People Teach Us How It's Done In These Revenge Stories

I’ve been working at this tech support company for almost three years now as part of the quality assurance team. Recently we started implementing this awesome new troubleshooting software that was supposed to make everyone’s jobs easier.

Being the detail-oriented person I am, I volunteered to create the training materials for it.

My boss Violet gave me the green light to put together a video showing the perfect support call using the new system. I spent hours going through our call recordings and found one from Sebastian, one of our best agents.

It was good but not perfect, so I edited out all the mistakes and awkward pauses to make it sound flawless. The final product was exactly what we needed – a seamless demonstration of how the software should work in ideal conditions.

When I trained the other QA folks across our different office locations, I specifically told them that I had heavily edited the call.

“Guys, this call never actually happened like this,” I explained during the training session. “I chopped it together from Sebastian’s call to make the software look good. It’s like a best-case scenario.”

Most of my coworkers got it, but then there’s Caroline.

She works at our Dallas office and has a reputation for doing just enough to not get fired. She’s supposed to be monitoring calls and coaching agents, but everyone knows she spends most of her day online shopping and taking extra-long lunch breaks.

Two weeks before an important client presentation, each office was tasked with finding excellent call examples to showcase our improved customer service.

The night before the big meeting with the client, I got a chat message from Caroline:

Caroline: Which call did you use for the training?

Me: The one I edited for the video?

Caroline: Yeah, that one. Can you send it to me?

Me: Sure.

What’s it for?

Caroline: The corporate presentation tomorrow.

Me: You sure? That call was heavily edited.

Caroline: Don’t worry about it.

I should’ve pushed harder, but Caroline has been with the company longer than me, so I figured she knew what she was doing.

I sent her the ORIGINAL unedited call recording – not my polished version – thinking she’d listen to it and realize it wasn’t presentation-ready.

Then Caroline, without listening to it, sent an email to EVERYONE saying we should all review “this excellent call example” before tomorrow’s client meeting.

My teammates Amina and Carter immediately messaged me asking why we were using this call.

I showed them the chat exchange with Caroline. They both cringed. This call had all the rough edges – the “ums,” the backtracking, the awkward silences when Sebastian was navigating the new software. It was a decent call for training purposes, but nowhere near polished enough to show a client.

Guess which office didn’t bother listening to the call before the presentation?

So there we were the next day, sitting in the conference room with representatives from this major client.

Violet introduced the call as “an example of our excellent customer service using the new system.” Then she hit play.

It was excruciating. Sebastian’s original call had him stumbling through several features, putting the customer on hold twice, and at one point you could hear him quietly ask a coworker how to access a certain screen.

There were long pauses, backtracking, and a whole section where he had to correct information he’d given earlier.

I glanced across the table at Caroline, who was turning redder by the second. She clearly expected to hear my edited, perfect version – not this rough beta test call.

When the playback ended, the client representatives looked unimpressed.

One of them raised an eyebrow and said, “This is your showcase example?”

My team jumped in quickly. Amina smoothly explained that this call was actually from our early testing phase, and that we wanted to show the client our “continuous improvement process” rather than just the polished end result.

Carter followed up with specific points about how we’d refined our scripts since this call was recorded.

The Dallas team sat there in shocked silence. They had prepared exactly zero backup material, expecting the perfect call would speak for itself.

Violet was furious.

After the meeting, I heard her chewing out Caroline in the break room. “You mean to tell me you used a beta test call without even listening to it first?”

Caroline tried to throw me under the bus.

“Well, Peter didn’t tell me it wasn’t the same call from the video!”

I forwarded Violet our chat logs and my training notes where I’d clearly stated the video featured an edited call.

Violet just shook her head.

The client still renewed their contract with us, thankfully. But Caroline got moved to administrative duties away from quality assurance. And me? I learned to be extra explicit when dealing with lazy coworkers. Now when I share call recordings, I label them with big bold letters: “UNEDITED: CONTAINS ERRORS” or “FULLY EDITED: CLIENT-READY.”

It’s amazing how much extra work you have to do to compensate for people who refuse to do their jobs properly.

But at least I got a good story out of it – and Caroline finally got assigned work she couldn’t mess up.

I’ve been dealing with this situation at work for months now, and I’m just tired of it. My coworker Nadia has been giving me the cold shoulder and making these little passive-aggressive comments that have been driving me crazy.

We used to be close–like, actually friends.

We’d grab lunch together, text on weekends, the whole thing. Then something changed about six months ago. I only found out recently that she’s been telling other people that I’m lazy and that my work isn’t important.

Cool, right?

The thing is, I’m efficient. I organize my day to get everything done on time because I have a puppy at home that needs me. Her name is Daisy, and she’s still in that chewing-everything-in-sight phase.

I can’t leave her alone longer than necessary. Meanwhile, Nadia claims she hates staying late but then voluntarily does it almost every day.

What Nadia doesn’t see (or chooses not to see) is that while she’s spending an hour chatting with our supervisor Mackenzie about all their previous jobs, I’m actually knocking out my tasks.

She thinks because I’m not constantly looking stressed or overwhelmed that I must not be working hard.

Yesterday was the last straw. We were doing shift changeover with Carlos from second shift. He was trying to explain something about a client situation but mixed up his words so badly that it came out sounding completely ridiculous.

Carlos and I burst out laughing–it was one of those moments where you just had to be there.

Nadia glances over from her desk and asks what’s so funny. We try to explain between laughs, and she just rolls her eyes dramatically.

“Oh, I didn’t catch that.

Ya know, cause I’m actually working. Sorry. Not really. Sometimes I’m sorry though. Not often,” she said in this super condescending tone.

I just rolled my eyes back at her. We had exactly thirteen minutes until clock-out time, and I had already finished my documentation while she was busy socializing with Mackenzie earlier.

Usually, when it gets close to leaving time, I offer to help Nadia finish up so we can both leave on time. It’s just been the routine.

But after that comment? Nope. She was “actually working,” and I apparently wasn’t doing anything important anyway.

