Customer: *picking up a beautiful Zulu basket made of telephone wire* “Oh, I love the rainbow pattern in this one! But y’know, it’s too bad they took the rainbow and made it into something it wasn’t supposed to mean.”

Me: “…”

(I am working as a volunteer in a reenactment of Bethlehem at the time of the birth of Christ. I am working as a soap maker with three other women and a two-year-old. One half of the area is our shop and the other is a living area. I am working in the shop, explaining soap making to curious guests and handing out samples to children)

Me: “Hello, welcome to my soap shop!”

Guest: *says something in Spanish*

Daughter: *translates* “Can she have one of those?” *points to samples*

(I normally only give samples to children, but if an adult asks I don’t refuse.)

Me: “Here you go!”

(The lady takes the sample and pops it in her mouth. Her daughter and I lock eyes. The soap we have on display is homemade and I get told it looks like cheese all the time.)

Daughter: “Jabon!” *the Spanish word for soap; something I learned from the encounter*

(They leave.)

Coworker: “Do you need a break?”

Me: “Of course!”

(I delight the guests by playing dreidel with the baby until my coworker comes over and whispers to me.)

Coworker: “We had a lady come and eat some of the myrrh.”

(Myrrh is an amber-rock-looking thing that smells good. One of our soaps is made with it and it’s one of the gifts the Wise Men gave to Jesus so we have it on display.)

Me: *facepalm* “It’s going to be a long night.”

(A friend of mine told me this story. She is meeting her eight-year-old granddaughter at the annual spring fair in our village. Note: ours is small village so the fair is tiny — two rides, one raffle ticket booth, one shooting range, and four stalls that sell sweets and toys.)

Granddaughter: “Grandma, I’m thirsty. Can you give me money to buy something to drink?”

Friend: “I already gave you ten euros.”

Granddaughter: “I spent it all.”

Friend: “And what about the 20 Euros that your godmother gave you?”

Granddaughter: “I spent that, as well.”

Friend: “Well, if you spent all your money, you just have to go home to get something to drink.”

Granddaughter: *outraged* “Clearly you WANT ME TO DIE OF THIRST!”

(And no, my friend didn’t give her any more money.)

(My school is holding an art fair so we can see how to sell art. There are lots of different types of artists. I go to the one who most closely resembles my art style. I am holding my best piece, which is a name poster. I figured people would want custom name posters, so I hope it will be easy to sell.)

Me: “Hi…”

Artist: “Hello there! Can I see your picture?”

Me: *hands it over* “Um… I know it’s not very good, but I was hoping people might like it enough to buy?”

Artist: “Hmm…”

Me: *talks more because silence makes me nervous* “It’s not like I’m looking for a lot of money, but my family is going through some… things… and I wanted to contribute if only a little… This won’t be a career; I’d only do this until I could get a real.”

Artist: “What did you make this with?”

Me: “Printer paper and some pens.”

Artist: “Well, it’s pretty good. You should probably use a ruler, but otherwise, the design is nice. But the materials are completely unacceptable! The first thing you need to do is go out and buy real pens. Don’t worry; I know where you can buy a set for under $100!”

Me: “Um, that’s not really–”

Artist: “And definitely upgrade your paper! It will be an expensive investment, but it will be worth it! I recommend getting a [fancy type of poster-quality paper].”

(I kind of stopped listening at that point, because she wasn’t listening to me. I didn’t have any money to spend on supplies. I still thanked her, but I left as soon as possible. In a way, she did answer my question; no one would want to buy my name posters.)

(I am heading into the county fair with some friends. I have a folding knife in its case attached to my belt. At the entrance gate, as we prepare to pay to get in, the ticket seller looks at me.)

Seller: “You can’t bring that knife in here.”

Me: “Why not?”

Seller: “We don’t want anyone getting stabbed.”

(I look past the gate. The VERY FIRST vendor inside the gate is selling knives, much bigger than the one I have.)

Me: “He’s selling knives right there!”

Seller: “You can’t bring it in. We don’t want anyone getting stabbed.”

(Note to self: if you want to stab someone at this particular county fair, you’re required to buy one of their knives to do it.)