Client: “Could you do anything about the background? It looks too old.”

Me: “You mean the broken-down abandoned house you took pictures in?”

Client: “Yeah. Could you make it look newer? The peeling paint and plant-covered bricks are a little too much for me.”

Me: “So, you want the house to look modern?”

Client: “Or futuristic. Or both!”

We have this creepy regular customer who we all tolerated at first as it seemed like he was just a sad lonely old man. Unfortunately, as is usually the case with these types of interactions, he’s assumed our tolerance is acceptance and has gotten more brazen.

Customer: “Wow! I hope you don’t mind me saying, but your legs are magnificent!”

I want to say something, but the look of disgust on my face is obvious.

Customer: “What?! You girls are all so sensitive these days! I just paid you a compliment, but you all act like I’m some sexual predator!”

Me: “Sir, what a magnificent round big belly you have! If I rub it, do I get to make a wish?” 

Customer: “Hey! That’s rude! You can’t be saying that to a customer!”

Me: “Oh, I thought we were playing the ‘unsolicited and unwanted comments about each others’ bodies’ game. Did I misunderstand?”

Customer: “I gave you a compliment! You called me fat!”

Me: “We both used the term ‘magnificent’, did we not?”

Customer: “You know what I mean!”

Me: “I’m afraid I don’t. Please explain!”

Customer: “You know what I mean!”

Me: “I really don’t.”

Customer: “You know… It was a compliment!”

Me: “It wasn’t appropriate.” 

Customer: “Ugh! What I said to you was nice!”

Me: “No, what you said to me was unwanted and creepy.”

Customer: “Back in my day, women liked it when men complimented them!” 

Me: “Back in your day, women also couldn’t vote or have opinions. I’d say this is progress.”

The customer scoffed and stormed out. Mercifully, he hasn’t been back, but I worry about what new coffee place he’s found to harass…  

This takes place during my final year of college, when we’re doing our big project worth 50% of our grade. The professors have created the groups, and I’m the only native English speaker in my group. The professors have decided that this will give the International Students a hand in writing. This makes sense to me since I previously completed an English diploma before going back to school. About midway through, one professor comes up to me.

Professor: “It seems like you do most of the editing in the drafts.”

Me: “Well, yes. That’s what you wanted me to do.”

Professor: “I know you come from a writing background, but maybe give them a chance. They can work on their English!”

Me: “I totally support them to do that, but this is also my grade. You ding us for grammar and spelling. Trust me, I really don’t mind doing it.”

Professor: “I won’t do any ‘dings’ this time around. Just give them a chance!”

Me: “If you insist.”

As anyone learning a second language knows, speaking, reading, and writing are different skills. I have all the respect in the world for anyone learning a second language, and college has a steep learning curve. My project partners can speak English, but their writing uses a different grammar structure. Think, “Paul and I, to the store, we did walk.” I’m pretty sure they wrote it in their native languages and then used Google Translate.

This time, I don’t edit anything but make suggestions on how to improve it. It’s submitted at the start of class, but the professor comes up the me before the end of the class after our break.

Professor: “So… how fast can you edit?”

Me: “Probably an hour, more if I need to get more information from them.”

Professor: “Please do. I just… I can’t read this! It’s so confusing! I’ll give you until midnight to resubmit it

I got it done, and they didn’t question my editing again.

I started working in a music and recording studio a few months ago. We’re working on Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and the boss, an older white gentleman, brings in fried chicken, grape juice, and watermelon for everyone.

I am a white guy, and most of my coworkers are Black (we’re close to a historically Black neighborhood), so I feel compelled to ask a Black coworker:

Me: “Isn’t this… uh… kinda…”

Coworker: “Racially stereotyping African Americans?”

Me: “Uh… yeah?”

Coworker: “Yeah, someone told [Boss] years ago as a joke that to celebrate today, we Black folk eat fried chicken and watermelon and drink grape juice.”

Me: “Wow, and he believed them?”

Coworker: “I mean, he had no reason not to.”

Me: “And no one has told him otherwise?”

Coworker: *Grabbing a plate* “And risk our free fried chicken?!”

I used to have a coworker who was a nice lady but a little naïve and sometimes slow on the uptake. One morning, I came into work yawning.

Me: “I didn’t sleep well last night. [Husband] was snoring, and it kept me awake.”

Coworker: “Was he lying on his back? That often causes snoring.”

Me: “Yes.”

Coworker: “Then there’s a simple solution to that. Just attach something to the back of his pyjamas, like a tennis ball. That way, when he tries to flip onto his back, it’ll be uncomfortable.”

Me: “Uh… thanks, [Coworker].”

She noticed my hesitation and got a little defensive.

Coworker: “Seriously! My mum did that to my dad. Problem solved! Why don’t you want to try it?”

Me: “It won’t work for my husband.”

Coworker: “Why not?”

I was thinking, “Why did I start this conversation?”

Me: “He, um, doesn’t wear pyjamas.”

Coworker: “Huh? Everyone wears pyjamas!”

Me: “He doesn’t.”

Neither do I, but I wasn’t about to say that.

Coworker: *Uncomprehending* “I don’t understand. If he doesn’t wear pyjamas to bed, what does he wear?”

Me: “…”

Comprehension finally dawned. She went beet-red and changed the subject.

One week later:

Coworker: “You seem tired today.”

Me: “Yeah, my husband was snoring again.”

Coworker: “I bet he was sleeping on his back. You know what you should do? Attach something to the back of his pyjamas, like a tennis ball!”

Me: *Sighs*