A few years ago, I had a coworker with problems regarding boundaries and privacy. One day, another coworker brought an open bag, mostly stuff for her daughter. I don’t remember the reason why she needed to bring it but the first coworker dived into the bag to examine the contents, asking what and why.

Amongst other things, it contained a Furby. As it was unknown to her, she inquired and got an explanation. Of course she wanted to play and obligingly, it was turned on. The electronic animal started crying almost immediately and the nosey coworker had to give it back. The owner had quite some trouble to silence it.

No, it was not professional but it was easier – much easier – just to give in than coping with the nagging and whining sure to follow a refusal. I still chuckle though at the thought that even an electronic animal objected to her. For those wondering, the colleague was well in her fifties.

(What started as a quick trip to the ER ends up being a week-long hospital stay. I called work early in the week to let them know. During my visit, I end up needing surgery. I’m frustrated from everything, on top of stressed, tired, and in pain. When I get back to my room, a HUGE vase of gorgeous flowers is sitting on my table.)

Nurse: “Oh, looks like someone’s got an admirer!”

(I open the card next to it. It was covered with messages from my coworkers, including my district manager! I call my store to thank them.)

Me: “Hey, I just got the card and flowers—”

Manager: “Oh, good! We’ve missed your smiling face here and wanted to give you something just as bright to help you there!”

(It definitely did help!)

(My coworker is calling customers. She must’ve gotten one guy’s voicemail, because I get a call saying he just missed a call from us. This conversation takes place while he’s on hold.)

Me: “Hey, did you just call a Joe?”

Coworker: “No, I called a Smith, a Johnson, and a Simmons.”

Me: “What are the first names on those?”

Coworker: “Umm, one’s Joseph, one’s—”

Me: “That would be Joe.”

It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m driving home on a one-lane highway, and shortly before the traffic light where I’m going to turn, a second lane opens up to the right.

While it’s not strictly illegal to get into this lane and then continue straight, it’s considered common courtesy to stay in the left lane unless you’re making the right turn, because the traffic light is only there to allow people an opportunity to get onto the highway from the side street; making that right turn at a red light is nearly automatic.

I signal my intention to get into the right lane in advance of the lane split, only to discover that another car is trying to pass me on the right; already a warning sign as it means that they attempted to get into that lane before it existed, driving on the shoulder. The car nevertheless stops at the red light and stays there until it’s green, heading straight.

As I said before, this is perfectly legal, but passing on the right isn’t and going into the shoulder to get into the right lane when the car in front of you has signaled intent to turn right (which can be done at a red light) and you’re going straight is, quite frankly, a dick move. I flip the bird within the privacy of my own car (didn’t open the window to yell at them or flip it out there) and make my turn, thinking that that’s the end of it.

It isn’t. Apparently the driver saw in her rear-view mirror that I’d flipped her off, because wherever it was that she was going in such a hurry that she had to cut someone off to get to a red light in front of them, it was evidently less important than turning up a side street so that she could follow me home to start cursing me out. Highlights include “how could I have cut you off when you were in the fast lane”, “have an awful holiday”, and “I hope that [something-or-other] goes right up your ass”.

When I told her to get the hell off of my property, she said “I’m on the Board of [again, incoherent]! This isn’t your house, it’s my house!”

“Did you pay for it?”

“My taxes did!”

Now, this is a very small town, where everyone knows everyone. Trust me when I say she’s not from town, and certainly not on any board. She then threatened to call the police on me, saying she knows where I live now.

(My nine-year-old and I have just arrived at a fancy restaurant to have Christmas dinner with my seventy-eight-year-old mum and her eighty-year-old boyfriend. Hubby/dad is running late because he had to shave and iron his t-shirt. He usually wears a yellow/black ski coat, so we often call him “the Bee.”)

Boyfriend: *talking to my son* “So, where’s your dad?”

Son: “He’s polishing his stinger!”

(Cue inner laughing and acute embarrassment on my part…)