(I take escalated calls for a major cell phone provider.)

Customer: “I want to know exactly how much data five gigabytes gets me, and no one will help me!”

Me: “I understand you’re frustrated, but the term ‘gigabytes’ is a unit of measurement. There is no way to be more specific.”

Customer: “Yes, there is! I want to know exactly how much five gigabytes is — how much Internet it gives me.”

Me: “Are you asking in terms of time, or in terms of website size? Because that really depends on how you use it.”

Customer: “No, I want to know how much Internet it gives me. I ain’t telling you what I look up, you Asian b****!”

(I am not Asian, but whatever.)

Me: “Sir, you are along the equivalent of ‘If I buy a gallon of milk, how many sips will I get?’. I can tell you how many kilobytes—”

Customer: “I have a $500 bill, and I want that credited, since you don’t speak English, you foreign w****!”

(I’m an American.)

Me: “Sir, perhaps I don’t understand the question. What unit of measurement would you like me to use?”

Customer: “I don’t know. What do you measure data in?”

Me: “Are you serious with me right now?”

Customer: *hangs up*

(My son is five and is going to a fancy dress birthday party. He wants to dress up as a tiger, I’m assuming because he recently watched “The Jungle Book” in school. We enter a local costume store and he immediately eyes a tiger catsuit.)

Customer: “Oh, sweetie. You don’t want to wear that! Cats are for girls.”

Son: “But I’m going to be a tiger!”

Customer: “It’s still a girl’s outfit. You should dress up as a Power Ranger or a pirate!”

Son: *upset* “But I want to be a tiger.”

Me: “Maybe we should just let him be a tiger?”

(The customer gives me an incredulous look.)

Customer: “Listen, sweetheart. You don’t want to be a cat because you’re a boy. You don’t want to be a girl, do you?”

Son: “My cat is a boy.”

Customer: *turning on me* “You should be ashamed! Aren’t you teaching your son anything about being a boy? He’s going to grow up confused and probably gay, or even worse, as a t****y!”

Me: “I’m not in the slightest bit interested in forcing him to believe that all cats are girls, just because some woman thinks she has any say on what gender rules I teach him. Also, if I were you, I would be more interested in the face paints that boy down the aisle is currently eating. I assume he’s your son?”

(She shrieked at her son as she charged at him, but not before briefly turning back to me and sticking her tongue out.)

(I walk into the thrift store where two older ladies are working and there’s an old man who just hangs out all day. They are talking very loudly about a very mild kerfuffle that got blown way out of proportion that happened at a local high school involving pro-[American Politician] posters. They have apparently not noticed or cared that anyone has walked in.)

Lady #1: “–and so this little [expletive] kept tearing down the posters, and the school won’t do a thing! It’s disrespectful.”

Lady #2: “They’re always like that, and the teachers are always protecting those types. Why, my granddaughter got in trouble for telling one of those Hispanic boys to stop insulting the teacher. And walking around with Brown Pride shirts!”

(I am starting to get uncomfortable, as well as mentally calling bull on her claim given the area’s demographic makeup. Then, they go back to complaining about the poster incident when the old man pipes up.)

Man: “You know, that boy should be hung by the neck for showing such disrespect!” 

(The ladies made noises of agreement — and I immediately left and haven’t been back since.)

(I am helping the retail manager to get some things ready for the coming catalogue while we are standing at the checkout between customers, so I decide to start some small talk.)

Me: “How are your kids doing?”

Manager: “They are doing good. My son is getting ready for his year twelve exams.”

Me: “That’s exciting! Does he know what he wants to do after high school?”

Manager: “Not yet, but I told him that if he chooses to go to university, he can stay home. But if he chooses to go to TAFE, he needs to move out.”

(TAFE is “Technical And Further Education.”)

Me: “Why’s what?”

Manager: “Well, I don’t want him to grow up and be a nothing by going to TAFE.”

(The manager looks at me, from head to toe, while saying that.)

Me: “…”

(That got me really angry. Uni does not equal success. I know many people who went to TAFE who are doing a lot better than other people I know who went to uni. I don’t have anything against anyone who choses uni, but it gets me angry when people judge someone in a cold and disrespectful way for choosing TAFE over uni.)

(My friend at school is Black and I am white. I’ve recently befriended a new girl, who is also white. We’re all three hanging out at lunch, talking about a hair appointment.)

Me: “So, what shampoo do you use? I mean, I’ve never really thought about it, but because you’re Black–”

New Girl: *interrupting* “Oh, my God! Don’t say that! She’s African-American, aren’t you, [Friend]?”

Friend: “Uh… I’m not African or American; I’m a Caribbean-British person. And yeah, I’m Black…”

(The new girl went off in a huff and didn’t talk to us for a few days. I mean, I know appropriate language differs from country to country, but she had the same accent as us, so she’s definitely British, too!)

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