When you think a family gathering is about bonding over memories, you’re in for a hydrating surprise. My wife and our three daughters have taken a fancy to those monstrous Stanley‑style drink bottles that can outlast a full workday. Every time we hit a park, a school event, or a community fair—anywhere without a table—I’m suddenly the “official” bottle valet. It’s a noble quest: keep everyone hydrated while I try to dodge the soggy chaos.

Enter my sister‑in‑law, freshly relocated, who has the same thirst for oversized hydration containers. She’s noticed my role and started adding her own bottles to the ever‑growing pile. Suddenly, I’m the reluctant guardian of seven gigantic bottles on a park bench, unable to enjoy a dance recital or a quiet moment because my hands are perpetually clutching liquid.

Fast forward to the daughter’s dance concert: my sister‑in‑law steps up to capture the moment, hands me her bottle as if it’s an automatic handoff, and I politely decline. She looks confused, returns it, and—surprise!—just drops it beside her camera tripod. My wife later asks why I said no, and I explain that I’ve had enough of being the family’s personal water carrier. If she wants a giant bottle, she’ll have to carry it all night long. She eventually accepted my reasoning, and I’m left wondering: Am I the asshole for refusing to be the unpaid drink bottle storage unit?

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TL;DR: Dad tries to stop his son’s girlfriend from splurging on steak & seafood with a budget card. He gets a face‑plant. Turns out the only thing that got a budget is the relationship between the two of them.

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The Original Story (in a nutshell)​

Dad’s 23‑year‑old son just moved back home after snagging a job. He’s been dating a 21‑year‑old woman, Carmella, who quit college for the romance, left her mom’s house, and now lives with the family. Dad, being the generous (and not‑so‑budget‑conscious) parent, lets them stay for free and even gives Carmella the family credit‑card to buy groceries.

All was well until Carmella decided she’d love to cook steak for the whole house. She goes on a shopping spree, buys a lot of fancy meat, and the family ends up with a dinner that could’ve been the centerpiece at a fancy gala. Dad, realizing the budget’s been blown, tries to set a new “budget” card for Carmella to keep the grocery bill from going into the stratosphere.

Carmella gets upset, the son feels betrayed, and Dad wonders if he’s the real villain in this culinary drama.

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The Comments (in comedic commentary style)​

Comment 1​

“NTA but neither is Carmella. Your son is. He has a job and doesn’t pay rent. Fine, but why is he not funding the ingredients?”

Dad, the unsung hero of the household, has paid for everything from rent to groceries. When Carmella goes on a steak‑shopping spree, the kid’s got a front‑row seat to a “no‑budget” lifestyle. Maybe the son should get a “Steak‑Fund” card for himself—just to even the playing field.

Comment 2​

“I think the gf is also kinda in asshole territory, swiping her bf's mom's card without considering the cost of what she's buying. Maybe she thought mom was rich but that's also not a good assumption to run with 😬”

You’re right: Carmella was treating the card like it was a free‑food buffet. Mom’s bank account was probably not a “donations” account. Lesson learned: “If you want a steak, ask your mom to put a budget on the card before you buy it.”

Comment 3​

“Up until this confrontation she probably assumed OP was happy with this arrangement. The son is the one acting like he’s entitled to OP’s money and other peoples labour.”

The son’s “I’m on a budget” stance is a bit of a plot twist. He’s basically saying “I’ll pay for your groceries if you keep cooking for us.” Classic “I’ll pay you if you keep doing my chores” moment.

Comment 4​

“I am worried about Ms. Carmella. She quit school to go live with a guy. Now she has an unfinished degree and no job. Her budgeting skills seem a big shaky. It was very nice that she offered to cook, but the fact she thought it was ok to buy expensive ingredients without asking is odd. Add to this brewing mess, the son's mindset that this is all ok. I see trouble ahead.”

If Carmella’s future is a “no‑degree, no‑job, no‑budget” nightmare, Dad’s budget card might just be a lifeline. But he might also be setting up a “budget‑busting” drama that’ll keep the family cooking up more than just dinner.

