My winter boots just gave up on me in the middle of winter, so uncool of them. Seeing as I was heading into the city with a friend of mine to meet up with another friend, the friend and I headed into a shoe store on the way.

I have really large and wide feet for a lady, a size 42-43 to be precise, and not many stores have that for a lady’s option. We enter a store, and I spot some really pretty boots that I want to try.

Me: “Hi, excuse me, do you have this in a 42?”

Sales Lady: “We have it in a 41.”

Me: “Oh no, thank you, that won’t fit, and—”

Sales Lady: “It will fit you. Sit down.”

Me: “Okay?”

I have Autism, so I’m not really a confrontational person or do well in social settings, so I sit down on a bench and take off my shoe.

Sales Lady: *Shoving the shoe on my foot.* “Here, put this on. See, it fits perfectly!”

It doesn’t. The whole shoe feels cramped, and I can barely move my toes.

Me: “The shoe actually feels small.”

Sales Lady: “Where does it feel small?!

Me: “The whole shoe?”

Sales Lady: “Where!?”

Me: “Uh, the toes?”

She then proceeds to place her thumb down hard on the edge of the shoe to measure, which, with the shoe being tight, I could feel.

Sales Lady: “Nope, it feels fine. It’s perfect for you!”

Me: “Uh, no, thank you.”

As I bend to take off the shoe, I give a small, exasperated sigh, justifiable, I may say.

Sales Lady: “You shouldn’t roll your eyes at me, you know!”

I quickly put my shoe back on, grab my friend, and practically run out of the store.

It’s a shame, the store had pretty shoes, but that lady didn’t have a pretty attitude.

I’m calling a tech support line because something isn’t working. It’s connected via one of those cords where both ends look exactly the same.

Tech: “Okay, let’s try something. Unplug both ends… and now plug each end into the opposite port.”

I do it.

Me: “…Was that so you could make sure it was actually plugged in without asking me if it was plugged in?”

There’s a pause, then he laughs.

Tech: “Yeah. You figured it out.”

My wife and I were shopping at our local grocery store, talking to each other, deciding on what kind of bread we wanted when we were interrupted by a sweaty, panting man in a polo.

Guy: “Hi, folks! Are you using your [Grocery Chain] rewards card today?”

Wife: “Yep!”

Guy: “Well, how would you like an even better card?”

He whips out a [grocery chain] credit card from a retractable sleeve on his belt and holds it like it’s a prize on Price is Right. He then, still panting, flies into a spiel about the benefits, limits, APR, and all the details that neither my wife nor I care to take in.

Guy: “So what do you say? Ready to sign up?”

Wife: “No thanks, we’re good.”

Guy: “Are you sure? I’ll do ten push ups if you do!”

Wife: “…no thank you.”

He dejectedly left, leaving us wondering if the last shoppers he cornered did make him do the push ups. We also stopped going to that store.

I suffer from terribly dry hands in winter, so bad that without constant lotion, my skin cracks and bleeds. Today I forgot to reapply before heading out, and by mid-afternoon, my knuckles and pinkies are a bloody mess.

I pass by a kiosk that sells high-priced skin care products, and the women there are trying to flag down people with samples of lotion in order to pitch their items. I decide I’m desperate enough for a little relief to deal with their sales pitch so I can get a free sample of lotion on my hands.

Me: “I could use some lotion. My hands are really chapped.”

I hold out my hands, expecting her to tear open the sample dose of lotion she’s holding and squirt it onto my skin. However, she takes a look at my cracked and bloody fingers and gasps in horror.

Woman: “Oh no, sir, we need to use our best product for you.”

She puts the lotion packet down and picks up a wide-mouth jar of something coarse and greasy. 

She has me hold my hands over a metal bowl, scoops some stuff out of the jar, and starts rubbing it on my hands.

Woman: “This is made from salt taken from the Dead Sea. Doesn’t it feel amazing?”

Me: *Calmly but emphatically.* “To be honest, it stings like hell because you are literally rubbing salt into my wounds. Could you please wash that off? Quickly?”

Her eyes go wide when she realizes what she’s doing, and she sprays my hands off with a spray bottle as fast as she can. 

She still tried to get me to buy that overpriced oily salt.

It’s Saturday night, and one of our employees is calling out for her early Sunday morning shift.

Employee: “Yeah, I got a couch being delivered.”

Me: “Your shift is 4 AM to 10 AM. How early is the couch coming?”

Employee: “Well, the store opens at 10 AM on Sundays, so…”

Me: “You know they won’t be delivering your couch at 4 AM, right?”

Employee: “I don’t know that. No one can know that!”

She seemed to think that was a perfectly decent reason to call out. Oddly enough, she never came back to work after that call. A week later and we couldn’t reach her at all.

I’m talking to the manager about closing out her employment file with us, and he says:

Manager: “Wow, that couch must really be comfy!”