So for the first time in months, I just tidied up my desk, logged out of my computer, said goodbye to Carlos and Lila (another coworker who was heading out), and left exactly at 5:00.

As I was walking to my car, I felt a little guilty.

Force of habit, I guess. But then I remembered how she’d been treating me for months, making me feel worthless despite the fact that I consistently finish all my assignments on time.

When I got home, Daisy was ecstatic to see me–jumping up and down, tail wagging like crazy.

I took her for a nice long walk, made dinner, and was just settling in to watch a show when my work email notification pinged on my phone.

It was from Nadia, sent to our entire team with some completed reports attached.

The timestamp? 5:37 PM. Then another email at 5:46 PM with more updates. And another at 5:52 PM responding to our manager Grace about why certain things weren’t done yet.

I couldn’t help but smile a little. Normally, half of those tasks would have been done by me while she finished the other half.

But since I wasn’t “actually working,” she had to do it all herself.

This morning when I came in, Nadia looked exhausted. She mumbled something about having to stay “so late” yesterday. I just nodded sympathetically and said, “That’s too bad.

I would’ve helped, but I figured since you were the only one actually working, you wouldn’t want my lazy input.”

The look on her face was priceless. She knew exactly what I was referring to.

For the rest of the day, she was oddly quiet.

No passive-aggressive comments, no eye rolls. During lunch, Lila mentioned that Nadia had complained about staying late, and I simply said, “Well, some of us have responsibilities at home that make overtime impossible.”

I don’t know if this will change anything long-term between Nadia and me.

Maybe we’re past the point of fixing our workplace relationship. But I do know that I’m done feeling bad about being efficient with my time, and I’m definitely done helping someone who doesn’t appreciate it and actively puts me down.

If Nadia wants to spend an hour gossiping with supervisors and then complain about staying late, that’s on her.

I’ll be at home with my puppy, enjoying my evening, clocked out right at 5:00.

And honestly? It feels pretty good.

Let me tell you about what went down last summer at the lake, and how following someone’s directions to the letter made for one satisfying afternoon.

I was spending a week at my family’s lakehouse with my dad.

My friend Ana invited herself over, which was cool, but then she brought Mia along without asking me first. Now, Ana is awesome – she’s been my friend since elementary school and knows how to have fun without being obnoxious.

Mia, though? Total nightmare. She’s one of those people who somehow makes everything about herself and acts like she’s an expert at things she’s clearly never done before.

The three of us were hanging by the dock when I suggested going tubing.

Ana was excited since we’ve done it together tons of times. Mia immediately started going on about how she “goes tubing all the time” with her cousin who “has a way bigger boat than yours.” Whatever.

It was one of those days where the sun was bright but the air was crisp – probably around 65 degrees.

The water was still warm enough from summer, but nobody wanted to get soaked unnecessarily. My dad offered to drive the boat while the three of us went out on the tube.

For anyone who hasn’t been tubing, it’s basically lying on your stomach on this inflatable raft that gets pulled behind a boat.

You hold onto handles for dear life while trying to stay in the boat’s wake. If you drift outside the wake or hit a big wave wrong, you’re going airborne and then swimming. We have a small flat tube that catches serious air if you hit a bump just right.

As we were getting ready, my dad changed his mind about me joining them.

“The lake’s pretty crowded today. I need you to spot for them instead,” he said. “Keep your eyes on them at all times. If they fall, we need to see it immediately.”

Before I could respond, Mia rolled her eyes dramatically.

“Yeah, don’t take your eyes off us for even a SECOND,” she said in this fake concerned voice. “Our lives are in your hands!” She made a mocking face at me when my dad turned around.

I was already annoyed with her, but now I was getting angry.

My dad noticed and gave me a look that said “just let it go.”

As Ana and Mia got settled on the tube, my dad asked, “How wild do you want me to drive?”

“Keep it calm to start,” I said, then added with a small grin, “but definitely hit all the wakes you can find.”

Ana shot me a suspicious look – she knows our routine.

Normally, I’d be watching ahead and warning them about big bumps coming up. This time, I just kept my eyes focused directly on the tube as instructed.

Mia was acting super confident, talking down to Ana about how to hold on properly (even though Ana has been tubing since she was like eight).

Meanwhile, my dad was weaving the boat, crossing wakes from other boats, creating a bumpy but manageable ride.

Then I saw it in my peripheral vision – the aftermath of a massive speedboat. The wake it left behind was enormous, easily the biggest one we’d encountered all day.

If you’ve never been tubing, these big wakes can launch you into the air if you’re not prepared.

My dad called back to me, “Huge wake coming up! Should I avoid it?”

I shrugged, eyes still locked on the tube.

“Sorry, Dad! I’m keeping my eyes on them like Mia said. I can’t see what’s ahead!”

Ana, being the experienced tuber she is, saw what was coming and braced herself, gripping the handles tight and positioning her body for impact.

Mia, who was mid-sentence bragging about something, noticed the wake about two seconds before impact. Her eyes went wide in panic.

The tube hit the wake at full speed. Ana rode it like a pro, getting some air but maintaining her grip.

Mia, on the other hand, went completely airborne. The look on her face was priceless – pure shock mixed with the sudden realization that maybe she wasn’t the tubing expert she claimed to be.

She did almost a complete flip before splashing down hard about ten feet away from the tube.

The force of the landing knocked the wind out of her, and she came up sputtering and flailing. Ana managed to hold on through the initial impact, but with Mia’s weight suddenly gone, the tube’s balance shifted and Ana eventually slipped off too – though she did it gracefully, letting go when she knew she couldn’t recover.

Only then did I shout, “Dad!

They’re both off! Circle back!”

We turned around to pick them up. Ana was laughing as she treaded water, but Mia was furious. Her perfectly styled hair was plastered to her face, and she was shivering slightly in the breeze.

“What is WRONG with you?” she shouted at me as we helped her back into the boat.

“Why didn’t you warn us about that huge wake? I couldn’t see it until it was way too late!”

