I’m female, and I’m not fat but I have a bit of a belly. Because of that bit of a belly and feeling a bit self-conscious about it, I exercise a lot. I’m having a miserable day; I’m not sick, just having “a case of the blahs,” as I like to call it. A customer comes up.

Customer: “What’s wrong?”

Me: “I’m just not feeling too good today. Is there anything I can help you with?”

Customer: “You know why you feel that way, right? You’re just nauseous because you’re three months pregnant. I bet it’s a girl.”

Me: *Stunned* “What?”

Customer: “Do you know who the father is? Women these days don’t always know.”

Me: *Still stunned but feeling fury rise within me* “Again, what?!” 

You would think my tone of voice would raise warning flags and survival instincts in most people, but this man clearly has no such warning system.

Customer: *Slowly like I’m being incredibly dense* “You… are… pregnant. That’s… why… you’re… nauseous.”

He gestures very obviously at my stomach.

Now, this man is NOT a regular. I don’t recall ever serving him before, so he certainly wouldn’t know whether or not I even have a boyfriend or husband — not that it’s any of his business even if he WAS a regular.

I already don’t feel good, but having a complete stranger say this sets me off. Add in the comment that I might not know who the father is… Well… I lose it. I slam my hand on the counter.

Me: “Sir, I may be fat, but you are an a**hole.”

Customer: “What?!”

Me: “You don’t know me, and I don’t know you, so first of all, how dare you make an assumption about me?! Second of all, how dare you double down like I’m too stupid to understand?! Third of all, implying that I’m a [slur for promiscuous women]?! I can lose this weight. You, however, will always be an a**hole. Get out!”

I had to storm off to the back to sit down and cool off, leaving a fellow (completely flabbergasted) coworker to the counter for a few minutes. I did get a write-up for calling him an a**hole, but slamming the man felt so good, it was worth it.

Related:
Cause For Pregnant Pause, Part 23
Cause For Pregnant Pause, Part 22
Cause For Pregnant Pause, Part 21
Cause For Pregnant Pause, Part 20
Cause For Pregnant Pause, Part 19

It’s about four in the morning and I need a snack — insomniac here — so I drive down to the nearby gas station, pick up a drink, and go to their fresh donut stand to pick out donuts. I lift the tongs from the inside of the case and start picking. As I’m picking up the last donut…

Cashier: “You’re supposed to use the napkins.”

Me: “Uh, sorry? What napkins?”

The cashier gestures to the napkins… on top of the donut case, out of visible sight.

Cashier: “Use ’em.”

Since I’m done picking my donuts, I go to the counter. She rings me up.

Cashier: “How many you got?”

Me: “Three regular, one apple fritter—”

Cashier: *Interrupting me* “So four, then?”

Me: “Yeah, sorry, I thought the type mattered.”

She tuts at me. My card goes through.

Me: “Have a good one.”

The cashier just grumbled something about sanitizing the tongs.

I understand we are in a health crisis, but if you want people to use the napkins, put them in plain sight and take the tongs from the display entirely. Also, if it matters so much, maybe wear a mask, and maybe don’t be a b**** to your semi-regulars at four am?

My dad owned an independent gas station. When he passed away, I ended up taking it over and running it.

In comes a customer with that particular swagger of somebody who “knows” that he’s getting his way. I carefully brace myself for the upcoming battle and put on a professionally friendly expression. He comes up to my register and tells me that he’s a good friend of [Father] and he always gets a discount.

All professional pleasantry drains from my face and I give him an ice-cold look.

Me: “You’re a liar. Please leave.”

He turns an interesting shade and roars that he’ll have my job.

Me: “First of all, you couldn’t handle my job. Second of all, [Father] was my father. Third of all, my father died four years ago, and all of his friends attended his funeral. So, no, you are not his friend and you will not be getting a discount.”

I almost wish I could translate the choked noises coming from the back of his throat to text. He turned some interesting colors, and then he fled at top speed and I haven’t seen him come back.

I was quite the road-tripper post-college and very notorious for locking my keys in my car — my very old, no-frills, manual 1991 Corolla with crank windows. So notorious was I that, after going home for Christmas, my parents made me half a dozen extra keys to hide or give to more responsible people. Problem solved, or so you would think.

I was driving back to Utah from Arizona and stopped at a small gas station just south of the Utah/Arizona border. It was 3:00 am and I just needed one more tank of gas to get home, so I got out of the car and habitually locked and slammed my door. Just as it clicked shut, I realized that I had just locked my keys in the car.

I had no cell service, I was six hours from family and friends going either direction, and there were no other buildings for at least twenty miles. This Hitchcock-esque gas station was the only place with lights and people. So, I did the only sensible thing any twenty-year-old solo female traveler would do: I walked into the convenience store and said, “Help!”

Immediately, the only people there — the owner and his cousin — sprang into action. Apparently, the cousin had just relocated there from California looking to get a fresh start. Lucky for me, because he said he had lots of friends who locked their keys in their cars so he had a lot of experience breaking into cars. This sweet, wonderful, large, heavily tattooed man spent over an hour working to get into my car. And when he finally managed, neither he nor his cousin would take any money from me, not even for the hot chocolate they gave me while saving me from my own mistake.

I never saw either of them again on subsequent road trips, but I hope they both got every break the universe could offer them.

I wish that was the last time I’d gotten myself locked out of my car. It wasn’t. It wasn’t even the most dramatic. But it was the sweetest.

My mother got a new job in a town some twenty km away, so she started commuting with my late grandfather’s car which had been gathering dust in the garage. The time came for a refueling.

Mother: “Fill my tank, please.”

Attendant: “Sure. Want me to check the levels while I’m at it?”

Mother: “Yes, please.”

The attendant started with the oil level, but the dipstick came up squeaky clean.

Attendant: “Ma’am, when was the last time you put oil in here?”

Mother: “Oil? But cars run on petrol!”