Back in February 2010, I was working for a small company. All of us were in the large open office when the owner made an announcement.

Owner: “This is my new PA, Marisol.”

Marisol was Latina. Everyone gave her a smile and a wave except for one coworker.

Coworker: “She’d make a great maid. I’ll bet she’d keep things spick and span.”

Owner: “[Coworker], you’re fired.”

Coworker: “What the f***?”

Owner: “Did I f****** stutter? Leave right the f*** now.”

Coworker: “Why? For telling the truth?”

Owner: “[Coworker], you have exactly ten seconds to get your a** out the door before I call the police. One… two… three…”

[Coworker] stormed off, kicking a wall en route and slamming the door behind him as the owner reached “nine”.

Owner: “Anyone else have any dumb remarks?”

There was silence from us all.

Owner: “Get to work. I’ll have a replacement for [Coworker] by the end of the week.”

The owner was as good as his word. He had a replacement for [Coworker] within two days — a Hispanic man who proved to be the hardest-working guy on our team.

Marisol proved to be an incredibly organized, efficient PA for the rest of my tenure there before I got hired away by a larger company in 2015.

We’ve just gotten the concert movie “Taylor Swift: The Eras Tour”, and the studio sent us a ton of merch to sell. It’s been fun seeing all the fans — especially little kids — buying the buckets, cups, and bags we’re selling.

On the opening night, during a slow period between shows, a guy wanders in and walks up to the counter.

Customer: *Gesturing to a display case. “How much of that Taylor Swift stuff do you have?”

Me: “I think we still have about 250 pieces left between the cups, buckets, and totes.”

Customer: “How much is it?”

Me: “They all cost between $10 and $20.”

Customer: *Doing math in his head* “So, a couple grand worth. Makes sense.”

He wanders away and plays around on his phone for a minute, and then he comes back.

Customer: “I’ll take all the Taylor Swift merch.”

Me: “Uh, sorry, but I can’t do that.”

Customer: “No, you don’t understand… I can pay for it. Do you see this?”

He holds up his phone and shows me that people are selling the merch second-hand online for ridiculous markups.

Customer: “I could easily make fifteen grand or more! So sell it to me!”

Me: “No, sorry. First, you have to have a ticket for the show to buy the merchandise. Do you have a ticket?”

Customer: “No?”

Me: “Okay, so you can’t. And second of all, we set limits per ticket specifically to stop scalpers like you from buying it all up, so fans can have a fair chance of getting things.”

Customer: “That’s stupid. I’m giving you a chance to sell everything! I’m making you primo moolah! You won’t get another chance like this!”

Me: “It’s not up to me, and I guarantee we’ll have no problem selling this, anyway.”

He continues trying to argue for several minutes before wandering away.

Customer: “F****** [slur for mentally disabled people]! You just lost a big sale and lost me thousands of dollars! Have fun not selling this s***!”

We sold out of the remaining merchandise the following morning and have already gotten dozens of phone calls from people asking when we’ll be restocked. So much for “not selling” it. I just love watching scalpers fail.

Before my sister was born, my parents found a kitten. They decided to keep it because they could find no owner. They named her Princess. My sister is four years older than I am, so we both grew up with this cat. She’d sometimes follow us and watch over us. My parents used to make jokes about how she thought of us as her kittens.

Now, my sister wasn’t very nice to me. It took a lot of people a lot of time to realise she wasn’t just nasty; it was full-on abuse and bullying.

When I was too young to understand what was happening, I used to talk to Princess. She was like my version of a diary; I’d sit with this creature that was older than I was and tell her all my problems.

One day at a store, my mum told us she’d buy us each a lolly. My sister wanted a different one than I did, and she grabbed my arm and clawed her nails down it so hard it drew blood. It hurt a lot, and I was really upset. When we got home, I went and cried to Princess about how scared I’d felt. After a while, I calmed down and went and played with my toys. Princess ambled out of the room.