I handed her a towel and smiled innocently. “Sorry about that. I was just keeping my eyes on you two the entire time, like you insisted.”

Ana burst out laughing when she realized what I’d done.

Mia glared at me, but there wasn’t much she could say since she’d literally mocked me about it earlier.

She claimed she was “too cold” to continue and sat sulking in the boat while Ana and I took turns on the tube for the next hour.

My dad eventually figured out what had happened and gave me a small fist bump when Mia wasn’t looking.

The best part? Mia didn’t join us for tubing again that summer, and our lake days were way more enjoyable without her constant bragging.

Sometimes malicious compliance is the perfect solution to deal with people who think they know everything.

To be fair, maybe she was trying to be funny with her comment at the beginning, but her delivery was awful and just came across as condescending.

Either way, watching her somersault into the lake made for one satisfying memory that Ana and I still laugh about today.

I’ve always been a decent student. Not exceptional, but I get by with Bs and the occasional A when I actually put in the effort.

But there was something about Mr. Sebastian that just rubbed me the wrong way from day one of Chemistry class junior year.

It wasn’t anything specific he did. He wasn’t mean or unreasonable. There was just this vibe about him that set off my internal alarm bells.

Like when you meet someone and can’t explain why, but you just know you need to keep your distance. That was Mr. Sebastian for me.

I tried to be respectful, answered questions when called on, and turned in my assignments on time.

But I also made it clear I wasn’t looking to be teacher’s pet. I kept my head down, did the minimum required interaction, and counted the minutes until the bell rang.

Mr. Sebastian noticed, of course.

He was the type who wanted everyone to love his class as much as he did. My lukewarm attitude probably frustrated him.

The real trouble started because of my notes. I’ve got this system I developed in freshman year – it’s part shorthand, part abbreviations, and part weird symbols that make perfect sense to me but look like hieroglyphics to everyone else.

It works for me, and that’s what matters. I can review material twice as fast using my system versus writing everything out longhand.

One day, Mr. Sebastian was walking around checking our lab prep notes while we were setting up an experiment.

He stopped at my desk, picked up my notebook, and frowned.

“What’s this, Violet?” he asked, flipping through the pages.

“My notes,” I replied, not looking up from measuring the solution I was working with.

“These aren’t proper notes.

I can’t even tell if you’re recording the right information.”

“I understand the material just fine,” I said. “Got an 87 on the last test.”

He put my notebook down with a sigh.

“That’s not the point. Part of science is documenting your work so others can understand and replicate it. Your notes need to follow standard notation.”

I didn’t respond, just kept working on my experiment.

I thought that was the end of it.

The next day, Mr. Sebastian handed out a sheet titled “Proper Laboratory Notation Guidelines” and announced everyone would be graded on their notes moving forward. When he reached my desk, he lingered.

“I expect you to follow these guidelines from now on, Violet.

This system of yours isn’t acceptable.”

“But I learn better my way,” I argued. “My grades are fine.”

“This isn’t up for discussion,” he said firmly.

For the next week, I tried to compromise.

I kept two sets of notes – my shorthand version for actual studying and a “proper” version just to show Mr. Sebastian. It was exhausting and felt completely pointless.

The breaking point came during our midterm lab. I was focused on getting the experiment right and automatically fell back into my shorthand note-taking.

Mr. Sebastian spotted this during his rounds and marched over to my station.

“We’ve discussed this, Violet,” he said, snatching my notebook. He took out a red marker and drew a big X across my last two pages of notes.

“These need to be redone correctly.”

I felt my face burning with anger and embarrassment as other students glanced over. “I can read them fine. They’re my notes.”

“Either redo these notes properly, or you can leave my classroom,” he said, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.

The lab went quiet.

Everyone was watching now.

I looked at my crossed-out notes, then at Mr. Sebastian’s stern face, and made my decision. Without a word, I closed my notebook, packed up my backpack, and stood up.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Mr.

Sebastian asked, clearly surprised.

“You said redo the notes or leave. I’m choosing to leave,” I replied, keeping my voice steady despite my racing heart.

“That’s not what I–you can’t just walk out in the middle of class!”

I was already halfway to the door.

“You literally just gave me that option.”

“Get back to your station right now!” he demanded, his face turning red.

That’s when Marcus, who sat at the lab table across from mine, spoke up.

“You did say she could leave, Mr. Sebastian. We all heard it.”

“Yeah,” Amira added from the back. “You said ‘redo the notes or leave.'”

Mr. Sebastian sputtered something about context and intention, but the damage was done.

The commotion attracted Ms. Natalia, the department head, who happened to be walking down the hall.

“What’s going on in here?” she asked, poking her head in the doorway just as I was about to exit.

Mr.

Sebastian tried explaining that I was disrupting class and leaving without permission, but several classmates jumped in with the truth.

Ms. Natalia listened to both sides, then asked to see my notebook. She flipped through it, examined my crossed-out pages, and asked me a few questions about my notation system.

“I see,” she said finally.

“Violet, would you mind waiting in my office for a few minutes while I speak with Mr. Sebastian?”

Twenty minutes later, Ms. Natalia joined me and offered a compromise: I could continue using my shorthand for personal notes, but would need to use standard notation for formal lab reports and anything submitted for grading.

That seemed reasonable enough.

Mr. Sebastian never apologized directly, but he did stop hassling me about my notes. For the rest of the year, we maintained a cool but professional relationship. I did my work, he graded it fairly, and neither of us pushed the other’s buttons.

Sometimes the best way to handle a power struggle is to take someone at their exact word – especially when they never expected you would.

So yesterday was supposed to be a normal Monday. In our house, I (Stella) have trash duty on Mondays, which means I’m in charge of emptying all the bins and taking out the garbage.

We have this fancy garbage compactor that uses special bags – they’re thicker than regular trash bags and designed to handle the pressure of being squished down.

The only place we can get these specific compactor bags is from this grocery chain called Valley Fresh Market.