Comment 5 (Dad’s own apology)​

“Carmella, I appreciate your cooking and it's a delight to have you here. However, I can't continue to afford lavish meals for us all, as delicious as they are, they're out of my budget on a regular basis. This is my food budget of xx dollars, and I would love if you could make that work weekly. Anything above and beyond that is your responsibility as a grown adult. I know this may be uncomfortable to hear, and it isn't a personal attack.”

Dad’s heartfelt apology is a great start—he’s basically saying “I’m not an ATM, so please pay for your groceries.” The only thing missing is a “please buy a steak only when the price is under $20” clause. That would have saved the house from the “steak‑tax” crisis.

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TL;DR (again, because we can’t keep it from being funny)​

Dad’s generous (and slightly clueless) parenting style leads to a grocery card that’s basically a free‑food pass. Carmella goes on a steak spree, the son feels like a victim, and Dad tries to budget out the gourmet chaos. Bottom line: set a budget before you hand over the card, or at least make the card a “budget‑only” card. Otherwise, you’ll end up with a house full of people who think a credit card is a magic wand for culinary delights.

Picture this: you’re in the ER, the fluorescent lights flicker like a disco ball, and your shift partner is—well—let’s just say they’re not exactly the golden child of teamwork. Call them “J.” J has a knack for turning every minor mishap into a full‑blown drama, and she’s managed to snag a 12‑hour shift almost every time you’re scheduled. That’s half of the day and a half of the night, depending on how you look at it.

A few weeks ago, J begged for the 10th and 11th of the month off so she could catch a concert. The 10th got the green light. The 11th? Not so much. But J, ever the diva, announced to anyone who would listen, “I’ve got the whole week off!” and casually mentioned she’d “call in sick” whenever it suited her. Because apparently, a “sick call” is just another word for “I’m not actually sick, but I’m a hero and I’ll show up anyway.”

You’re the one who knows the real story: J was planning to show up at 11:00 PM, a full 24 hours after the concert, and you’ll be left in the ER alone, no break, no backup. So you wait. Then, a miracle—another coworker who had already clocked a 12‑hour day shift works an extra 6 hours just so you can grab a coffee break. The universe (or at least the universe’s HR department) is merciful, but the real irony remains: J’s “sick call” gets away with it, while you get the short end of the stick.

So here’s the moral: If you’re planning to “fake call in sick” after a concert, maybe consider swapping a day shift instead of a night. At least then you won’t be the one staying up all night on your own.

Ever stumbled across a headline that made you think, “Wait, is this a reality‑TV plot?” and then realized it was just a Reddit thread about an ordinary office worker who once made a living shaking a drum set? That’s exactly what we’re digging into today. Spoiler: it involves an oncologist, a band called The Offspring, and a courtroom that decided it was safer to postpone a trial than to risk a juror’s heart racing at a drum solo.

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The Post​

Has anyone met someone that was once famous (actor, musician, etc.) but now works a regular job? Who was it?

Only the title was posted—no extra description, so the real fun began in the comments.

Ever wondered at what point in life you stop buying yourself a pair of shiny red slippers and start asking the hard questions? One Reddit thread had us all re‑examining the evidence and the evidence for… Santa’s existence.

Question:
How old were you and how did you find out Santa isn’t real?

It sounds like a typical “I’m still a child” rant, but the responses turned out to be a goldmine of holiday heartbreak, sock‑theory, and a few accidental truths. Below are the comments, cleaned up, and the story they tell.

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It was the late 1990s, high‑schooler‑turned‑cash‑register‑hero, and a burger joint that could have been a sitcom set. I was still in class, juggling a lunch break and a job at a popular fast‑food franchise. The layout was the classic: a big lobby, a dining area, a drive‑through that never stopped, and an indoor playground that was basically a kid‑version of a nightclub with slides and a ball pit. I was standing behind the counter, taking orders, when the chaos started.

The Unlikely Villain: Stewie​

Enter Stewie, the fry cook who apparently had a problem with the manager’s “no restroom breaks during rush hour” policy. Twice he tried to sneak a bathroom break and was denied. He stormed back to the kitchen, grumbling, and then… something happened. After a few minutes of me drowning in fries, I saw him walk past me, not towards the restroom, but straight into the main dining area. Then he vanished through the glass door that led to the indoor playground. I watched him reappear, this time heading straight for the bathrooms.

