Pre-health crisis, my friend sends out an email to a large group of people, inviting them to a party. He includes me on the list.

Me: *Replying to the email* “Sounds great! Can’t wait.”

I hit send and then realize too late that I selected “Reply All” by mistake.

Me: *To myself* “Aw, crap. Well, can’t be helped.”

Two minutes later, I get an email from someone I don’t know.

Unknown Person: “WHO ARE YOU AND WHY ARE YOU EMAILING MY HUSBAND? WHAT DID YOU MEAN BY ‘CAN’T WAIT’?”

It turned out that she was married to one of the other email recipients. Rather than realizing that I’d accidentally replied to the entire group, or scrolling down to see the original email, she immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion. I made sure to avoid her and her husband at the party.

My mom is selling some of her old toys that are rare and in decent condition. She would rather them go to a collector of old toys and not a child, but if the parent chooses to buy them for their child then they must pay the full asking price.

She posts the toys in a sale group, and she gets a message about some items.

The grammar and spelling are presented here exactly as they occurred in the original conversation.

Woman: “Are these still for sale?”

Mom: “Yes, they are $10 ea individually or $50 for all.”

Woman: “Thats way too much for my child”

Mom: “Sorry, that’s what I’m asking and I’m in no rush to sell them.”

Woman: “It’s Christmas and the toys are old and played with allready. I didn’t get my kids gifts yet. I dont have work cos of [the health crisis].”

Mom: “So you want me to just give them to you? I’d prefer these go to a collector. You can go to a resale shop and find toys super cheap. Plus, Christmas literally comes on the same time every year. Plan ahead next time maybe?”

Woman: “Your a b****. Your running my kids Christmas! These toys are garbage. You can give them to me. They not worth money.”

Mom: “Yeah, I AM a b****. I do not give a s*** about your kids Christmas. Maybe you should worry more about you being a s***ty parent who can’t plan ahead than if I can make a buck off a 50 year old toy train, eh? Merry Christmas!”

Since my mom is also the admin of the group, the woman was removed. There had been other complaints about her in the past, so this was the final straw.

I work in a museum that focuses on the Cherokee nation. Most of the employees, including me, are Cherokee. Phenotypically, I look white, especially compared to a lot of my other coworkers. 

A guest comes in and starts talking to one of my coworkers. He follows her to the counter, turns to me, and sneers.

Guest: “Let me guess, white girl. You’re here because your great-grandmother was a Cherokee princess, right?” 

I look him dead in the eyes.

Me: “Actually, I’m here because I was born on the boundary and was raised here by my grandmother and father; both are enrolled members of the Cherokee nation. How else can I help you today?” 

He turned and left without buying the genealogy materials my coworker had tried to talk him into buying.

Related:
If At First You Don’t Succeed, Tribe Again

I work at a legal cannabis dispensary. When a customer or patient enters the building, the security people scan their IDs to make sure they’re legitimate. Cashiers check IDs again to make sure they’re current and that the visitor is of age to purchase the product.

A woman steps up to my register. I greet her and ask to see her ID. She holds it far enough away that I’m having trouble reading her birth date and the expiration date, and she starts to put it away before I can start squinting at the card.

Me: “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I need to see your ID again.”

Once again, she held the ID far enough away that I couldn’t read anything, so I reached out to try and take the card so I could read it properly, which is pretty common for us to do. Not only did she not let go of the card, but she snatched it from my hand and told me not to invade her privacy. 

Before I could tell her that state regulations require me to thoroughly check her ID, OR that I see so many IDs during a day and would not remember any of her information if I tried, she marched off back into line and declared that she was going to wait for someone else to help her, never mind that any other cashier would need to see her ID, as well.

She eventually complained to our general manager, who didn’t know how to get it through to her that it’s legally required of us to check her ID.

Related:
No ID, No Idea, Part 42
No ID, No Idea, Part 41
No ID, No Idea, Part 40
No ID, No Idea, Part 39
No ID, No Idea, Part 38

It’s my first time flying internationally — just from the USA to Canada, and the previous times I’d been to Canada were by car before passports were required — so it’s also my first time through customs. I either miss the announcement and signs concerning declaration forms or there just aren’t any, and I am the only person not in the know, as when we get off the plane in Quebec, I am the only one who doesn’t have a form filled out.

Cue me hastily filling out paperwork on a back table while all the other passengers finish their interviews and carry on with their travels. Finally done, I look up and see that I am now alone with a single customs agent waiting on me. I approach her and hand over my forms. The agent reviews them.

Canadian Agent: “What’s the reason for your visit?”

Me: “I’m visiting a friend.”

Canadian Agent: “And how did you meet?”

Me: “Online.”

I notice the agent’s eyes narrowing suspiciously at this.

Canadian Agent: “What is their name, and how long have you known each other?”

Me: “[Friend’s Full Name], and we’ve known each other for ten years.”

Canadian Agent: “Is this your first time meeting in person?”

Me: “Yes, but we voice and video chat frequently as well as send each other mail occasionally.”

Canadian Agent: “Where does your friend live?”

Me: “[Small Town] on the coast.”

Canadian Agent: “And you’re just friends?”

Her tone has changed to downright accusatory and I’m a bit taken aback.

Me: “Yes. She’s one of my best and oldest friends. We’ve just never had a chance to meet in person before due to the distance.”

I am asked a few more probing questions into the nature of my relationship with my friend, each getting more direct and suggestive about what I intend to do with my “friend,” as if the concept of traveling internationally to meet someone who you have a platonic relationship with is completely impossible.

I finally manage to escape that uncomfortable line of questioning and enjoy a lovely time with my friend and her family! Then comes my return trip and second time through customs.

The American agent glances over my forms and passport.

American Agent: “Welcome back.”

They go through a spiel about taxable goods, high-value purchases, and forbidden items, asking if I have anything to declare.

Me: “Nope, none of that.”

The agent indicates toward my large suitcase.

American Agent: “What’s in there?”

Me: “Mostly rocks. Turns out the area I went to has lots of raw jasper!”

American Agent: “Really?! That’s awesome!”

And with that, I was sent on my way. I’m sure it was mostly just the difference between leaving and returning to the country, but the fifth degree the Canadian agent gave me about my friend still leaves a bad taste in my mouth.