(When I walk my dogs, one of them wears a “halti,” basically a horse-style halter for dogs. This lets us tug on her chin instead of her neck, perfect for a dog who would otherwise spend every moment of a walk with her nose to the ground. We’re sitting at the park and a guy walks by on the way to the restroom.)

Guy: “I see your dog’s wearing a muzzle. I was a dog trainer in the army for ten years, and I’m used to dealing with aggressive dogs. Maybe I can help.”

Me: “Thanks, but we’re good.”

(The guy sort of shrugs and continues on his way. The way a halti fits around the dog’s face, it DOES look a bit like a muzzle. It’s an honest mistake that many people make. However, they’re common enough that I’d expect a “professional” dog trainer to be well aware of their existence even it if wasn’t something they used themselves. Assuming the interaction is over, my companion and I continue our conversation. However, when the guy comes out of the bathroom, he approaches us again.)

Guy: “Now.” *staring at my pup* “What seems to be the problem?”

(The words seem innocuous in writing, but his tone was, for lack of a better word, aggressive. Not wanting to embarrass him, I’d refrained from correcting him before, but since he insisted on butting into our business, I explain:)

Me: “Actually, this isn’t a muzzle; it’s a halti.”

(That’s when my dog — the sweetest, most lovable little lab mix anyone could ever want, a dog who’s all wags and licks when she meets new people — starts snarling. Her teeth are bared, hackles raised, the whole shebang. I’ve never seen her behave like that in her entire life. She clearly wants nothing to do with this dude, who now has a smug look on his face.)

Guy: “See? I knew your dog was vicious.”

(Finally, after standing there staring for what felt like forever and causing the dog to stress out more and more, he took the hint and left, but I wonder… was he just a blowhard trying to impress strangers with his “dog training expertise”? Or was he an actual dog trainer who gave off such a bad vibe that he couldn’t even approach a sweet-tempered family pet without freaking it out? If that were the case, no wonder he was used to working with “aggressive” animals. Either way, I agreed with the dog. Grrr.)

(I’m running my particular department by myself on this Saturday; I got roped into covering a shift. It’s not so terrible, but I sell fine art supplies and I get the chance to deal with the most pompous customers from time to time. The phone rings, and I answer.)

Me: “Art and supplies; how may I help you today?”

Caller: “Do you have [Paint Brand]?”

Me: “I’m sorry, we—“

Caller: *starts rambling about something unrelated* “So, do you have it?”

Me: “We—“

Caller: “I want cadmium red, orange, and a blue. Do you have [Paint Brand]?”

Me: “Sir, we don’t hav—“

Caller: “Do you have it?”

Me: “We don—“

Caller: “Stop interrupting me! You know, you young people are so g**d*** RUDE!” *starts rambling on and on*

Me: *hangs up*

(I was diagnosed with a general anxiety disorder and panic disorder at nineteen, and have been on anti-anxiety medications since. Sometimes, they stop being as effective, or the side effects become worse, and I need to return to a doctor to change my prescription. This was never an issue before, as my dosage is low and I don’t require strong or addictive medication. However, after moving, I go to see a new doctor. The clinic has gotten all my medical records from my previous one, and I have filled out the forms, detailing my conditions. The doctor is a general practitioner, is male and middle-aged, and immediately seems to be only paying half-attention. I am a twenty-five-year-old female.)

Doctor: “Now, why is someone like you on anxiety medication?”

Me: *confused* “Because I have an anxiety and panic disorder. I was diagnosed years ago, as it says in my file.”

Doctor: “Have you ever tried losing weight?”

Me: “Uh, yes. I’ve been on diets since I was five. I do eat healthily and I walk a mile almost daily–“

Doctor: “And you’re not working.”

Me: *having no idea what this has to do with anything* “No, not yet. I just moved states with my family.”

Doctor: “So, you plan on working? Or are you going to school?”

(I have absolutely no idea where this conversation is going, or why he’s suddenly asking about my life. In the back of my head, I’m hoping he’s trying to figure out what medication to put me on if I’m entering a more stressful situation.)

Me: “No, I’m not planning on going to college, and I’ve started looking for a job–“

Doctor: *cutting me off in a grandfatherly, scolding tone* “Now, why aren’t you planning on going to college? There are lots of good colleges around here.” *starts naming off colleges*

(I am getting increasingly embarrassed and flustered. I attended one year of community college, but my health had taken such a terrible turn from the constant stress and panic attacks I nearly ended up in the hospital. I didn’t continue.)