The closest one used to be just ten minutes away, but they shut down a couple years ago, and now the nearest location is like 45 minutes from our house.

Anyway, I went to use the last compactor bag yesterday morning and realized we were completely out.

I swear I told my mom about it last week, but she insists I didn’t. Classic mom-daughter communication breakdown.

So my mom, Diana, had some errands to run anyway and suggested we make the drive out to Valley Fresh to stock up on compactor bags and also grab some of their amazing cinnamon rolls that we all miss since our local store closed.

On the drive there, Mom was complaining about gas prices and traffic and said, “I do not want to make this trip again until next spring at the earliest.

We’re going to stock up.”

When we got to the store, she wasn’t feeling great – her knee was acting up – so she decided to wait in the car and handed me her credit card.

“Get a bunch of compactor bags,” she said.

“Just leave one box on the shelf.” Those were her EXACT words. “And don’t forget the cinnamon rolls.”

So I went in, grabbed a shopping cart, and headed straight for the bakery section to get the cinnamon rolls.

They smelled amazing – all warm and cinnamony. I picked up a dozen for us and a few other grocery items Mom had on her list.

Then I went to the aisle with the compactor bags. There they were – boxes of Valley Fresh compactor bags, 10 bags per box, stacked neatly on the shelf.

I started loading them into my cart. One box, two boxes, three boxes… I kept going. As I was putting them in, I counted – 1, 2, 3, all the way up to 16. Sixteen boxes!

I paused for a second, doing the math in my head.

We use about one bag per week, so each box lasts about 10 weeks. Sixteen boxes would be… 160 bags… that’s over three YEARS worth of compactor bags! But Mom did say to leave ONE box on the shelf, and there was exactly one box left after I took the sixteen.

I pictured my mom’s face when I came out with all these boxes, but I was following instructions, right?

So I went through checkout, and the cashier gave me a weird look as she scanned box after box of compactor bags.

“Moving into a new place?” she asked.

“No, just stocking up,” I replied, trying to sound casual.

When I got back to the car and started loading everything in the trunk, my mom’s eyes widened as she saw the pile of identical boxes.

“Stella, what in the world?

How many did you get?”

“Sixteen boxes,” I said. “You told me to leave ONE box on the shelf. So that’s what I did.”

She stared at me for a solid five seconds before bursting into laughter.

“I meant leave one box worth of bags AT HOME and get more! Not buy out the entire store!”

By this point, we were both laughing so hard we couldn’t breathe. An elderly couple walking by looked at us like we were completely nuts.

“Well,” Mom finally said, wiping tears from her eyes, “I guess we won’t need to worry about compactor bags until 2027.”

On the drive home, she kept shaking her head and chuckling.

“Next time, maybe use some common sense and give me a call if you’re not sure,” she said, but she wasn’t actually mad.

The funniest part came when we got home and Dad (Richard) helped unload the car.

He just stared at the mountain of compactor bag boxes piling up in our garage.

“What’s all this?” he asked.

“Your daughter decided we needed a three-year supply of compactor bags,” Mom explained.

Dad looked at me, then at the boxes, then back at me.

“Well,” he said with a completely straight face, “at least we’re prepared for the compactor bag apocalypse.”

So now our garage has a dedicated “compactor bag corner,” and I’m pretty sure I won’t have to remind anyone we’re running low for a VERY long time.

At least Mom got her wish – we definitely won’t need to drive to Valley Fresh for compactor bags until spring… of 2027.

So there I was, three minutes to clock-out time at BuildRight Construction Supply, when my supervisor Paul decides to drop a last-minute task on me.

“Hey Lincoln, the commercial studs for the Jefferson project just arrived.

Get them loaded on truck 3 before you leave,” he said without even looking up from his clipboard.

Now, I’d been pulling orders all day in 90-degree heat, and my shirt was basically a sweat rag at this point.

But whatever, I’m not one to complain about doing my job. I headed out to the side lot where deliveries come in.

What I found was absolutely insane. There had to be at least three times more steel studs than our delivery truck could possibly handle.

For those who don’t know, commercial steel studs are these metal framing pieces used in big buildings instead of wood. They’re not super heavy individually, but when you’ve got hundreds of them? Different story.

I walked back inside, found Paul at his desk scrolling through his phone.

“Uh, Paul?

There’s no way all those studs will fit on one truck. We’d need at least three separate deliveries for that order.”

Paul gave me that look – you know the one – like I was some kind of idiot who’d never loaded a truck before.

“Lincoln, I don’t have time for this nonsense.

Just load the truck. That’s your job, isn’t it? Or do you need me to show you how to do that too?”

The other guys at the counter suddenly got real interested in their paperwork.

Nobody wanted to get caught in Paul’s crosshairs when he was in one of his moods.

“Sure thing,” I said, heading back outside.

Look, I’ve worked at BuildRight for three years. I know exactly how much a delivery truck can safely hold.

But Paul wanted all the studs on one truck? Fine. Challenge accepted.

For the next hour and a half – yeah, an hour and a half past my shift end – I meticulously loaded every single stud onto that poor truck.

The suspension was completely compressed by the time I finished. The load towered at least 15 feet above the cab, like some kind of metal Jenga tower from hell. There was no way this thing was street legal or safe, but hey, I was just following orders.

I punched out, my back screaming from all the lifting.

As I walked past Savannah at the pro desk, I couldn’t help myself.

“Good luck getting straps around that monster outside. I’d take the back roads if I were you,” I said with a smile that definitely didn’t reach my eyes.

Savannah’s eyes went wide.

“Paul made you put the entire Jefferson order on one truck?”

“Yep. Every last stud.”

She shook her head. “Joseph is gonna flip when he sees that tomorrow.”

Joseph was our manager, and unlike Paul, he actually understood things like physics and transportation regulations.

The next morning, I clocked in to find Joseph waiting by the time clock, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed.

“Lincoln, what the hell happened with truck 3?

The driver refused to take it, said it was a death trap waiting to happen.”