The manager came running, asking if I’d seen Stewie. I told him, and he dashed to the restrooms—only to find the place empty except for staff. The whole building was suddenly a ghost town. The manager, realizing the situation, locked the doors, turned off the lights, and the entire crew made their way to the lobby. That’s when a mysterious stench hit us all.

The Great Dookie Trail​

What followed was a trail of doom that went from the lobby, through the dining area, into the playground, up the kiddie slide, and out the handicap‑access door next to the restrooms. The culprit? Stewie, who apparently had a loose bowel and chose to “share” his misfortune with everyone except the bathrooms. The trail was everywhere—except where it belonged.

The manager, probably still in a hurry to get the place closed, didn’t notice until it was too late. The restaurant stayed shut for two days, the playground was closed longer, and the ball pit had to be replaced. I, a seventeen‑year‑old still in school, clocked out before midnight and left the chaos behind. I’ve never seen Stewie again, but he’s my hero… for a very specific reason.

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Picture this: an insurance office that’s busier than a squirrel on a caffeine binge. The only Customer‑Service Representative (CSR) left after a brutal budget cut is now the office’s emotional and operational lifeline. Meanwhile, the sales team—three folks, two of whom think “service” is a typo in the word “sales”—are on a quest to avoid actual work.

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The Daily Soap Opera​

Every time the CSR steps out—just a few hours, or a full day—the sales crew starts a symphony of frantic calls, frantic texts, and frantic “can you look at this billing thing?” requests. They’re basically shouting, “Help! I can’t handle my own customers!” and then immediately proceed to chat about lunch plans or the latest office gossip.

The plot twist? They still want to do the actual changes to the customers’ accounts while the CSR is on a coffee break. In other words, they’re using the CSR as a human remote‑control.

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The New Rule of the Day​

Rule #1: Don’t let the sales team call or text you while you’re off.
Rule #2: If you’re the only one who can fix billing, you’re not a safety net—you’re a paid lifeguard.
Rule #3: Set boundaries. Let the chaos ensue, but only if you’re ready for popcorn.

So I’ve decided: every Wednesday, I will be off—no email, no phone, no “call me back” from anyone. I’ll be at home, sipping tea, and not being paid to think about the office. If they try to ping me, they’ll get the silent treatment, and I’ll let them figure it out on their own.

I can already hear the office chatter: “Did you hear? The CSR is off! What’s going to happen?” The answer? Chaos, a little panic, and probably a very confused sales rep who will have to learn how to actually do their job.

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TL;DR​

I’m taking Wednesdays off, and the office is about to learn a lesson in self‑sufficiency. If you’re a sales rep who can’t handle a billing inquiry, maybe try doing it yourself before you ask the CSR. Popcorn’s ready—watch the chaos.

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So here’s the drama: my dad passed away a few years back and the house suddenly turned into a man‑of‑the‑house playground for my brother. He quit college (no big deal—he was never a big “smart” guy, so why bother?), works construction, and occasionally fixes our cars, does a bit of plumbing, or whacks a cabinet into place. He calls that “helping with the bills.”

One sunny afternoon, I stroll back from a three‑lecture marathon (plus a lab, because nursing school hates the easy life) and find him elbow‑deep in a cabinet. The first thing he says, with the smugness of a man who has just fixed a broken part of the house:

“The sink is full. Why didn’t you do the dishes? It’s been two days!”

I shoot him back, “I always do my dishes. Those are literally yours and Mom’s. I’m not your maid.”

Cue the guilt‑trip. He launches into a full‑blown emotional manipulation routine:

• “I just came home from a 13‑hour day, fixed this junk, Mom works six days a week. The least you could do is clean the house and do the dishes.”
• “You’re a leech.”

I remind him I’m juggling nursing finals, not a full‑time cleaning crew. He snaps, “Typical females of this generation. I’ll do the dishes. Go to the mechanic next time. Don’t come to me again.”

