Back in the late 80’s, I was working my first “real” job in a building that had its own parking lot. Because there were more employees than parking spots, new employees like me had to go on a waiting list. When someone who had a spot left the company, their spot became available, and the next person on the list was automatically assigned to it. That was the way it had always worked. 

I made friends with one of my colleagues, “Sandy”, who, like me, was very new. In fact, she’d been hired only one week before me. That meant that she was one slot above me on the waiting list. When she eventually received a spot, it was a cause for celebration for both of us. She was happy for obvious reasons, and I was happy because I knew that the next available spot would be given to me.

One day, Sandy told me that she’d decided to quit. I was sad to lose her as a work friend, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that her parking spot would become mine. The day after she left, I parked in the spot and began my working day, not thinking anything of it…

…until I was called into my boss’s office and treated to five minutes’ worth of ranting.

Boss: “How dare you take that spot! It wasn’t yours!”

Me: *Upset and confused.* “But I was next in line!”

Boss: “That doesn’t matter! You don’t get a parking spot until you’re officially told that you’ve got one, understand? Now go move your car!”

I did so, practically in tears, not knowing what I’d done wrong. Everyone I knew who had a spot had immediately commandeered it without being “officially told”, so why had I been singled out for a tirade? 

I found out why later that day. The company had hired a bigwig executive, and when that executive learned that he’d have to wait in line for a spot with the rest of us lowlifes, he kicked up a huge fuss until my boss promised him that he’d get the next available spot. When he’d arrived that morning and found my car, he’d screamed at my boss, who, of course, had screamed at me.

What’s that saying about a certain substance rolling downhill?

Some years ago, a coworker of mine (Alan) was planning his wedding. Another coworker asked him during coffee break how all the plans were going.

Alan: “Not great, actually. We’ve gotten back a bunch of ‘No’ RVSPs, so we’re going to have to send out a second batch of invitations.” *Looking around at all of us.* “So, keep an eye on your mail.”

I could feel my eyebrows shoot up into my hairline. Judging by my friend Tammy’s face, she was thinking the same thing I was.

When break was over, I asked Tammy, somewhat facetiously:

Me: “If you get an invitation to his wedding next week, will you RSVP ‘Yes’?”

Tammy: *Grimly.* “Not a chance. There’s nothing quite like being told to your face that you’re on the B List.”

The funny thing is, Alan had no idea he’d just offended a bunch of people!

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I never got an invitation at all. Guess that made me the C List.

This story reminded me of something that happened to me when I was in my early teens, somewhere around 1978.

In my family, whenever our fingernails needed trimming, we’d always use a pair of nail scissors (if you’ve never seen these, they’re a set of small scissors especially made for cutting nails). Since I was right-handed, I could trim the nails on my left hand with no problem, but I always needed my mum to help me with the nails on my right hand.

I was walking home from school one day with my best friend, and we had this conversation:

Me: “I don’t know what I’m going to do about cutting my nails when I’m living in my own place. I guess I’ll have to visit home and ask Mum to do it for me!” *Laughs.*

Friend: *Looks at me strangely.* “What’s so hard about using nail clippers?”

Me: *Clueless.* “Using what?”

Friend: “Nail clippers. You know.”

Me: “No, I don’t. What are those?”

She refused to believe that I’d never heard of them and accused me of playing a not-very-funny prank on her. That was fair, because I often DID play not-very-funny pranks at that age, but that wasn’t one of those times. I genuinely didn’t know nail clippers existed. I bought a set that same day and never looked back.

In hindsight, I have no idea why my family didn’t own any. We were immigrants from England who’d been living in Canada for years – and nail clippers were invented in the 19th century!

My first wedding was planned for December 30, 1988, which fell on a Friday. The invitations my fiancé and I sent out were written in stylish calligraphy and said something like, “You are cordially invited to the wedding of [My Name] and [Fiancé], to be held at [time] on Friday, the thirtieth of December, 1988.”

A friend phoned me a week after the invitations were mailed.

Friend: “I was about to send in my RSVP when I noticed that there’s a mistake on your invitations, and I figured you should know.”

My heart sank.

Me: “Oh, no! I vetted them so carefully; I can’t believe I missed something!”

I checked one of the invitations frantically.

Me: “I can’t see it. What’s the mistake?”

Friend: “December thirteenth is a Tuesday, not a Friday.”

I paused for a moment.

Me: “Uh, yeah. That’s why we’re getting married on December thirtieth.”

Friend: “Huh?” *Checks the invitation herself* “Oh, duh! You’re right! Sorry! Take this as my positive RSVP, then.”

Me: *Laughing* “Thanks!”

I didn’t think anything of it until I got another phone call from another friend and had almost the exact same conversation. Then again. Then again.

All I could think was that people were so used to “Friday the thirteenth” being a thing that they read “Friday the thirt—” and their brains filled in the rest. The two words look a lot alike, especially when written in stylish calligraphy. I just hope that no one showed up at the church on Tuesday, December thirteenth!

My mother-in-law has always been a headstrong woman, determined to get her own way, and to heck with what other people might want. One example is this story. Here’s another example.

In the early 1990s, my then-fiancé and I were saving every extra penny for our wedding. Money wasn’t exactly TIGHT, per se, but we cut out all unnecessary expenses. During this time, we paid a visit to my fiancé’s parents. When the visit was over and we were on our way out the door, his mother handed him a box.

Fiancé: “What’s this, Mum?”

Mother-In-Law: “[Younger Brother]’s high school held a fundraiser by selling boxes of oranges and grapefruit. I got you and [My Name] one.”

Fiancé: *Surprised* “Oh! Well, thank you. That was nice of—”

Mother-In-Law: *Interrupting* “So, you owe me [amount].”

He was too taken aback not to pay up. In hindsight, the two of us should have given her the box back and said, “No, thanks.” As we trudged to the car:

Me: “She didn’t even ask if we wanted this stuff.”

Fiancé: “I know.”

Me: “If she had asked, we would’ve said no. We don’t like grapefruit!”

Fiancé: “I know.”

Me: “In other words, we spent [amount] that we can’t really afford on a box of fruit, half of which is probably going to end up in the garbage.”

Fiancé: “Yep.”

I’m happy to say that we’ve both developed backbones since then, and we now firmly refuse if [Mother-In-Law] tries to coerce us into doing something we don’t want to do.

Related:
A Very Awkward Engagement