I explained the whole situation – how Paul insisted I load everything despite my warnings, how I stayed late to finish the job, and how Paul dismissed my concerns about safety and practicality.

Joseph’s face turned three shades darker as I spoke.

Without another word, he marched straight to Paul’s office. Even from the break room, we could hear him yelling.

“ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL SOMEONE? OR JUST GET US SUED INTO OBLIVION?”

Ten minutes later, Paul stormed out, face red as a fire truck, grabbed his jacket, and left the building.

He didn’t show up for the next two days. Apparently, he told Joseph he was “sick” but everyone knew he was just sulking.

When he finally returned, he wouldn’t make eye contact with me or anyone else.

Joseph had me supervise the correct loading of the order onto three separate trucks – exactly what I’d suggested in the first place.

The funniest part? A month later, I got promoted to loading supervisor. Turns out Joseph had been looking for a reason to move Paul to a different department for months, and my tower of steel studs gave him the perfect excuse.

Sometimes malicious compliance pays off in ways you never expect.

And yes, I’ve got pictures of that ridiculous truck somewhere on my phone. It’s become something of a legend around here – “Remember Lincoln’s Tower of Terror?” they still ask when someone tries to overload a truck.

And Paul?

He works in the paint department now. Turns out mixing colors is more his speed than logistics.

So this happened last weekend and I’m still laughing about it. Figured I’d share since my mom can finally see the humor in it too.

I’m finishing up my third year at university about an hour away from my hometown.

It’s close enough that I can drive back pretty regularly, which is nice since my parents like to see me and, let’s be honest, I like raiding their fully-stocked fridge and pantry. Student budget means my apartment fridge usually looks like a sad wasteland by week’s end.

One thing that started when I first moved to university was my mom doing my laundry when I visit.

It began as a practical thing – my first-year dorm had these ancient washing machines that cost nearly five bucks per load and still left clothes smelling weird. My mom suggested I just bring laundry home instead of wasting money.

Even after moving into an apartment with free laundry, the tradition stuck.

My mom genuinely enjoys doing it – she’s one of those people who finds laundry oddly satisfying. I’ve offered to stop, but she insists it’s her way of still taking care of me a little while I’m becoming independent.

Anyway, last week my roommate Harper mentioned she was heading home for her cousin’s wedding and would be gone the entire week.

I didn’t really feel like being alone in our place the whole time, so I texted my parents asking if I could crash at their place for a few days.

My mom, Sofia, immediately replied: “Of course!

Bring your laundry too. The washing machine will be waiting!”

Here’s where I should mention that I’d been absolutely swamped with finals and group projects. My usual laundry routine had completely fallen apart. My room had basically become Mount Dirty Clothes with smaller satellite piles forming throughout my bedroom.

I was actually planning to tackle it all that weekend before my mom’s invitation came through.

I texted back: “Thanks! Just warning you though, I have A LOT of laundry this time.”

Sofia: “Don’t worry about it!

Bring it ALL. Towels, sheets, bath mats, everything. I’ll get it all clean for you.”

Me: “Are you sure? It’s seriously a lot.”

Sofia: “I insist! Bring everything that needs washing.”

Well, she asked for it.

Literally.

I started gathering everything. My regular clothes pile. The sheets I’d been meaning to wash for weeks. The towels that were definitely overdue. The bath mat that had seen better days. My gym clothes from the semester (yeah, gross, I know).

By the time I was done, I had my large laundry basket completely full, two garbage bags stuffed to capacity, and a large duffel bag I normally use for trips also crammed with laundry.

I loaded everything into my car, which was quite the challenge.

The trunk was full, the back seat was full, and I even had a garbage bag in the passenger seat beside me. As I drove home, I started second-guessing myself, wondering if I was taking advantage. But then I remembered how insistent my mom had been, so I figured this was a “be careful what you wish for” situation.

When I pulled into my parents’ driveway, my dad Victor came out to help me unload, assuming I’d brought a ton of stuff for my stay.

His expression when he realized it was ALL dirty laundry was the first highlight of my weekend.

“Sofia!” he called out. “You might want to come see this!”

My mom appeared at the door, and her jaw literally dropped.

I’ve never seen her eyes go that wide before. She walked slowly to the car, looking at the mountain of laundry bags in disbelief.

“Evan… what is all this?” she asked, gesturing at the bags.

“It’s my laundry,” I replied innocently.

“ALL of it. Like you asked.”

She peered into one of the bags and then looked at me with this mix of horror and amusement. “There must be ten loads here!”

“Probably closer to twelve,” I admitted.

“You did say to bring everything.”

She put her hands on her hips. “You could have done some before you came!”

“I was about to start when you texted,” I said with a shrug.

“But then you specifically told me to bring it all to you.”

My dad was just standing there laughing, which earned him a death glare from my mom.

After the initial shock wore off, my mom actually found it pretty funny too.

She spent the next three days running the washing machine almost non-stop. She made me help fold everything, of course, which was fair. And she made it very clear that next time I visit, she expects a “reasonable” amount of laundry.

The funny thing is, despite all her complaints about the mountain of clothes, I could tell she was kind of proud of herself when she presented me with everything clean, folded, and organized before I left.

She even showed me her new sorting system that she claims is “much more efficient than whatever chaos” I had going on before.

On my way out, she handed me a bottle of laundry detergent and said, “Just in case you forget how to use the washing machine at your place.” Classic Sofia passive-aggressive move, but delivered with a smile.

I guess the moral of the story is: be specific when you offer to do someone a favor, because they might take you literally.

And if you’re a university student with a mom who offers to do your laundry, maybe don’t wait until you’ve run out of clean socks to take her up on it.

Growing up with my parents was an exercise in patience. I must’ve been around nine when this happened, and it’s still one of those memories that makes me both laugh and shake my head.

My folks had this thing about me speaking up when adults were talking.

Dad was especially strict about it. “Nora, adults are speaking,” he’d say in that tone that made me want to disappear. Even when I said “excuse me” like they taught me, sometimes I’d still get scolded depending on their mood.

