(I’m running my particular department by myself on this Saturday; I got roped into covering a shift. It’s not so terrible, but I sell fine art supplies and I get the chance to deal with the most pompous customers from time to time. The phone rings, and I answer.)

Me: “Art and supplies; how may I help you today?”

Caller: “Do you have [Paint Brand]?”

Me: “I’m sorry, we—“

Caller: *starts rambling about something unrelated* “So, do you have it?”

Me: “We—“

Caller: “I want cadmium red, orange, and a blue. Do you have [Paint Brand]?”

Me: “Sir, we don’t hav—“

Caller: “Do you have it?”

Me: “We don—“

Caller: “Stop interrupting me! You know, you young people are so g**d*** RUDE!” *starts rambling on and on*

Me: *hangs up*

(When my uncle was a child, he was looking at my grandmother’s driver’s license.)

Uncle: “Mom, what’s this F on your license for?

Grandma: “Well, honey, that means I am a woman. The F stands for ‘female.’ If I were a man, it would be an M for ‘male.’”

Uncle: “Oh, I thought it meant you got an F in sex.”

(He is the ninth out of ten kids.)

(When I am in high school, I have this crappy little netbook that I take to class to take notes. One day, I notice that the battery refuses to charge. I have this conversation with my Dad.)

Me: “Hey, Dad, my netbook isn’t charging.”

Dad: “Well, I can take it to the shop and have them look at it. Probably just a bad battery.”

(Since I still need to take notes, I end up running the battery down by the time my dad takes it to the shop. He comes back and says that there is an issue with the connection from the cord to the battery. I can’t remember what it is, just that the battery works fine and the charging cable is fine; it is the connection between. My computer has a very easily detachable battery.)

Me: “Hey, Dad, do you think it’s possible for the shop to charge the battery for me? I want to try to save some of the files on my computer that didn’t get backed up.”

Dad: “Yeah, sure. We can go this weekend.”

(A week passes.)

Me: “Hey, Dad, when are we going to be able to go to the shop? I would like to get the files off my laptop.”

Dad: “I don’t know. Probably in the next couple of weeks.”

(A few weeks pass.)

Me: “Dad, can we go to the shop this weekend? I really want to get those files off my computer.”

Dad: *condescendingly* “Well, sweetie, you do realize that that shop isn’t going to able to do that, right? File recovery is a difficult, expensive operation. You’re going to have to let those files go.”

Me: “Dad, you do remember that we just need to charge the battery to get those files, right? The computer works fine; it just can’t charge the battery. My battery is even made so it can be taken out of the computer and recharged.”

Dad: *silence*

Me: “You were the one who took it to the shop! Don’t you remember them telling you this?”

Dad: *long pause* “We can go next week.”

(That weekend my netbook was sitting on my desk, fully repaired. I still don’t know what was going on in my dad’s head.)

(One day at the child care center where I work, I have a little boy come in with red fingernail polish on. Later that day, one of my male coworkers sees him and walks up to me.)

Coworker: “Who painted that child’s fingernails?”

Me: “His mom.”

Coworker: “Oh, my God.”

Me: “What?”

Coworker: “That poor kid doesn’t stand a chance.” *walks away*

(You’re a male working in childcare and you want to hold a three-year-old to traditional gender expectations?)

(I used to work at an alcohol stand at a popular theme park. Whenever somebody wanted alcohol, I’d need to check their ID even if they were clearly older than 21, then give them a wristband so security would know that they bought it legitimately. 99% of customers totally understand this, and even when they don’t, most are fine with it when I explain it. Now, I speak with an Aussie accent, which is fun for both me and the customers, as they have a good time trying to guess where I’m from. During one shift, a woman who’d already come up came back for more alcohol, but without the wristband I’d given her, with two other people who also want drinks.)

Customer #1: “Hi, I’d like to get another drink.”

Me: “Certainly, can I see your ID again?”

Customer #1: “What? Why? You already saw it!”

Me: “I understand, but it’s the policy.”

Customer #1: “Well, I don’t have my ID. My husband has it.”

“Me: “Then I’m sorry, but I can’t give you your drink.”

Customer #1: “Where are you from?”

Me: “What does it sound like?”

(She shoots off a few guesses like Ireland and England.)

*Me:” “No, none of those.”

Customer #1: “Can I get my drink?”

Me: “I need to see ID.”

Customer #1: “You didn’t ask for it last time!”

Customer #2: “It’s true! I saw that.”

([Customer #2] wasn’t even there the previous time. Eventually she storms off, but not before guessing Ireland and England as my country of origin a few more times. I even sing a few words from a song involving kangaroos, then try the Aussie national anthem, but she still doesn’t get it. A few minutes later, she storms back up with her husband and her two friends again. The husband is glaring at me, but he pulls out a bag of IDs.)

Husband: “One.” *tosses ID* “Two.”

(He repeats the process until there are four IDs in front of me. Having had enough of this nonsense by this point, I pick up the IDs and look at them before tossing them out on the counter, one by one, after checking them. His glare hardens.)

Husband: “Where is your manager?”

(They complained and my manager gave me a talking to for a minute, but I think she knew they were being ridiculous. I served them their drinks without further incident. Even though they kept guessing, including Ireland again, they never figured out where I was from, and kept cutting me off every time I tried to tell them.)