A few minutes later, I heard a shriek, and Princess ambled back in. It turned out that she’d walked up and scratched my sister’s hand and then hissed at her before coming back to sit with me and watch over me playing with my toys.

My parents assume that my sister provoked her, but I know. She walked out of the room right after I’d been talking to her, and she walked in right after the shriek. I can’t prove it, but I think Princess saw how scared I was and showed me that she’d protect me.

I’ve never told anybody about my white and grey guardian apart from my current cat. I haven’t thought about Princess in a while. She lived to be around twenty, depending on how old she was when my parents got her. I loved that cat. Funnily enough, my new cat was originally my sister’s. She got him and then left him with my parents, and he slowly became mine. He likes to sit with me more than he likes her.

I’m old enough to remember when flying was an enjoyable adventure: breezing through “security”, lots of time for browsing in the shops, and eating a gratis meal of “rubber chicken” on the plane accompanied by those little bottles of wine, also gratis. (Admittedly, I would often slosh my way to my vacation locale, or home.) Now, flying causes me anxiety, and I’m stressed until I reach my destination airport.

On my way to Vegas, I was in a gift shop with my husband. I saw an unaccompanied girl, about ten, carry a pack of candy to the cashier.

Girl: *Very politely* “Excuse me? How much is this?”

Cashier: “That is [price].”

Girl: “Thank you. I will have to pick something else.”

Me: “I’ll buy you the candy.”

She looked at me with VERY big eyes.

Girl: “Really?”

Me: “Yes.” 

I took a moment to try to explain “paying it forward” to her. She thanked me and left. She was clearly happy and very surprised that someone would pay for her candy.

Cashier: “I’ve heard about paying it forward, but I’ve never seen it happen. You are awesome!”

My husband piped up:

Husband: “He’s not awesome. He hates flying and is trying to buy good Karma. He’s actually quite selfish.”

S’truth: nobody knows you better than your spouse.

I teach Kenpo Karate as a second-degree black belt. I also have an assistant, who is a first-degree black belt in her own right. I don’t own the gym. My instructor does, but since he’s gotten older, [Assistant] and I handle the younger classes while he handles the business side of things plus adult class.

We have three classes: kids’ class for ages five to ten, intermediate class for ages eleven to fifteen, and adult class for ages sixteen and up.

The kids’ class has just ended when a woman walks in with her son, who is thirteen.

Mother: “My son wants to take karate lessons.”

I shake hands with her and have her sit down with [Instructor] to fill out the waivers and get his measurements for his gi (traditional uniform).

Other students file in for the intermediate class, and [Assistant] and I get down to business. I take the bulk of the class, around fifteen kids, while [Assistant] goes with the new student one-on-one to teach him basic strikes and stances.

Not five minutes later, I hear [Assistant] upset, telling [New Boy] to do ten push-ups.

Why?

He called [Assistant], who’s essentially a VOLUNTEER, a “f****** b****”.

The boy’s mother stands up.

Mother: “[New Boy] can’t do push-ups! I don’t want him to be sore.”

[Assistant] lets him do the push-ups on his knees, but not five minutes later, she makes him do twenty more since he’s now called her a slut.

For reference, [Assistant] is in her early twenties, and the boy is thirteen. Not to mention there are other parents and kids here as well. It’s wholly inappropriate.

I walk over and ask [Assistant] to switch with me. As she does, she gives me big eyes and mouths, “What the f***?” I walk over to [New Boy].

Me: “Why did you insult my assistant, [Assistant]?”

New Boy: “I don’t like girls.”

Me: “What do you mean?”

New Boy: “I only listen to my dad or other boys.”

His mother confirms this to me, chuckling, as if raising a monster is something to laugh about.

Mother: “He won’t listen to me at all! He needs some discipline!”

New Boy: “When do I get a black belt like you have?”

Mind you, he’s been punching the air the entire time. This boy is aggressively hyper.