I ignored him, retreated to my room, and later received a bank transfer request for $600 with a note: “Brake and oil change. Parts and labour.”

Context check: I’m third in the house, doing my one‑third share: kitchen and bathroom clean‑up two to three days a week. I’m studying nursing; he dropped out of business school; Mom rarely defends me and treats him like an angel. I’m exhausted, plan to move out once I finish my degree and can afford it.

TL;DR: Brother thinks a few car repairs every few months earns him the right to boss me around and charge me for his “services.” I’m studying nursing and can’t be his maid. Am I the asshole?

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The Original Drama​

I work for my mom’s small business and, honestly, I act like a normal employee—fixed schedule, supervisor on call, company equipment, all that jazz. The only thing that’s been a real head‑scratcher is her refusal to put me on the official employee roster. Every time I suggest proper paperwork, she calls me “annoying” or “making it complicated.”

Fast‑forward: I quit (or got fired—blame the cosmic irony) in October. Suddenly, my mom’s big revelation: “I’ll file you as a 1099 independent contractor.”

Now, I’m not a freelancer. I don’t own a company, I don’t set my own hours, and I definitely don’t have a “client list.” I’m an employee, and if she misclassifies me, I’ll end up paying the entire tax bill twice—because the IRS will see the red flag and make me pay both the employer’s and employee’s side.

I tried to keep it chill. “If you file me as a 1099, I’ll file an SS‑8 to get the IRS to officially say, ‘Nah, this is an employee.’”
Her reply via email:

“It breaks my heart to see things going in this direction. If you really want to take things to that level, I could mention the years of cash bartending income that was never reported, but I prefer to move forward.”

So, Mom, if you’re going to play the “tax villain,” maybe start by playing the “employee” role.

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The Comments – Reddit Style​

“People who want to cheat on taxes are so tiresome. I was married to one.”

Bottom line: Don’t let the IRS come to your house and demand you pay for Mom’s laziness. She’ll feel the heat—literally.

“NTA. I feel like you already know this, but your mom sucks so much you have to question it.”

If Mom’s boss moves, you’re the employee, not the “tax‑fraud suspect.”

“Has she deducted any payroll taxes from your paychecks?”

If your paycheck is a straight‑up “gross” number, Mom’s probably already set you up for a tax nightmare.

“Sure, but OP's mom is trying to pass the employer's tax burden to OP as well.”

Because nothing screams “family business” like double‑taxing your own kid.

“When an employee is misclassified as an independent contractor the proper way to handle it is to file Form SS‑8 and to include Form 8919.”

That’s the IRS’s way of saying, “We’ll do the math, you just pay the tax. No guilt trips.”

“This may not however, result in as much of a tax savings as someone might think.”

Spoiler: You still owe regular income tax. Mom still owes the employer share. It’s a tax tango.

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TL;DR​

Mom thinks she can reclassify her employee as a 1099 contractor to dodge payroll taxes. I calmly threatened an SS‑8, and she tried to guilt‑trip me with “cash bartending income” drama. Bottom line: I’m the employee, not a fraudster. If Mom wants to play “tax villain,” she better start paying her side of the bill.

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The Great Cookbook Heist​

A decade ago, the family’s beloved mother‑in‑law of my sister‑in‑law (yes, that’s a mouthful) passed away. Like a well‑timed episode of House‑Clean‑and‑Throw, the house was swept, boxes were packed, and every last item deemed “unnecessary” was tossed out. One of those unfortunate relics? An old, dusty cookbook that had sat on the kitchen table for who knows how long.

Fast forward to today: I’m scrolling through my feed, looking for a recipe that will wow my guests. I snap a photo of my island—complete with a mountain of cookbooks—because, you know, visual inspiration is everything. My brother‑in‑law (BIL) spots the picture, immediately recognizes the familiar cover of the cookbook, and demands its return. I say no. I keep it. The family erupts: some side‑by‑side with me, others with him. I’ve even had to block a handful of people who were getting “REALLY rude.” The question now is: Am I the asshole for holding onto a book that was destined for the trash?

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