So anyway, last summer we took this big road trip to Philadelphia, and decided to spend a day exploring New York City.

This was back in the stone age before smartphones and GPS were a thing. Just my dad with his paper maps folded all wrong and my mom trying to read street signs.

The day in New York was amazing. We saw the Statue of Liberty, walked through Central Park, and I got to see the massive toys at FAO Schwarz.

But when it was time to head back to our hotel in Philly, everything fell apart.

We got totally lost in Manhattan. The streets started looking the same, and Dad kept making wrong turns while Mom tried to unfold this giant map on her lap.

They started bickering about which direction to go.

“Raymond, I think we need to head south,” Mom said, struggling with the map that was practically eating her alive.

“Diana, I know where I’m going,” Dad insisted, even though we’d passed the same hot dog stand twice already.

This went on for nearly forty minutes.

My little legs were tired from all the walking earlier, and I was getting hungry, but they were too busy arguing to notice.

Then we came to an intersection I recognized. I remembered it clearly because there was this building with a weird gargoyle thing that had caught my eye on our way into the city that morning.

I knew we needed to turn right to get back to the highway.

“Excuse me,” I said, seeing Dad about to signal left.

“Nora, not now, we’re trying to figure this out,” he snapped.

“But I know which–”

“Honey,” Mom cut in, “we’re in the middle of something important.

You need to wait until adults are done talking.” She gave me that look that said the discussion was over.

I slumped back in my seat. Fine. Let them get more lost. I watched as Dad turned left, taking us deeper into a neighborhood we definitely hadn’t been in before.

They kept arguing for another fifteen minutes as we drove in circles.

Dad was getting frustrated, and Mom was getting that pinched look on her face that usually meant we’d be having drive-through for dinner.

Finally, after what felt like forever, there was a break in their conversation.

“What did you want to say earlier, Nora?” Mom asked, probably just to change the subject.

“We should’ve turned right back at that intersection with the weird gargoyle building.

We passed it this morning on our way in.”

The car got really quiet. Dad and Mom exchanged looks.

“Are you sure?” Dad asked, his voice suddenly very interested.

“Yes. The building had that stone monster thing on the corner.

We drove past it when we were looking for parking this morning.”

They talked it over for a minute, and Dad reluctantly turned the car around. Twenty minutes later, we found the intersection again, turned right like I’d suggested, and what do you know – there were signs for the highway just a few blocks down.

“Well, would you look at that,” Dad said, trying to sound casual about it.

Mom reached back and squeezed my knee.

“Good eye, kiddo.”

After that day, something changed. They started actually listening when I tried to speak up. Dad would still raise his eyebrow at me if I interrupted, but he’d at least hear me out.

Mom started asking, “Nora, what do you think?” when they were discussing plans.

It wasn’t some dramatic overnight transformation or anything. They still had their moments of “adults are talking” shutdowns. But that day in New York taught all of us something important – sometimes the kid in the backseat sees things the adults miss.

On our next family trip a few months later, Dad actually handed me the map and said, “You’re our official navigator now.” I felt ten feet tall.

I still remind them of this story when they’re being stubborn about something.

“Remember the New York incident?” is all I have to say, and they usually crack a smile and at least pretend to listen. Sometimes the smallest voices have the most important things to say.

I’ve been teaching English in rural northern Japan for almost three years now. Most days I love my job, but last year I had a class that seriously tested my patience.

Teaching middle schoolers is challenging anywhere, but there’s something special about being the foreign teacher in a small Japanese town.

The kids see me everywhere — at the grocery store, walking with my daughter, at local festivals. I’m not just their teacher; I’m practically a local celebrity whether I want to be or not.

For context, I’m not what the kids would consider ‘cool.’ I’m 31, slightly overweight, and I dress pretty conservatively in long skirts and blouses.

The students know I have a 3-year-old daughter, and most of them see me as the ‘mom’ teacher. That’s usually fine by me.

But this particular third-year class (equivalent to ninth grade in America) was absolutely brutal.

They’d made me cry on multiple occasions, which is saying something because I’m not exactly thin-skinned. My Japanese co-teacher, Daniel, was at his wit’s end too. Nothing seemed to work with these kids.

The day everything changed started like any other.

Daniel was trying to teach the grammar point ‘Where do you want to go?’ We were about twenty minutes into the lesson when Jonah, one of the class troublemakers, started tapping out the ‘We Will Rock You’ beat on his desk.

If you don’t know it — it’s that iconic ‘boom boom clap’ rhythm.

Within seconds, the entire class joined in, pounding on their desks and stomping their feet. The sound was deafening. Poor Daniel looked at me helplessly.

He didn’t recognize the song, but I sure did.

Growing up, my parents had played Queen non-stop around the house, along with bands like Styx and Billy Joel. That music was in my DNA at this point. And after that big Queen biopic movie had come out, ‘We Will Rock You’ was everywhere in Japan too.

Daniel tried to talk over the noise, but the kids just got louder.

I could see the frustration building on his face. I was exhausted myself — it was Friday afternoon, I’d been up since 5 AM with my daughter who wasn’t feeling well, and I’d completely run out of patience.

Something inside me just snapped.

I waited for the right beat, took a deep breath, and belted out the first verse at the top of my lungs: ‘Buddy, you’re a boy, make a big noise, playing in the street, gonna be a big man someday!’

Then I launched into the chorus with everything I had.

The entire classroom went silent.

Thirty pairs of teenage eyes stared at me in complete shock. Their ‘mom’ teacher in her flowery cardigan and ankle-length skirt was standing there singing one of the most iconic rock songs of all time — and not just singing it, but absolutely nailing it.

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then Beatrice, one of the quieter students, actually applauded. Soon the whole class was clapping and laughing — not at me, but with me.

I seized the opportunity. ‘You want rhythm? Great! Let’s use that energy for something useful.’

I started the ‘boom boom clap’ again, but this time I chanted ‘WHERE-do-you-WANT-to-GO?’ in time with the beat.

