I have season tickets for a VERY popular professional sports team. For the home opener, I was taking my friend who is the day bartender at one of the local bars. While I was waiting for her to finish up, one of the other customers starts talking to me
Customer: “Oh, man you guys are going to have so much fun. How did you get tickets?”
Me: “Yeah, the games are always fun. I have season tickets.”
Customer: “Really? What did you do, buy a few tickets from someone? So you have like a package of tickets?”
Me: “No, I have season tickets.”
Customer: “Ohhhhh… What are they? Your dad’s tickets?”
Me: “No. I have season tickets.”
Customer: “Well, who has the tickets? How did you get them?”
Me: “Look man, I don’t know how else to explain this to you. I have season tickets. They are in my name. I paid for them. I have had them for years. They are not my father’s tickets. They are not my brother’s tickets. They are not my boyfriend’s tickets. They are MY season tickets. The whole season. ALL of the games.”
I didn’t wait for a response and grabbed all of my stuff and moved to the other end of the bar. I don’t know why he couldn’t understand, but after he asked if they were my dad’s tickets, I can only assume that he didn’t think a woman could have season tickets for a professional sport.

(I work at a burger joint inside a mall, and overheard a customer tell this to a coworker)

Customer: “I can’t have any tomatoes on my burger, I’m severely allergic. Can I also have extra ketchup on that?”

My favorite ice cream parlor is just about a twenty-minute walk from my house out of the residential neighborhood into a commercial area where two very busy streets intersect. Because of these streets, lots of drivers forget about the number of pedestrians in this area and just speed through.

On this particular day, I have just reached the parking lot of the ice cream store and am crossing it, totally legally. A car comes speeding across the parking lot and screeches to a halt — not before knocking me off my feet and onto the hood, however.

Driver: “GET OFF OF MY HOOD! OH, MY GOD! GET OFF OF IT!”

Me: *Bewildered* “I’m sorry! I—”

Driver: “F*** YOU!”

I limp away as quickly as I can with my bruised hip, before promptly realizing how dumb I was not taking his plate numbers. Feeling pretty down, I enter the parlor, where I’m a regular.

Employee #1: “[My Name]! Hey!”

Employee #2: “Are you okay?”

Me: “I got hit by a car on the way in!”

Employee #1: “Oh, my God! Where?”

Me: “In the parking lot.”

Employee #2: “I’m going to go ask [Boss] for the security tapes.”

Me: “Oh, no, it’s really okay—”

Employee #1: “And I’m going to sit you down and make you your usual. On the house.”

The boss was just as kind and concerned as the employees had been and ended up giving me two quarts of ice cream on the house. As it turned out, the guy who hit me had just stopped into the ice cream parlor himself! We couldn’t get his plates, but the employees assured me they would tell me if he came in again. I wouldn’t want to be that guy if they recognized him!

(Our phone system has the customer press a number to indicate what service they are calling for, e.g. 1 to place an order, 2 to make a return, with the final option being [whatever number] for something not listed. For each incoming call, we hear a beep, and then a voice indicating which option was chosen, e.g. “order processing” if they pressed 1, before the customer is connected to us. Many people press 1 no matter why they are calling.)

Me: Thank you for calling [company], this is [me]. Are you calling to place an order?

Caller: Hi. Is this the right number to call to place an order?

Me: Yes, this is the right number. Do you have your account number with you today?

Caller: I have my account number, do you need it?

Me: Yes, please. If you have it, or I can look it up with…

Caller: *interrupts*: Hang on just a minute. *moves the phone away from her mouth. I can hear her talking to someone who is there with her* Sorry, I’m back. Do you need my account number?

Me: Yes, ma’am.

(She does give the account number at this point.)

I spend my shift sorting through the regular-priced merchandise and pulling out all of the clearance. On my break, I walk past one of the managers who is notoriously awful on my way to the bathroom. While I am in there, in the stall mind you, she pops in the door and starts talking to me.

Manager: “You can’t even go to the bathroom in peace around here! How are you doing over there?”

Initially, I think she is actually talking about my bathroom functions, but I realize she means my area of the store.

Me: “Fine.”

I’m hoping she’ll go away.

Manager: “Okay, are you wrapping up over there?”

Me: “Yes.”

Manager: “Is there a lot of clearance?”

Me: “Yes.”

My manager then began chatting with some other associate or customer outside the door. I washed my hands and booked it past her and took my break. I know, I should have said, “I’ll talk to you when I’m done and not a moment sooner!” But I was so surprised and angry that I didn’t think of it immediately.