Me: “Well, it takes quite a while. I’ve been training since I was five and earned my black belt at twenty-one, so it took me a while!”

New Boy: “Nah, I don’t wanna wait that long! I want mine now!”

His chubby face is now red and sweaty from the shadow-boxing. The mother motions me over and whispers in my ear…

Mother: “Do you think you could give him one? Just to make him happy?”

Me: “No, sorry, he has to earn one. We aren’t a belt factory.”

Mother: “Well, he never gets told no.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but that’s not how we do things here.”

Mother: “I have money; I can pay you extra!”

Me: “No, sorry, we only give belts when they’re earned.”

After several minutes of arguing and conversation that leads nowhere, [Mother] snaps at me:

Mother: “I PAID YOU! GIVE MY SON A BLACK BELT!”

She stands up and points a finger in my face. It’s so sudden that I reflexively take a step back.

Some of the other parents chime in.

Other Parents: “Hey, chill out, lady!”

Before I can reply to [Mother], I hear a loud commotion behind me, and I hear more parents and students shouting. I turn and see [New Boy] smacking and hitting a girl in the class. [Assistant] is shouting, “Hey, stop!” However, the girl who [New Boy] is hitting is a purple belt and a little bada** of her own. She loads a front kick and hits the brat center mass, right in his stomach. He shouts and doubles over, crying tears of pain.

I am so freaking proud of her!

Mother: “HEY! THAT LITTLE B**** HURT MY SON!”

[Mother] runs past me onto the mat and gets in the face of the FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD GIRL her son just attacked. This girl is already scared and starts to cry, but [Mother] ups the ante and shoves this girl in the chest with her hand. [Assistant] gets between them, red-faced and enraged. I immediately rush over and try to defuse the situation, but neither of them is having it. Parents stand up and start shouting.

The girl’s father, who was with the other parents, yells at [Mother]:

Girl’s Father: “KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF MY DAUGHTER!”

He starts approaching aggressively but backs off when he realizes [Assistant] and I, both black belts, are by her.

Now, you should know something about [Assistant]. She’s under five feet tall and less than 110 pounds soaking wet, but she can still kick my a** up and down the mat on any given day. She’s fast, accurate, and insanely flexible. She can control her body and perform techniques that I simply can’t.

[Assistant] and [Mother] get into a shouting match with each other. I address [Mother], raising my voice as I am genuinely pissed off.

Me: “Leave with your kid and don’t come back. Don’t you ever lay a hand on any of my students! Do you understand?!”

Mother: “F*** you! My son needs a black belt, and you won’t give him one!”

Assistant: “Your son is crazy! He attacked our students!”

This sets [Mother] off, as she reaches and tries to b****-slap [Assistant] in the face. Big mistake.

Having had enough, [Assistant] parries the smack and fires an absolutely vicious leg kick right into the meat of [Mother]’s inner thigh with nothing held back. The slap sound of [Assistant]’s shin bone decimating [Mother]’s thigh echoes off the ceiling like a slab of meat getting thrown on the floor.

It is glorious.

[Mother] gasps as she falls onto the mat in a heap.

Mother: “Oh… Oh, my God!”

She held her leg as [New Boy] got up and rushed at [Assistant]. I got in front of her and grabbed the boy’s wildly swinging arms. He hit me a few times, but I refuse to hit children whatsoever. I let him tire himself out.

One of the other parents called the police. After interviewing everyone involved, they determined that [Assistant] and I acted in self-defense. Neither of us wanted to pursue assault charges against [Mother], but the parents of the girl who [Mother] shoved rightly felt differently about it, so [Mother] was hauled away in handcuffs.

[Mother] said she’d sue [Assistant] and me in civil court, but since we have legal waivers, here’s hoping nothing comes of that.

As for the boy, I honestly feel bad. His childhood has been robbed by piss-poor parenting, and I wish we could’ve had more time to straighten him out. I have a particular dislike for his views of women, and I feel like I really could’ve helped turn him around. Maybe, maybe not.