(While out of state with my boyfriend, my period suddenly starts. My cramps are bad enough that I can’t get out of bed, so my boyfriend goes to get some things for me. He relays this to me when he gets back to the hotel.)

Boyfriend: *at the checkout* “Just these, please.”

Cashier: “Ugh, pads? Chocolate? Should have sent your girl in.”

Boyfriend: “I would if she was able to stand.”

Cashier: “Ew, just dump her, then. You don’t need to be buying her gross s***.”

Boyfriend: “You mean things she needs? Can you please just ring me out?”

Cashier: “Nope!”

Boyfriend: “Can you get your manager, then? I need to get these and get back to her.”

Cashier: “He’s just gonna tell you the same thing.”

(It takes a minute for the manager to get there.)

Manager: “Sir? What’s the issue?”

Boyfriend: “I’ve got a bleeding, cramping girlfriend back at our hotel and this guy thinks I can’t buy her things to help with it.”

Cashier: “It’s nasty girl s***!”

Manager: “[Cashier], we’ll talk in a minute. Sir, give me just a second.”

(He goes into an aisle and returns with a hot pack. He then scans everything and then types some things into the register.)

Manager: “Your total is [low amount].”

Boyfriend: “Are you sure?”

Manager: “Absolutely.”

(He paid and then practically ran back to the hotel room. Luckily, it didn’t ruin our trip.)

(We have a coworker who, I think, worries a lot about how she measures up to the rest of the team, or at least is always acting like she knows exactly what’s going on in any situation. Even when she wouldn’t be expected to or have any reason to, she still says she knows what she’s doing, until she invariably fails.)

Customer: “I’d like to exchange these shorts for a new pair; they have a hole.”

Coworker: “Okay, sure.” *to me* “Hey, [My Name], can I just ring this up as an exchange?”

Me: “Yes. It’s an exchange. Do you know how to damage the product out and remove it from the inventory?”

Coworker: “Yes.” *scoffs* “I know how to do it.”

(I watch her start to ring up a basic return, which is different than starting an exchange.)

Me: “Oh, no, you’ll have to scan the new pair in first before returning the old pair.” 

Coworker: “Okay, I got it. I can do it.”

(I watch her do the same thing again, still wrong.)

Me: “You’re still hitting the wrong button.” 

(I reach across and cancel the transaction.)

Coworker: “I got it; I know what I’m doing.”

(I watch her start up a transaction again and go to hit the same wrong button, again. I stop her.)

Me: “No, here, scan the new item in first, and then hit this button here, instead.” *does it for her*

Coworker: “I can do it myself, thank you.”

Me: “Okay.”

(I go back to what I was doing, keeping an eye on her. She figures out the rest until the computer asks her for the reason for the exchange.)

Coworker: “Hey, [My Name], which one do I pick to say it’s damaged and remove it from the inventory?”

Me: *sigh* “That one.”

(We have been seated at a restaurant and a waitress takes our orders. When she comes back with our drinks, she puts a soda water in front of me.)

Me: “I ordered a beer.”

Waitress: “But you’re the designated driver.”

Me: “No. None of us are. We’re taking a taxi.”

(It’s clear she doesn’t believe me, and she doesn’t come back over until our food is ready. I ask again, and she reiterates her point that I am the designated driver. I ask for the owner and we explain the situation.)

Owner: “If you are the designated driver, why would you order an alcoholic drink?”

Me: “That’s the thing. I’m not. We got a taxi over, and we’re taking one back. I haven’t even got my keys with me.”

Owner: *to the waitress* “Who told you he was their driver?”

Waitress: “I did.”

Owner: “Don’t you think that is an issue if you pick the wrong person?”

Waitress: *clueless* “No.”

(The owner apologises and offers a discount. We are seen by a more competent waitress and we don’t see our original waitress until we leave and are getting into our taxi. She runs out, dragging the owner.) 

Waitress: “YOU SEE! I TOLD YOU HE WAS…”

(She realised her fault and fled back into the restaurant. The owner facepalmed and apologised to us again. While I couldn’t really fault our new waitress or the owner — with perhaps the exception of hiring that waitress — we have not been back.)

(It is 7:25 am and I have not yet had my first mug of coffee. I am driving to work having a rather intense conversation with my boss via Bluetooth.)

Boss: “Do you have any other concerns?”

Me: “Not really, Mr. [Boss]. I just don’t like driving this early. The sun is so bright. I like driving later when the other sun is out.”

Boss: “You mean… the moon? Are you okay?”

Me: “I’m pulling over at the [Donut Shop] to get coffee now, sir.”

(I am very glad he just laughed it off.)

(I’m sixteen and in my junior year in high school, and I’ve been with my boyfriend for nearly two years at this time. After missing a birth control pill earlier in the month and using condoms in the meantime, my period still comes late. Panicked, embarrassed, and fearing the worst, I stop by a big chain grocery store fairly late at night for a pregnancy test. The “adult” items are all kept behind the customer service desk, so I quietly ask for assistance, hoping I can pay at this register to avoid the judgment of other guests. I’m instead directed to the only open — and surprisingly busy — cashier, with my little box that might as well say, “PREGNANT TEENAGER!” in big, bold letters. Two more shoppers line up behind me; mortified, I keep the box in my hand and place a lane divider down for the next guest. The shopper ahead of me finishes, and without saying a word, the cashier — a grumpy-looking, middle-aged woman — reaches for the next items on the belt as I’m handing her the box.)

Me: *sheepishly* “Oh, those aren’t mine…”

Cashier: *looking up for the first time and practically shouts* “Well, what are you buying, nothing?!”

(Before I can respond, she sees the box and grabs it from my hand.)

Cashier: *condescendingly, with a big sigh* “You have to put your items on the belt, or else how am I supposed to know what’s yours?!”

(Painfully aware of everyone’s stares, I mutter a quiet:)

Me: “Sorry…”

(She scans the box and tosses it to the bagger, a young man no older than me, who bags it silently. As I finish paying, he hands me the bag with an apologetic smile, and — to my absolute horror — loudly says:)

Cashier: “Good luck! I hope you get the answer you’re hoping for!”

(I practically ran to my car, wondering if giving up sex for the rest of my life would be easier than ever doing that again. In retrospect, I realize I made it harder for myself by being SO embarrassed, but who wouldn’t be at that age? Hey, at least I wasn’t pregnant!)