(I work at a very well-known, national baby store, with the word ‘baby’ in the name, sitting at a desk in the store. A middle-aged, seemingly trophy wife walks in, with high heels, implants, and platinum hair.)

Customer: “I don’t understand, like, why they don’t have more pretty people working here? Pretty people make, like, great babies!”

Me: “Uh, yeah. Yeah, they do.”

Customer: “Why are all the people that work here ugly? How do you people make babies?”

Me: “I guess… like everyone else?”

Customer: “That’s gross. They are gross. You are gross. You guys got, like, baby stuff for sale?”

Manager: *cutting in* “We do, but it’s all for ugly people.”

(While browsing tables at a yard sale with my mom, a lady taps my shoulder. I turn around.)

Lady: “Oh! It’s not you.”

Me: “Yes, it is!”

(My mum is on her break, talking with an elderly Italian man about culture.)

Mum: “The Greeks invented heaps of things. I’ve heard a few of them say they invented sex.”

Man: “Really! They can say they invented sex, but we Italians introduced it to women!”

(I’m talking with my best friend over IM about what he’s wearing to my upcoming wedding. He’s my ‘man of honor,’ but we’re basically eloping, so I’m not enforcing a dress code other than ‘dress nicely.’)

Me: “What are you wearing to my wedding?”

Friend: “I’m not sure yet. Why is there a theme or something? Do I need a Godzilla costume? I guess I’d be more of a Mecha-Godzilla. You would be Mothra and [Groom] would be Godzilla. [Best Man] and [His Wife] could be Gamora and the creepy recycling monster thing…”

(It is my birthday. The previous night, I had baked a giant cookie and had my mom, a wedding cake decorator, help me decorate it. The cookie turned out extremely well, decorated ornately with icing. I take the cookie in to my first period class to eat. I’ve had this teacher my freshman year of high-school as well as this senior year.)

Classmate: “So, who bought the cookie for you?”

Me: “No one. It’s homemade.”

Classmate: “Oh, then who made it for you?”

Me: “I did. My mom helped me decorate it.”

(My classmate has a look of extreme horror on her face.)

Classmate: “Oh, my gosh. I am so sorry, [My Name]. That’s so sad, that you have to make your own cake!”

(My teacher and I stare at her in shock. My teacher helped me clean up the leftovers.)

Teacher: “Your baking and decorating is still better than store-bought, [My Name]. That’s not sad at all!”