(This occurs while I’m in a store shopping for Christmas gifts for my family. I overhear this conversation)

Cashier: “Ma’am, a Visa is a card to get into the country”

Customer: “No, I would think I know what a Visa is, it’s a card with money”

Cashier: “No Ma’am, that’s a debit card, a Visa is used if you’re a foreigner, or from a different country.”

Customer: “YOU KIDS THESE DAYS DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT MONEY! HOW DARE YOU INSULT ME LIKE THAT?”

Cashier: “Ma’am you can either pay or I will call security to remove you from the premises.”

*she left mumbling under her breath*

( *On my last year of High School, as an effort to promote local cultural initiatives from my region, my school’s principal invited a writer to talk about his book to my school’s last-year classes. My class skipped that day’s history lesson and was brought into the Aula Magna, where, after some time setting up the projectors and getting material in, the writer arrived…* )

Writer: “Good day you all, today, thanks to your principal’s enlightened decision, I’m here to talk about my book: it’s called [Title], and is about the correspondence between an anarchist French Partisan and a mole in the Nazi army during WW2. To show you this, I’m going to read you four letters.”

(* He then started reading: his prose was pretty dry, and the story quite trite, on top of sounding rather contrived. When he’s done, he passes to Q&A time, and that’s where things fell apart.* )

Girl: “Mr. [Writer], I don’t want to be rude, but I frankly found the plot pretty confusing, can you please explain it?”
Writer: “Oh lookie, apparently they don’t teach you anything in here, only to think the way the dominant class wants you to think.”

( *I recoil and many others do as much* )

Writer: Had you been taught to think with your head in History you would immediately get just how plausible this is. But you don’t, do you? You just think that anarchists were throwing bombs around to kill some beloved kings, I bet you don’t even know that Catalonia was an anarchist area during the Spanish Civil War once! H***, you probably haven’t got past Aquinas in Philosophy class, and just think Marx is the Devil, but it isn’t true, it’s the basis for lots of things, including whatever they tell you about how the world works.”

(* Our History and Philosophy teacher gets up and gets to him. *)

Teacher: “Pardon me, but I must intervene: I got as far as the Frankfurt School with my class, and I tell them to do as much indipendent research as they can during History. I can’t control their opinions, but they sure have heard of Marx’s philosophy.”
Writer: *visibly frustrated* “You need them to go do some *real* indipendent research, or they’ll just get information from the same people who are burning down Nigerian villages to fuel their wasteful lifestyle; I’m sure you haven’t done that, did you?”

(* By now there’s a general murmuring in the room, as everyone either comments on the writer’s ramblings and how pointless they are, or argues in favour of our teacher. *)

Teacher: “Indipenden research is indipendent research, but, anyways, we came here to hear abou your book, not your political leanings: go on ahead.”

(* The Writer grumbles and starts trying to explain his book’s plot, but, frankly, by then nobody was listening anymore. When this was over and we went back to our classroom, our History yeacher told us that he already knew the writer was an eccentric, but the principal figured it was better than nothing. The kicker in all of this? My class’ History and Philosophy teacher is technically on the same side as the writer! *)

It’s a lazy Sunday morning, my parents are watching morning tv after eating breakfast. My dad go get’s himself a coffee and a piece of cake.
” Where’s mine?” my mum asks.
” I didn’t know you wanted one” said Dad and he goes into the kitchen and cuts a piece of cake. He gives it to her.
” Where’s the plate? and can’t you cut it in half, it’s too big” my mum complains. My sister pipes in.
” Don’t you know Dad. You are dealing with Mrs Bucket”
” No it’s Bouquet” says my Mum. My dad, sister and I laugh at the outdated reference

My husband and I are doing some home improvement projects. While I have done some minor things, this particular project is beyond my scope. My husband used to work in construction though. This conversation happens while I am using mud to repair the walls.

Me: Sweetie, can you some look at this? I feel like I am doing something wrong, because I am using a lot of mud

Husband: Yeah, it’s fine

After the mud dries, my husband goes to sand it down

Husband: I think I am going to have to teach you how to mud properly. You used way too much

Me: Excuse me?

Husband: What?

Me: I asked for your help, you said it looked fine.

Husband: Oh. I guess I wasn’t paying attention to what you said.

Me: Apparently.

My mother and I are finishing breakfast in the kitchen, and she keeps getting increasingly frustrated about how she needs to use her card number for something online.

Mother: It won’t let me put it in! I can’t put it in! I need to put it in!

I am very happy no one else was there to witness me almost spit out my coffee…