(I can’t eat seafood, and my boyfriend of two months knows this. It is a few days before my birthday.)

Boyfriend: “Babe, I’ve booked a restaurant for lunch on your birthday.”

Me: “That’s nice of you, but I just wanted to have a quiet day at home. And I wish you wouldn’t call me babe.”

Boyfriend: “But I want to go out for lunch.”

Me: “Alright, where are we going?”

Boyfriend: “[Cheap seafood restaurant].”

Me: “But that’s a seafood restaurant. I can’t eat seafood.”

Boyfriend: “I wanted seafood.”

(On the day of my birthday, I have to drive to his place, and then he drives to the restaurant. We arrive, and I open the menu.)

Me: “Well, at least they have vegetarian options as well. I don’t think I could just eat plain chicken and salad.”

Boyfriend: “Specials are in the back.”

Me: “Can I read the whole menu?”

Boyfriend: “I’d rather you didn’t. Can you just order a special?”

(I give in, and order the chicken and salad $10 special. He gets the same thing. During the meal he tells me he has picked out our kids’ names. I never mentioned wanting kids. The check comes; he looked at it, turns it to me.)

Boyfriend: “That’s $28.”

Me: “I am not paying that. Besides, I don’t have any cash.”

Boyfriend: “They accept card.”

Me: “They don’t split bills.”

Boyfriend: “So, do I need to pay for it?”

Me: “Yes!”

(I broke up with him a couple of days later.)

(My boyfriend and I are trying a new restaurant close by us. A lot of the popular local restaurants have buckets of peanuts still in the shells on the table, and it’s tradition to throw the shells on the floor. We are both artistic, and the only customers in the place this late at night.)

Me: “I never thought this place would be so dead.”

Boyfriend: “I know, I’ve heard so much about it. I thought it would be full.”

(I start tearing shells apart, and placing them in a pattern on the table. My boyfriend starts adding to it.)

Waitress: “Everything goi—whoa! Wait, wait! Can I take a picture? My daughter will love this!”

Me: “Of course!”

(The waitress takes out her phone, and snaps a picture. The peanut shells are in the shape of a sunflower.)

Waitress: “She loves sunflowers! That’s the best thing I’ve seen these shells used for!”

(My boyfriend and I smile at each other when the waitress walks away.)

Boyfriend: “Should we?”

(We continue adding more to the flower until it takes up almost the whole table. The waitress comes back.)

Waitress: “Oh, my God! Now I need another! This is great! You two made my night!”

(The waitress ends up talking to us all night. She makes the closing employees leave the shells on our table for the opening staff to see. My boyfriend and I are beaming for the rest of our anniversary.)

(I’m shopping at a music store. I pass by a scary-looking guy in all black, with his hair dyed in dark blue spikes, covered with chains, piercings and tattoos. He seems to be buying an album from a local death metal group, whose cover features sexually explicit and anti-religious artwork. The scary guy takes the CD up to the counter.)

Scary Guy: “I want to get this, and a soda.”

Salesperson: “Coming right up.”

(The salesperson gets a soda from the small refrigerator behind the counter, and starts to ring the scary guy’s purchase up.)

Salesperson: “So, uh…[death metal band], huh?”

Scary Guy: “It’s for my girlfriend. She digs that s***.”

Salesperson: “This is for a girl?!”

Scary Guy: “Yeah, so?”

Salesperson: “Girls don’t listen to music like this!”

Scary Guy: “Uh, yeah she does. Just bag the disc, man.”

Salesperson: “I can’t let you give this to a girl! She’s probably just pretending to like it because you do!”

Scary Guy: “Don’t give me any crap. Just ring up the d*** CD.”

Salesperson: “Girls don’t like this music!”

Scary Guy: “All right, you and me are gonna have a problem, right—”

(Suddenly, a girl comes around the corner. She looks a lot like the scary guy; she is also wearing all black clothes, lots of piercings and tattoos, spiky pink hair and a choker that says ‘F*** you’.)

Scary Girl: “What’s going on here, babe?”

Scary Guy: “Pencil-d*** here won’t ring up your birthday present, angel.”

(The scary girl suddenly turns on the salesperson.)

Scary Girl: “What f****** business is it of yours what my babe gets me, pencil-d***?”

Salesperson: “Uh…”

(The scary girl leans over the counter, right in the salesperson’s face.)

Scary Girl: “I think you had better give us what we want, pencil-d***.”

(The salesperson goes completely white, and finishes the transaction at lightning speed.)

Scary Guy: “Thanks for jack-s***, pencil-d***.”

(The scary guy gives the CD to his girlfriend.)

Scary Guy: “Here you go, angel.”

Scary Girl: “[Death metal band]? Awwww, babe! You’re the darkest!”

(They walk out of the store kissing. I approach the counter with my own purchase.)

Me: “Just this for me, pencil-d***.”

(My boyfriend and I are driving separate vehicles. He’s about two cars ahead of me. We’re talking on the phone to each other.)

Me: “Seriously, this car next to me was honking! I looked over, and now there’s this creepy guy smiling and waving at me. I have no idea who he is.”

Boyfriend: “What guy?”

Me: “This guy in the red car next to me. He’s still honking. Every time I look he’s still smiling and waving at me.”

(We pass through a couple of lights, and this behavior continues. Finally, the red car gets the idea that I’m not interested, and drives ahead of me.)

Me: “Ha! He’s next to you now. The guy in the red car. Avenge me! Avenge me! Honk, smile, and wave at him!”

(My boyfriend starts honking, smiling and waving at the guy, before laughing hysterically.)

Boyfriend: “He just flipped me off! He looks angry too!”

(The car ends up back by me again, and he can see me laughing. I give him a thumbs-up as I change lanes. However, we hit another red light. My boyfriend is again next to the red car, and continues to smile and wave at him through the light.)

Boyfriend: “He’s still flipping me off. The best part is he looks really angry now. But I bet he figured us out.”

Me: “I would hope so at this point!”

(A couple in their twenties and their three young children come into the store. The kids quickly start playing at a table we’ve set up and seem content to stay there quietly while their parents look around. Our store encourages its employees to play with small toys while we work to promote their sale; I’ve got a yo-yo.)

Husband: “Oh, sweetie, look at this! Can I get this?”

Wife: “No! I’m not getting you Hobbit LEGO for your 27th birthday!”

Husband: “Aw, but sweetie—”

Wife: “No!”

Husband: *spots something else* “Oh, honey—”

Wife: “No!”

Husband: *spots my yo-yo* “Yo-yos! Where are the yo-yos?”

(I show him, and he gets giddy with excitement as he sees some of the trick yo-yos we have for sale. He grabs one and hurries to his wife.)

Husband: “Honey, look, yo-yos! Can I—”

Wife: “No! Honestly, you’re worse than the kids!”