I’m a cart pusher at a large grocery store. I’m sweeping the sidewalk by the entrance to the store when I see a woman drive her car onto the sidewalk by the door, very close to me and to other people walking. She then opens her window and throws a bunch of trash out of it.

I walked over, swept it up into the dust pan, and then put it in her window, emptied it, and said politely:

Me: “Excuse me, ma’am, you dropped this.”

She had such a confused look on her face.

I was like sixteen at the time and felt like a bada**.

My roommate is making pasta.

Roommate: “Why does this always happen? My pasta is mush!”

Me: “Wait, you’re still boiling it?! Didn’t you start cooking it over an hour ago?”

Roommate: “Yeah, but the water kept boiling!”

Me: “You didn’t… turn off the stove?”

Roommate: “I thought it turned itself off when the pasta was ready.”

Me: “…you’re gonna have to explain that one to me.”

Roommate: “The pasta is ready when the water stops boiling.”

Me: “No, [Roommate], you decide when the pasta is ready, and you’re the one who stops the water boiling… by turning off the stove. You have to be the one who decides.”

Roommate: “Ugh! Cooking is so hard! They should invent something that cooks all the food for you.”

Me: “They did, they’re called restaurants.”

I later heard my roommate on the phone with his mom, asking her to come over and cook pasta for him.

When I was still in university, computers were not widespread, and for some projects we had to work in groups, each group sharing a computer.

This was the case also for our technical drawing course, which included, among a series of pen-made drawings, a project with a CAD drawing of a mechanical piece. The groups had to be made by four students: a friend and I were fishing around to find the other two students, when we asked [Student #1] if she wanted to join us. [Student #1] said she would be delighted to, but that with her also came [Student #2].

We knew [Student #2] from classes we attended together; he seemed a bit of an oddball (sort of a Sheldon Cooper way before Sheldon Cooper was a thing), but not disruptive or lazy, so we saw no problem with it, until we hit the lab to start realizing the drawing.

Already sitting with four people in front of (or better, around) a desk with a computer meant for a single operator was challenging. When we managed to start the CAD software and started playing with its UI, [Student #2] (who was not physically operating the CAD), chimed in:

Student #2: “I don’t think it’s fair that only one person in the group gets to operate the CAD. We should take turns doing it.”

We all agreed that it made sense, and proposed that, since we wouldn’t be done in just one session, we could take turns with a different operator each session.

[Student #2] didn’t like the suggestion.

Student #2: “But then what if some sessions will be longer than others? Or more difficult? To make things fair, we should take turns in typing in the commands, one keystroke each.”

And having said so, [Student #2] had a smug expression, as if he had just shown off to the entire lab how much smarter than us he was.

I just commented, among the stifled laughter of the other two:

Me: “You know, I would like to graduate before reaching retirement age, let’s put the proposals to a vote.”

Not surprisingly, his proposal lost with one vote against three for the other one.

He kept complaining that we hadn’t made it fair until the d*** drawing was printed on paper.

A couple of years ago, I joined a local writing group. We met up at a tea house that had a bar on one side and a restaurant on the other. Since I could not drive at that point, my dad had to pick me up.

My dad has been sober from alcohol for over thirty years. He can be around it without getting a compulsion to drink, but he still can’t have “just one sip”. Due to the family history of alcoholism and my own mental health issues, I am a staunch teetotaler. 

So, when my dad texted to say he would be waiting in the bar area of the tea house, I couldn’t resist replying:

Me: “An alcoholic and a teetotaler walk into a bar…”

I work for a company that sells primarily (not cheap) underwear.

Email From Customer: “I want a refund on my boy’s underwear! They ripped! These are too expensive to only have for a couple of months!”

Yes, welcome to the boy mom club. Don’t buy luxury items for children unless you can afford to replace them as if they were cheap?

Our email response is the usual, but about not being able to replace worn underwear, especially when not showing signs of a manufacturing defect. 

Email From Customer: “I haven’t had these very long! They’ve only worn them a couple of times, and they have a hole!”

 I check their order history, and it stuns me that MOST of the time, not some of the time, but d*** near every time, the underwear they want replaced is between eight months to TWO YEARS old.

Email From Customer: “They were expensive; I was hoping they would last longer!”

Longer than what? The Roman Empire? Two presidential terms? It’s a subscription, not a lease agreement.

I’m still flummoxed each time I get these emails.

They’re not getting free underwear, but at least they have the audacity. 

Technically, we don’t sell boys’ underwear; these are just small men’s underwear she bought for her kids, and she tried to use the “I’m a single mom, help me out” approach.