(I am 34 years old, busty, and a mother. My mother is a bit of a prude and easily flustered, though it’s usually in good fun. She has just come over to my apartment to check in on her way to my grandmother’s apartment next door.)

Mom: “Are you wearing a bra?”

Me: “Nope!”

Mom: “I hope you didn’t go out in public like that.”

Me: “Hate to break this to you, Mom, but I’m old enough to develop my own sense of decency. And as long as my privates are not viewable by the general public, it makes no difference if they are holstered or not.”

Mom: “Please tell me you’re at least wearing underwear.”

Me: “Yes… until my period’s over.”

Mom: “Ew! God, you’re disgusting. How did something like you ever come from my loins?”

Me: “Well, you see, when a man and a woman think they love each other very much, it doesn’t matter if they hate each other thirty years down the road, so they agree to an exchange of bodily fluids—”

Mom: “SHUT IT! You’re deplorable; just like your father!”

Me: “So that’s why I look just like him. Remember, though, that you raised me!”

Mom: “That’s debatable. I’m thinking it was a bunch of monkeys.”

Me: “Hungry for lice, mom? Is that dinner tonight?”

Mom: *laughing* “That’s enough! Go to your room!”

Me: “Love you, too! See you tomorrow!”

(I have just started high school. I have nine older brothers, biological, all a year apart. I am the only girl. I am sitting in French class.)

Teacher: “Attendance!”

(The teacher starts taking the attendance. The teacher finally gets to my name, which is unisex.)

Teacher: “Is there really another [Last Name]?”

Me: “Uh… that’s me.”

Teacher: “A female [Last Name]?”

Me: “Yeah.”

Teacher: “Wait, let me get this straight: there are nine boys, and then you?”

Me: “Yup.”

Teacher: “A female one of them. This is going to be interesting…”

(I work as a cashier in a bed, bath and furniture place. We are required to ask customers for emails and postal codes before they pay. I usually skip the email bit for older customers because they usually won’t have an email, but still ask for postal codes. My next customer is an older man.)

Me: “Hi, is this everything for you today?”

(The customer just gives me a blank stare.)

Me: “That’ll be [price]; can I get your postal code?”

Customer: “MY POSTAL CODE?! WHY DO YOU NEED MY POSTAL CODE?!”

Me: “Well—”

Customer: “I’M SICK OF THE GOVERNMENT SPYING ON ME ALL THE TIME! THE LAST THING I NEED IS STORES AND PEOPLE LIKE YOU SPYING ON ME!”

Me: “…alrighty then.”

(I proceed to hit the skip button and finish his transaction.)

Customer: “I must come off as a paranoid freak, but I assure you I’m not!”

(I work in a museum located in an Elizabethan manor house, which naturally shows a few signs of wear and tear. Today, I’m in a room with a large crack across the wall. I’m also a huge fan of the television show ‘Doctor Who.’ I carry a toy sonic screwdriver in my bag and have the phone number that is suppose to be the Doctor’s keyed into my phone. A young boy and his parents come into my room and spot the crack.)

Boy: “Look, Mummy, a crack! It’s The Silence!”

(The Silence are a race of monsters that created cracks in time and cause you to forget them as soon as you stop looking at them. His parents look pained, so I step in.)

Me: “Don’t worry kid; this museum is a monster-free zone.”

Boy: “How do you know? You might have just forgotten them.”

Me: “Nah, The Doctor came and checked the crack for us; he said it’s fine.”

Boy: “Really? You’re not just making that up?”

Me: “Of course not! I’ll prove it.”

(I pull the sonic screwdriver out of my handbag, and the boy’s eyes go wide.)

Me: “See? The Doctor gave me this just in case one turns up, but I’ve never had to use it yet.”

Boy: “Wow!”

Me: “And if I really get into trouble…”

(I pull out my phone, bring up my contact list and show him the number listed as ‘The Doctor.’)

Me: “…he told me just to give him a call and he’d come right over.”

Boy: “AWESOME!”

(The boy is delighted for the rest of the visit, and his parents thank me profusely. Apparently he’d been skittish of cracks since the episode went out, and I’d been the first person to reassure him completely. Later, my boss came round with a thank you card they’d got me, addressed to ‘the Doctor’s companion.’ It made my day!)

(After a weekend vacation camping with my husband, I wake up with a bad allergic reaction that swells me up and covers me with hives. It’s so bad that my tongue has even swollen up and my eyes are squinted nearly shut. We’re sitting at the hospital waiting room and waiting to be called when a lady comes in and notices me.)

Woman: “Oh, my God! What happened to you? Did you get hit by bees?”

Husband: “We went camping this weekend, so we think something in the woods got on her clothes and gave her a bad allergic reaction.”

Woman: “And you’re all covered with bumps, too. Oh, my God! Is she mute, too?”

Husband: “No, she can talk, but her throat is hurting her and her tongue is swollen.”

(I even open my mouth to show her.)

Woman: *freaked out* “Oh, my God! She looks like a raspberry. Why haven’t you taken her to the doctor before now? She looks horrible!”

Husband: “Um…” *looks around the emergency room* “Well, it just happened this morning when she woke up. If it gets too severe, I’m sure the nurses will come out and give her an epi-shot or something.”

Woman: “I hope they do. I can’t imagine going anywhere outside looking that bloated and blotchy. Don’t worry, honey; I’m sure you don’t look that bad when you look normal!”

(As she says this, the woman pats my knee cautiously, like I’m going to give her some infection.)

Woman: “Just… oh, my God!”

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