Longer In It

, , , , , , | Right | October 30, 2017

(I work in a very busy restaurant in the “function room.” This room holds ten tables of ten seats each. I always work alone in this section. I find many large tables so much easier to manage and serve than lots of smaller, two-seat tables. A table is celebrating a birthday. All guests at the table range from ages 18 to 25, and they have been “playing up” pretty much all night, making stupid requests, like asking for another serviette because the one they had wasn’t folded the same as another or sending a meal back to the kitchen because they decided they wanted what the person next to them was having. You know, those type of guests!)

Birthday Boy: *handing me a pen, which you have to click at the top to use* “May I please have your autograph? I get everyone I meet at my birthday dinner to sign a serviette.”

Me: *feeling a little chuffed to be asked* “Sure, I’d love to.”

(The customer hands me the pen, and I go to “click” the pen to make it work, and in fact it isn’t a pen but a small shock-emitting device. Once it shocks me — which isn’t a small shock, mind you! — everyone at the table starts to laugh, finding it so funny to shock a complete stranger.)

Me: “Ouch! That wasn’t a very nice thing to do!”

Birthday Boy: “Oh, it’s funny. See? Everyone is laughing!”

Me: *wanting to get my own back at him for shocking me, and for being so rude all night* “No. It’s not a nice thing to do! Let me tell you why. Three years ago I was diagnosed with a heart defect, and I now wear a pacemaker. The shock you just gave me could have put me into cardiac arrest! I don’t know what ‘manners’ your parents taught you, but young man, don’t ever do that to another person again. You don’t know their medical history; you don’t know anything about them.”

Birthday Boy: *looking like he has just seen a ghost* “Oh, I am so, so, so, so sorry. I didn’t know! Oh, geez, I feel so terrible now.”

(The whole entire table is now as quiet as a mouse, looking down and feeling terrible.)

Me: “Good. Now you know not to do that stuff again!”

(I walk out of the function room and into the kitchen and tell the restaurant owner what has just happened. He is ready to go and kick them all out when I stop him.)

Me: “Nope. Just leave it. I have a feeling my words did enough damage.”

(For the rest of the night, the table was the most perfectly-mannered table I had ever served. When it came time for them to leave — after they helped me clear off their table! — they called me over. They had already paid their bill, and they asked me to please close my eyes. Not trusting them, I told them I’d rather not, but [Birthday Boy] insisted, promising me nothing bad would happen. So, I played along, and someone took my hand and put it upright. Knowing what the feel of money is, I knew they were putting notes into my hand. Each and every single person at that table gave me a tip, and at the same time they all said “sorry.” My little “white lie” about having a pace-maker earned me $265 in tips! Ka-ching!)

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Parenting Should Be Mightier Than The Sword

, , , , , | Right | October 30, 2017

(We supply recreational and reenactment weaponry. Most of it is foam of varying density, as well as nylon and rattan for martial arts. We can provide metal weaponry with proof of permit. It’s Saturday and technically we’re not open. There’s even a gate that’s meant to be closed, but I’m on site cleaning up and must have accidentally left it unlocked. The front door opens and in walks a man with two children under the age of ten.)

Me: “Hi there. Uh… We’re technically closed to the public today. Did you book an appointment?”

(The two children immediately rush in and start picking things up and trying to stab each other, squealing each time they do.)

Customer: “Oh, I was just at the rec centre down the street with the kids, and a friend told me this store was here, so we thought we’d have a look.”

Me: “Well, I suppose you’re here already.”

(I spend the next twenty minutes explaining the different types and brands, including two ranges specifically meant for children, while the kids run around picking everything up, screaming about how it’s not real, and then throwing it on the floor.)

Customer: “And what if I wanted some metal swords?”

Me: “We can get those for you. We don’t keep them on site, because kids come into the showroom regularly and it would be a hazard, considering they’re prone to picking things up and swinging them about. But we can get them in. You do, of course, need to provide us with your license or proof of permit and make an appointment so we can ensure minors aren’t present, and we need to make sure you have the proper safety gear at home.”

Child #1: “But I want one now!”

Customer: “And what if I want to get some for the kids?”

Me: “Then I would refuse to sell to you, because they’re clearly underage and can’t legally have one.”

Customer: “Yeah, but look at them; they really want some!”

(At this point one of the children is on the ground, howling in protest and being stabbed in the chest repeatedly by the other.)

Me: “Yeah, no. Absolutely not.”

Customer: “So, what am I doing here letting you waste my time for?”

Me: “I have no idea, sir. As I said when you came in, we’re meant to be closed today.”

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