(When I am a teenager, my mum takes me clothes shopping in the local mall. I find a top that I like and go to pay for it.)

Mum: *spotting the manufacturer’s label on the top* “Oh, my God!“

Me: “What’s wrong?”

Mum: “There’s a typo in that label!”

Me: “Typo?”

(I read the label, which looks just like any other manufacturer’s name to me.)

Mum: “Yes! It’s a reference to [obscure centuries-old British folk song], but there should be an apostrophe.”

Me: “Um, okay.”

(I hand the top to the cashier.)

Mum: *to the cashier* “Doesn’t this store know anything? That label has a typo!

Cashier: “…”

Me: “Mum, she doesn’t care—”

Mum: “Well, she should! Hasn’t she heard of [obscure centuries-old British folk song]?”

Me: “Of course she hasn’t! And even if she has, she won’t care! No one cares! And even if she did care, what do you think she could do about it?”

Mum: “Hmph.”

(The cashier looked grateful. I love my mum, but she picks the weirdest things to get upset about.)

(My fiancé and I are getting ready for our wedding, which is only a few weeks away.)

Me: “Huh, we never got an RSVP back from [Friend #1] or [Friend #2].”

Fiancé: “Let’s call them. The caterer needs to have the final numbers today.”

(I call [Friend #1], and he calls [Friend #2]. The conversations are almost identical, with one important difference:)

Me/Fiancé: “Hi, [Friend]! Just calling to see if you’re coming to my wedding on [date]? We haven’t gotten an RSVP from you.”

Friend #1: “Oh, I’ve been so busy. But if you haven’t heard from me, you can assume that I’m coming.”

Friend #2: “Oops! I keep forgetting to mail it. But if you haven’t heard from me, you can assume that I’m not coming.”

(Sigh.)

(This happens in the late 80s. I have just bought a house and am having a housewarming party. My friend shows up with her new husband, a guy I’ve never met. I give them a quick tour, including my study.)

Friend’s Husband: *spotting my computer, which is one of the original IBM PCs with two floppy drives* “Is that your husband’s computer?”

Me: “No, it’s mine.”

Friend: *rolling her eyes* “Don’t mind him. He doesn’t think women are intelligent enough to use computers, that’s all.”

Me: *thinking* “How charming.”

(I get busy with host-related stuff. I happen to see my friend and her husband racing out the door as though their a**es were on fire. They don’t even say goodbye.)

Me: “Huh, that’s weird.”

(I didn’t think anything of it until the following day. I went to turn on my computer, and to my horror, it made a terrible grinding noise. I turned it off and investigated. SOMEONE – and I think we all know who – had shoved a floppy disk in backwards. Luckily, there was no permanent damage.)

(I work in IT. This has happened at my job more times than I can count.)

Supervisor: “I need you to add a new field to this screen. It’s a birthdate.”

Me: “Gotcha.”

(One hour later:)

Supervisor: “So, are you done?”

Me: “Not yet.”

Supervisor: “Why the heck not? What’s taking so long? It’s just one field! It’s a simple change!”

Me: “Yes, but first I have to find an appropriate spot for it on the screen. Then, I have to code it. Then, I have to put in edits, so that the users can’t enter something silly like February 31st, or a future date, since it’s a birthdate. Then, I have to ensure that the data entered is propagated to the database that’s keeping track of all the data on the screen. Then, I have to ensure that the birthdate is being sent properly to the other programs that use this screen for input.”

Supervisor: “…”

Me: “I haven’t even mentioned having to test it and document it. Shall I go on?”

Supervisor: “Just stop making excuses and get it done!” *leaves*

(I wouldn’t mind so much, but my supervisor used to be a programmer himself. He had evidently forgotten how much time a “simple change” takes.)

(I’m browsing at a mall when I run into the mother of someone I used to go to school with when I was small. This woman never liked me much.)

Woman: “Well, if it isn’t [My Name]! What are you up to these days?”

Me: “I’m going to university, and–”

Woman: *waves her hand dismissively* “Well, of course you’re going to university. Everyone does.”

Me: “Um, okay.”

Woman: “Do you have a job?”

Me: “I’m working part time at a dinner theatre–”

Woman: “Doing what? Cleaning toilets?”

Me: *pause* “No, actually, I work in the box office. I take reservations for the shows.”

Woman: “Hmph.” *walks away*

(No disrespect intended to anyone who cleans toilets for a living, but I’m pretty sure she intended it to be an insult.)