(I work at a large national ice cream chain. Because corporate tries to be ‘fun,’ our service door says ‘Ice Cream Makers Only’ instead of Employees or Staff Only. One day, I see a man in an apron opening the door.)

Me: “Oh, please don’t go in there. It’s only for—”

Man: “Yup, I know, and I work at [Local Ice Cream Shop across the street].”

Me: “Fine, sir. You still can’t go in there.”

Man: “Chill, dude, we make our own ice cream. It’s not imported. I make the ice cream.”

Me: “Stop, please!”

(By now he has figured it out and is turning the handle.)

Me: *quickly locks the door*

Man: “LET ME IN! I deserve to be here!”

Me: “Please leave right now!”

Man: *banging on door* “NO! I AM ONE OF YOU!”

(It’s worth noting that I work in a very small store, with an ice cream counter that spans one end. It’s slow at the moment, so I’m wiping down the counter while my coworker is in back getting a head start on the dishes when a middle-aged woman comes in and gets an ice cream cone.)

Me: “All right, here you go. That’s $3.91”

Customer: “Thanks.” *hands me a five-dollar bill*

Me: “Okay, your change is $1.09, there you are!”

Customer: “Thanks.” *takes change*

(I think that’s the end of it, unless she drops some change into the communal tip jar. However, after pocketing the coins she leans over the counter and gives me a handshake, slipping the bill into my hand. I look at her, confused, as we have a very clearly marked tip jar a foot away.)

Customer: “I don’t believe in sharing.”

Me: “Um, thanks.”

(She walked out before I could say anything else. As I’m wondering what to do my coworker comes out of the doorway to the back, where he obviously saw everything.)

Coworker: “You handled that really well.”

Me: “Thanks. So should I just put this in the jar?”

Coworker: “No, that would be shared, and we can’t have that, now can we?”

(The ice cream shop I work at also sells candy in a separate section. Since I’m working alone, I’ve closed the candy section. A girl who looks about nine comes in.)

Girl: “Excuse me, could I go in the candy spot?”

Me: “Sure.”

(I open the section and let her wander around. I notice she keeps approaching the candy bars, then backing away looking disappointed.)

Me: “Are you looking for something special?”

Girl: *shyly* “I only have this much…”

(She holds out her hand, revealing about twenty cents in nickels and pennies.)

Me: “Why don’t you look at the bulk bins? We sell that candy by the weight, so you can probably get something from there.”

(She heads to the bins I’m pointing at and carefully counts out a few candies to weigh.)

Me: “Okay, that’s going to be fourteen cents. Do you want to get a few more?”

Girl: “Nope, that’s just enough!”

(She handed me the money, but still had a few cents in her hand. As she took the bag from me, she dropped the remaining change in the tip jar and scurried out. She gave up a little extra candy to give me a tip. It was far from my largest tip, but it was my favorite.)

(I’m standing holding my six-month-old little girl. I’m obviously Caucasian. My daughter has a darker skin tone and slightly wavy hair. Most people assume she’s a mixed race, sometimes African, sometimes Spaniard.)

Stranger: “Where’s your cute baby from?!”

Me: “She was born in [local Utah town].”

Stranger: “No, but seriously. Where is she FROM?!”

(The stranger then grabs my arm and stares intently.)

Me: *backing away* “Uh, I gave birth to her here. So, she’s from Utah.”

Stranger: “UGH, you don’t get it! I’m trying to ADOPT and want to know where you got your baby! She’s obviously adopted!”

Me: “Look, my husband is from Kenya. I gave birth here. She’s from here. She is not adopted. Please stop harassing me.”

(By now everyone is gawking.)

Stranger: “She is obviously adopted. You are not fooling anyone!”

Me: “I’ll take credit for 12 hours of labor and an emergency C-section thank you.”

(She’s still staring down at me and rolling her eyes. So I pulled up my shirt and showed her my obvious C-section line.)

Stranger: “Well, that could be fake! You never know! It’s fake!”

(She left the ice cream shop still ranting about my ‘fake’ C-section scar… My ice cream was free.)

(I’ve just gotten off a really long, rough shift and decide to treat myself with some ice cream from a shop that’s just opened for the season. I order a small cone and hold out my debit card for the cashier to take while checking my phone.)

Cashier: “Oh. Um… I’m sorry, but we don’t accept cards.”

Me: *looking up* “Oh, really?”

(As I look up, I see just above the cashier’s head a 2x3ft neon pink sign with large, bold letters that say, “No cards accepted. Sorry for any inconvenience”. I glance around and see no less than three more large, bright signs all saying some variation of the pink one.)

Me: *laughing* “Oh, my god, I am so sorry. I’ve always sworn to myself I wouldn’t be one of THOSE customers, you know? Ah, golly, here, lemme run to my car and get some cash. I’m so sorry.”

(After I pay, the girl hands me a medium cone. I’m about to go back to the counter and tell her she gave me a larger size than I wanted when I see some writing on the napkin wrapped around the cone.)

Note On Napkin: “Thank you for not being one of THOSE customers! Here’s to summer. Hope to see you again!”