The kids picked it up immediately, and before we knew it, we were practicing the target grammar point with more enthusiasm than I’d ever seen from them.

Daniel caught on quickly and started adding different places: ‘WANT-to-go-to-TO-KY-O?’ Boom boom clap.

‘WANT-to-go-to-KY-O-TO?’ Boom boom clap.

Somehow, we got through the entire lesson plan using the Queen beat. The kids were actually participating, laughing, and for once, learning.

After class, Daniel pulled me aside. ‘I’ve never seen them behave like that.

How did you do it?’

I just shrugged. ‘Sometimes you have to join the chaos before you can control it.’

Word spread quickly through the school. By Monday, students from other grades were stopping me in the hallway, begging me to sing for them.

One sixth grader even brought me a hand-drawn picture of Freddie Mercury with ‘Teacher Claire’ written underneath it.

The funny thing is, my relationship with that difficult class completely changed after the Queen incident. They weren’t suddenly perfect angels, but there was a new respect between us.

When things got tense, I’d sometimes start tapping that beat, and it would break the tension immediately.

I’m still teaching in Japan, though I’ve moved to a different school now. Last month, I ran into Brandon, who’d been one of my biggest troublemakers from that class.

He’s in high school now and was working part-time at the local convenience store.

‘Teacher Claire!’ he called out when he saw me. Then, with a grin, he tapped the counter twice and clapped. I couldn’t help but laugh and return the gesture.

Sometimes the most effective teaching happens when you least expect it.

And sometimes, when the class is trying to rock you, the best response is to rock them right back.

Back when I was working my first summer job at Happy Hands Daycare, I witnessed one of the most ridiculous power struggles I’ve ever seen between my coworker Felix and a six-year-old tyrant named Aiden.

Felix was only sixteen at the time, working at the daycare center because his mom was friends with the owner.

This was years ago when the requirements for childcare workers weren’t as strict as they are now. Honestly, looking back, they probably shouldn’t have left teenagers in charge of so many kids, but that’s how things were back then.

It was lunchtime, which was always chaos with twenty hungry kids all wanting different things.

Most brought packed lunches, but a few needed their food heated up. The daycare had this ancient microwave that worked about as well as you’d expect–it would nuke the outer layer of anything you put in it while leaving the center completely cold.

Aiden was this kid who always had to have things exactly his way.

His parents probably never said no to him at home, so he expected the same treatment everywhere else. That day, his mom had packed him some pasta with sauce, and he asked Felix to heat it up.

Felix, trying to be helpful, put it in the microwave for a minute.

When he gave it back to Aiden, the kid took one bite and made a face like he’d just eaten dirt.

“It’s cold in the middle! Heat it up more!” Aiden demanded, pushing the container back toward Felix.

“Sure thing, buddy,” Felix said, taking the container back to the microwave for another minute.

When he returned with the pasta, there was visible steam coming off it, but Aiden just crossed his arms and shook his head.

“I can’t see the steam! It’s still cold!”

Felix tried to reason with him. “Aiden, look, it’s definitely hot now. See the steam? If we heat it any more, it might start burning.”

“No!

I want it hotter!” Aiden’s voice started getting louder, and a few of the other kids were turning to look.

Felix gave me this helpless look, and I just shrugged. What do you do when a kid is being completely unreasonable?

The lead teacher was on her break, and we were supposed to be handling things.

“Fine,” Felix sighed, taking the container back to the microwave for the third time. He put it in for another minute, and when he took it out, the sauce was bubbling like lava.

He carefully set it down in front of Aiden.

“Be careful, it’s really hot now.”

Aiden reached for his fork, then immediately pulled his hand back when he felt the heat radiating from the container. His face scrunched up, and I could see the tantrum building.

“IT’S TOO HOT NOW!” he wailed.

“PUT IT IN THE MICROWAVE TO COOL IT DOWN!”

Felix just stared at him. “That’s… not how microwaves work, Aiden. They heat things up, not cool them down.”

“YES, THEY DO!” Aiden screamed, his face turning red.

“MY MOM PUTS THINGS IN THE MICROWAVE TO COOL THEM DOWN ALL THE TIME!”

By this point, Aiden had thrown himself onto the floor, pounding his fists and demanding Felix put his food back in the microwave to cool it down.

The other kids were all watching now, some laughing, others just staring in confusion.

Felix looked like he was about to lose it. He’d been at the daycare longer than me, but he still hadn’t mastered the art of dealing with tantrums.

I could see him counting to ten in his head, trying to stay calm.

“Aiden,” Felix said finally, his voice strained with forced patience, “microwaves don’t cool things down. They heat them up. If you want your food cooler, we can just wait a few minutes.”

“NO!

PUT IT IN THE MICROWAVE!” Aiden was full-on screaming now, tears streaming down his face.

The lead teacher chose that exact moment to return from her break. “What’s going on here?” she asked, looking from the screaming child to Felix’s defeated expression.

Before Felix could explain, Aiden ran to the teacher, sobbing about how Felix wouldn’t put his food in the microwave to cool it down.

The teacher gave Felix a look that said, “Just do what he wants so he stops screaming,” and Felix threw his hands up in surrender.

“FINE!

I’ll microwave it AGAIN if that’s what YOU REALLY WANT!” Felix announced, grabbing the container and shoving it back in the microwave.

He set it for two minutes this time, and we all watched as the pasta turned from slightly overcooked to completely dried out.

When he finally took it out, it looked like something you’d find in an archaeological dig–crusty, blackened, and completely inedible.

Felix set it down in front of Aiden with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Here you go. Microwaved again, just like you wanted.”

Aiden looked at the ruined pasta, then back at Felix, then burst into tears again. “You ruined it! I’m telling my mom!”

The lead teacher sighed and went to get Aiden a backup lunch from the emergency food stash, while Felix retreated to the supply closet for a few minutes to cool down.

When he came back, he just shook his head and muttered, “That’s the last time I let a six-year-old tell me how physics works.”

