(I have just been hired to go to events where there are a lot of people, and advertise our company. My boss is in her 20s, and shows up wearing yoga pants, Uggs, a thin shirt threatening to burst, and a lot of tacky jewelry. Meanwhile, I’m dressed in the uniform. I decide to shrug it off — after all, she is the boss — and start my job.)

Me: *to event goers* “Hello! Would you like to try some of our food?!”

(I’m yelling because the convention is very noisy.)

Boss: *gasps* “Oh, my God! Are you shy?!“

Me: “Um, what?”

Boss: “You have to do it like this!”

(She walks up directly to a male event-goer.)

Boss: “HELLO! COME TRY OUR FOOD!”

(Everybody looks around.)

Event-Goer: “I, uh, no thanks.” *tries to step around her*

Boss: *blocking his way with her body* “COME ON! IT’S FREE!”

(I see the man shaking his head no, but my boss refuses to let him through; he’d have to push her. It’s a cringeworthy scene. Reluctantly, he comes over and scoots away once he takes some food like he’s afraid of catching a plague.)

Boss: “And that’s how you do it!”

Me: “Making people looking for a good time uncomfortable? Sorry, I don’t think this job is for me.”

Boss: “Yeah, you’re too shy.”

(I think the word she was looking for was “polite,” but whatever.)

(My husband and I stop at a gas station on a trip to the beach. We both decide to use the restrooms. The doors on the individual stalls have unusually large — to me — gaps at the bottom, at least a foot high. While I am in one of the stalls, a woman comes up and tries to open the door.)

Me: “Occupied.”

Woman #1: *bangs on the door* “Somebody in there?”

Me: “Yes.”

Woman #1: *bangs again* “Helloooo?”

Me: “YES, OCCUPIED!”

(The woman bends down and peers under the door, not just looking at my feet, but she actually makes eye contact with me!)

Woman #1: “Oh. There’s someone in this one.” *to someone else* “This one’s being used.”

(She walks away and goes to the stall beside me. Another woman comes up and looks under again, this time without knocking or anything.)

Woman #2: “Oh, yeah. This one, too.”

Woman #1: “No, that’s the one I just told you about!”

Woman #2: “Oh.”

(When I left the stall, the second woman was still waiting. As I passed her, she huffed and said, “Finally,” under her breath. I wasn’t in there for more than five minutes! When I told my husband about my encounter, he said I should have winked at the women since they were so intent on seeing me.)

(There’s a new movie out called “Dirty Grandpa.”)

Every Single Old Customer That Walks In: “A ticket for Dirty Grandpa. Not that I am one!”

(Then they wink at me and walk away, leaving me desperate for a shower.)

(I’ve been looking to rent a room or find a roommate to rent with, so I’ve posted an ad to Craigslist. Due to getting endless offers from guys who seem to not be able to understand what “female only” means, and feeling like I’m being harassed, I’ve had to get extremely explicit and repetitive in stating I’m absolutely unwilling to live with men in any way, shape, or form, and unwilling to live with any female roommates with boyfriends who ever stay overnight or hang around excessively. It’s not due to religion; I’m atheist. I just have strong comfort preferences for roommates. Let’s face it: boyfriends who sleep over or hang around a lot ARE roommates; they just don’t pay rent or have to clean. I word it politely — for Craigslist — but quite insistently. I quickly get an email from someone whose name indicates she’s female, but it seems not actually for the purpose of offering me a room.)

Email:

“What the hell is wrong with you? Do you really hate men? You must be some crazy terrorist Muslim [slur] recluse woman! Imagine, hating all men like that! No one will ever want to sleep with you or even be friends with you with that attitude! Loser!

And how dare you even state anything that sounds like you’re trying to tell me what to do in my own house?! It’s my house! And an extremely lovely and expensive house it is! In the best part of Santa Monica! And I’ll do anything I like in it and invite whoever I like! How dare you have the gall to try to tell me what to do in my own home?! If I deign to invite you to live in my house, you are a guest and have no rights to decide anything! You must treat me deferentially! I’ll do whatever I please in my house! You must be as much of a worthless loser as you sound like! Loser!”

My Reply:

“’Guest: [standard dictionary definition, i.e. someone who stays for free.]’ So, [Woman], if you’re willing to be kind enough to allow me to live in your house completely and totally for free, I’d love to take you up on it, and of course I’ll then not ask to make any decisions at all about what goes on there. Otherwise, however, if you would in fact expect me to pay an equal share of the rent, then I’d actually not be considered a guest at all, but a proper house resident with all the rights that you’ve got. And I will very much expect anyone I live with to have just as much regard for my rules and preferences as I’m expected to for theirs.

Of course, [Woman], that certainly won’t be you, as you’ve made clear you’re a giant xenophobe and racist, and I consider myself to be quite lucky to have been so quickly and effectively warned off you, by you, yourself. Good riddance to utter trash. Don’t contact me again.”

(I blocked her email immediately after sending the reply. I always kind of wondered whether she was an utter nutter trolling random folks on Craigslist, or if she actually was a — nutty — Santa Monica homeowner with an expensive house, renting out a room. The latter isn’t out of the question, sadly, but no matter how nice the house and neighborhood, I severely pity anyone she dupes into living there. You’d have to live like a vampire to get any peace from her.)

(It is the 1980s. I’m male with long hair but can’t be considered feminine by any stretch of the imagination. I try out for a part in the school play. I’m hanging out with friends afterwards, discussing various actors and actresses whose methods we like.)

Me: “You know, my parents would be so upset if they knew I wanted to be a thespian.”

(At that point, a young woman nearby jumps up from her table and storms over to where I’m at.)

Woman: “You don’t have to pitch your voice so low if you want to be a lesbian!”

(I blink and look over to where she’s hovering an inch away from me.)

Me: “Lesbian? Well, I do like women, so… but no, we’re talking about thespians. You know, actors and actresses.”

Woman: “It’s okay to be a lesbian. I’m one. Why are you trying to look all manly?”

Me: “Uh, because I am a man.”

Woman: *now screeching* “No, you’re not! Why are you trying to act all butch? Is it because of your friends?”

(She then started screaming at them for trying to get me to act male. I didn’t know what else to do, so I stood up and grabbed my crotch and yelled, “To thine own self be true!” It was then that she realize that I was indeed a man, turned bright red, and stormed off. Every since that day, I’ve been called the lesbian thespian by my friends.)