Me: “I’m… not really interested in going back to college, sir. Can we get back to my–“

Doctor: *dismissively* “Now, now, I’ve got a granddaughter your age; I know what I’m talking about. You don’t need more pills. What you need is to get your degree, lose weight, and find a good man to marry. You’re anxious because your life isn’t heading anywhere! I’ll put you on [medication] for now, but when you come back, I expect you to be enrolled somewhere, you hear?” *winking at me* “Doctor’s orders.”

(I was so bewildered and humiliated I just wanted to get out of the office. I took my prescription and never returned to his office again. I’ve had doctors be unprofessional before, but I’ve never had one lecture me on how going to college would magically cure my mental illness!)

(I am working at the customer service desk when the phone rings:)

Me: “Thank you for calling [Store] customer service. This is [My Name]. How can I help you?”

Caller: “I have a complaint. Are you a manager?”

Me: “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m not a manager but I can call for one. Could you hold?”

Caller: “No, you’re just going to hang up on me. Some b**** at the service desk told me that I can’t do any more returns. That’s bulls***!”

Me: “That’s odd. Did she say why?”

Caller: “I didn’t have a receipt. But I’ve done it before!”

Me: “In order to do a return without a receipt, we need your ID for our records. If you do three non-receipt returns in a rolling six-month period, the system flags your ID and puts a hold on it for ninety days. We can—“

Caller: “That’s so f****** stupid.”

Me: “Sir, I would appreciate it if you stopped swearing at me.”

Caller: *mocking* “Oh. Okay. I’ll stop swearing.”

Me: “Now, I am not a manager but I can—“

Caller: “I want that girl fired!”

Me: “I don’t have the authority to do that, but I can take some basic information and have a manager call you back, or I can put you on hold and get a manager now.”

Caller: “I want to hear you tell that snotty b**** that she is fired!”

Me: “Again, I do not have that authority. Beyond that, I don’t know which associate you’re talking about.”

Caller: “Well, find out!”

Me: “Do you remember anything about the associate or the time you were here?”

Caller: “That’s not my job!”

Me: *fed up* “Okay. Can I put you on hold to get a manager?”

Caller: “No!”

Me: “Can I take your information and have a manager call back?”

Caller: “No!”

Me: “What would you like me to do, sir?”

Caller: “DO SOMETHING!”

Me: “Okay.” *to the wall beside me* “Hey! You’re fired!” *to the customer* “Is that okay, sir?”

Caller: “Finally!” *hangs up*

(I am a high school student that likes to go to the library or somewhere quiet to study. Normally, I would sit in the computer study or teen area, but today there seems to be something wrong with the book scan in both so I head to the adult and study area, where I find this conversation happening.)

Woman: “My kid just wants to borrow a book. Why do I need this stupid card you’re talking about!?”

(The worker is a young lad, just started his job here two weeks ago, and still knows more than the woman fighting with him.)

Worker: “Ma’am, it is the policy that you have to sign up to the library and then get a library card. You cannot borrow a book without having said card to swipe on this machine and then scan the book. This lets us know when you borrowed it and when it needs to be returned, and keeps account of how many books you have borrowed.”

Woman: “I don’t care about this stupid card; my son needs this book!”

(The eight-year-old boy is at the counter, signing up to the library, and I am simply helping him do it as his Mum is a bit preoccupied.)

Worker: “Ma’am, you can’t just take the book; you need to get a library card.”

Woman: “But why?!”

Worker: “Because it is store policy!”

Woman: “Don’t raise your tone at me, young man!”

(I step in, having been coming to this library for years and knowing all the rules and how it works.)

Me: “Ma’am, store policy states you need a library card to take out books. Your son and I, while you were making a fuss over it, already created an account, registered the book, and started reading and doing his school work already. Now, if you’re going to continue to make a big fuss, then I suggest you leave and think about how you talked to this boy when he was stating a fact. Now that you have your card, you can borrow any books; it is a simple three-step verification and can be done in minutes! Now, if you excuse the boy, he is the only worker in this section and there is a line waiting to ask him questions!”

(The woman stayed silent, grabbed her son, and left instantly. On the way out, the little boy turned around and mouthed what I think was, “Sorry,” and waved goodbye. As for the boy who was working, he thanked me a lot and told his manager. We all had a laugh.)