Later, when the kids were napping, Felix told me he learned an important lesson that day: sometimes you have to let kids experience the natural consequences of their demands, even if it means ruined pasta and a meltdown.

I still think about that incident whenever I hear a microwave beep.

And it’s probably why Felix decided to study engineering in college instead of early childhood education. Some battles just aren’t worth fighting, but sometimes the most powerful lesson is letting someone realize they were wrong all along.

Last week marked the end of my mandatory military service in Austria, and I was looking forward to finally getting back to civilian life.

Eight months of following orders, wearing the same uniform, and living in cramped quarters was enough for anyone. But the military had one last surprise for me.

I was stationed at this massive base outside of Salzburg. We’re talking huge–like 3500 soldiers huge–right next to the airport, the highway, and the German border.

The place used to be an American camp after World War 2.

So anyway, my unit gets selected for guard duty the Sunday before my discharge. This was total nonsense since most of us had duty on Saturday too, which meant no weekend trip home.

I was especially irritated since I’d promised my mom I’d help with some house stuff. But what could I do? Orders are orders.

Guard duty rotated between units since there wasn’t a dedicated guard team.

And just my luck, I got assigned to the main entrance for the Monday morning shift–literally my last week of service.

During the long, boring night shift, I remembered this rumor that floated around the base. Guys would joke that “if a guard at the main entrance enforced every single rule exactly as written, they could cause a traffic jam all the way to the highway.” Always thought it was just typical military exaggeration.

But that Monday morning, still annoyed about my ruined weekend, I decided: if they want me to guard, I’m gonna GUARD.

By the book. Every. Single. Rule.

So 6 AM rolls around, and cars start coming in. Now normally, if a car had four recruits, you’d check one military ID and wave them through. But not today. Today, I was checking EVERYTHING.

Four people in the car?

I need to see four military IDs, four “Überzeitschein” (special permissions for being out during curfew), and one “Einstellgenehmigung” (parking permit). Oh, your ID is in your bag in the trunk? Sorry, you’ll have to get it.

No parking permit? Turn around and park elsewhere.

By 7:30, I had just four cars waiting and thought maybe that rumor was just talk. But then I got distracted checking someone’s documents, and suddenly I heard honking. Lots of honking.

I looked up to see cars backed up all the way to the highway ramps.

Within minutes, the whole intersection was completely gridlocked. Cars trying to exit the highway couldn’t get to the city or the airport. People leaving the city couldn’t get onto the highway. And it was all because everyone was trying to get into our base for the Monday morning shift.

Then Jordan, the Officer of the Day, comes sprinting out of the guard house yelling, “What are you DOING?

You can’t do enhanced security checks during Monday rush hour!”

Apparently, he heard about the traffic jam on the radio. THE RADIO. My little act of malicious compliance made the traffic report!

What happened next was unbelievable.

Jordan stationed guards at the first intersection inside the base to stop all outgoing traffic. Then he ordered us to open ALL the boom barriers–even the one reserved for trucks.

We basically created a three-lane, one-way entrance into the base.

Jordan was in the middle of it all, waving his traffic paddle like a madman. He turned to me and the other guard and shouted, “Don’t just stand there! Wave them in! ALL OF THEM! NOW!”

So we did.

We waved in everyone–including Omar, my company commander, and several sergeants from my unit. Their faces were absolutely priceless, a mix of confusion and disbelief as they drove past.

It took almost 30 minutes for traffic to clear up.

But then we had a new problem–confused tourists who had accidentally turned into the base thinking it was the way to Germany. There were Italian families, German tourists, all kinds of people suddenly finding themselves surrounded by uniforms and fences, completely panicking.

We had to politely explain that no, this wasn’t the German border, this was a military base.

The craziest part? Nobody reprimanded me for causing this chaos. Not Jordan, not Omar, nobody. I think they all knew I was just following the rules.

Sometimes I wonder if new recruits still hear the story about the guard who caused a massive traffic jam by simply doing exactly what he was supposed to do.

I hope they do. It’s my legacy to the Austrian military–follow the rules TOO perfectly, and you might just shut down a highway.

Working at a sandwich shop might not sound like the most exciting job in the world, but trust me, it’s where I’ve had some of my most satisfying moments of petty revenge.

I was nearing the end of a brutal 10-hour shift last month.

My feet were killing me, I’d dealt with dozens of hangry customers, and I was counting down the minutes until I could finally clock out. That’s when Marcus walked in.

Marcus was a regular who always ordered the same thing–a meatball footlong with extra cheese. I’d made this sandwich hundreds of times, but on this particular day, my brain was fried. I accidentally put 7 meatballs on his sandwich instead of the standard 8.

Honest mistake, right? We all mess up sometimes.

When Marcus noticed the missing meatball, you’d think I’d personally insulted his entire family lineage. His face turned this alarming shade of red as he held up the sandwich like it was evidence in a murder trial.

“Are you kidding me? Can’t you count? It’s supposed to be 8 meatballs!”

I immediately apologized. “I’m so sorry, sir. I can remake that for you right now, no charge.”

But Marcus wasn’t having it. He pulled out his phone and started calling the store–while still standing right in front of me.

“I need to file a complaint about one of your employees,” he said loudly, making sure I could hear every word. “She can’t even make a simple sandwich correctly. No wonder she’s working here. Probably too stupid to get through school.”

My manager, Diana, took the call in the back office, then came out and apologized to Marcus again. He finally accepted a new sandwich (with exactly 8 meatballs) and left, but not before giving me a smug look that said, “I won.”

I was furious but kept my cool. Diana patted my shoulder and told me not to take it personally–some people just like to make others feel small to make themselves feel big.

Fast forward two weeks. I’m working the closing shift when who should walk through the door but Marcus. When he spotted me behind the counter, his face lit up with this weird combination of surprise and satisfaction, like he was thinking, “Great! I get to torment her again!”

I smiled my best customer service smile. “Welcome back! ... Click here to continue reading