I’m working in an Italian restaurant, serving a table for two.

Guy: “I have a serious garlic allergy.”

Me: “I will keep that in mind when you order.”

Guy: “Get me a Margherita flatbread pizza.”

Me: “The flatbread is pre-prepped by being brushed with garlic butter, and it can’t be removed. Let me check with the kitchen.”

I talk to my sous chef and, unfortunately, his options are greatly limited since ALL of our sauces contain garlic — because, ya know, Italian.

Since the chef is amazing, he actually gets one of the kitchen staff to run to the restaurant across the street and buy some heated plain bread (baking from scratch would take too long even though we have the dough), and in record time, they make a plain butter-brushed margherita flatbread pizza.

I explain all this and bring it out to the customer, who is delighted. His date gets a lasagne. The lasagne has both Pomodoro and Alfredo sauces, not just on top but layered within.

What’s the first thing the dude does when I drop the entrées?

He takes a giant bite of the woman’s lasagne.

Garlic allergy, my butt.

This is about my own wedding and how an entitled mom nearly turned it into her personal circus.

My fiancé (now husband) and I planned our wedding for over a year. We wanted something small yet elegant, with close family and friends. My husband’s family is pretty down-to-earth — except for his aunt, who is known for her over-the-top behavior and entitlement.

Everything was going smoothly until the week before the wedding. [Aunt] called and demanded that we include her six-year-old daughter (my husband’s cousin) as a flower girl. We already had two flower girls, my nieces, who were thrilled about it. I politely declined, explaining that arrangements had already been made.

[Aunt] didn’t take this well. She started a tirade about how her daughter was being excluded unfairly and how we were ruining her child’s self-esteem. I tried to stay calm, but she was relentless.

I thought that was the end of it, but oh, was I wrong.

On our wedding day, [Aunt] showed up with her daughter dressed in a full-blown white, frilly flower girl dress. She marched up to me, demanding that her daughter be included in the ceremony.

I was flabbergasted. My husband and I, along with our wedding planner, tried to reason with her, but she caused a huge scene, saying things like, “How could you be so selfish on your wedding day?” and, “You’re destroying a little girl’s dream!”

My usually quiet mother-in-law had had enough. She stepped in and told [Aunt] in no uncertain terms that this was our day, not hers or her daughter’s. She said that if [Aunt] couldn’t respect our wishes, they would have to leave.

[Aunt] was shocked. She tried to argue, but other family members, who were equally fed up with her antics, supported my mother-in-law’s stance. Realizing she was outnumbered, [Aunt] left in a huff, her daughter in tow.

The rest of the wedding went off without a hitch, and everyone had a great time.

We heard through the grapevine that [Aunt] complained about us to anyone who would listen, but most of the family knew her history and took it with a grain of salt.

I’m grateful for my amazing in-laws who stood up for us, boosting my confidence in our marriage’s success even more.

Reading this story made me think of when I was in medical school. There was an array of cubby holes for coffee mugs labeled with our names just outside the lecture hall. I rarely drank coffee but occasionally would drink hot chocolate. Nearly every time I looked for my mug, it was missing. I’d find it in one of the labs with cigarette butts in it. (This was more than forty years ago.)

I solved the problem by photocopying a card I was given when I was returning from serving in the Peace Corps. It was intended to help treating physicians if I turned up ill at a clinic or emergency room in the US. I laminated the photocopy to my mug.

Card: “[My Name] served in [Country] in West Africa from 1975 to 1977 and may have been exposed to the following diseases.”

It listed about twenty tropical diseases. Below the copy of the card I wrote, “Use at your own risk.” No one ever swiped my mug again.

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A Steaming Cup Of Karma

Customer: “What do you have on your menu that’s gluten-free?”

I go through with her what we have. She ends up ordering a burger, and we do offer gluten-free buns for an extra charge, so she goes with that. Unfortunately, we must have JUST sold our last gluten-free bun.

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, we’ve sold our last gluten-free bun.”

Customer: “I’ll get the pretzel bun instead.”

Me: “I need to inform you that the pretzel bun does, in fact, contain gluten.”

Customer: “No worries, I can handle a bit a day.”

I come out with the food for the lady, and she seems to enjoy her meal. After she’s finished, I notice that she just took the bun off and ate the rest.

Me: “Was the bun okay?”

Customer: “Oh, yeah, I just changed my mind and didn’t want to eat the bun.”

She gets her bill, and upon receiving it, she makes a face.

Customer: “I was hoping you would discount my bill because I didn’t eat the bun — you know, since I couldn’t eat it because it contains gluten.”

Me: “Oh, but ma’am, I told you beforehand that it contained gluten, and you said that was fine, so no, I cannot discount your bill.”

Customer: “…Fine.”

She paid while whispering just under her breath about how inconsiderate I was. And of course, she didn’t even tip.

A friend texted me.

Friend: “Which is more, $9 or 5%?”

Me: “5% of what?”

Friend: “Money. 5% is less, right?”

I eventually got him to explain that he was making an online payment of $1,200, and the website charged a 5% fee if you used a credit card, or you could use a debit card for a fixed fee of $9.

He had been saying that 5% was obviously smaller, but his wife thought $9 was less.

He wasn’t happy with my answer.