(I am a mother of three children, and I go to the local mall to put my younger daughter’s name down for soccer in some Christmas activities there. The person at the registry is a man.)

Me: “Hi, I’d like to put my child down for soccer.”

Registrar: “Sure. Name?”

Me: “[Unisex name].”

Registrar: “Okay, and where are they? I need a picture.”

(I show him my daughter. He frowns and then writes a form after taking a picture. A couple of weeks later, I come back. The same registrar is there, setting up some Halloween banners.)

Me: “Uh, excuse me, I think you made a mistake. I put [Daughter’s Name] down for soccer, but you put her under the ballet registration.”

Registrar: “It’s simple; I just put her down for what she wanted.”

Me: “No. I definitely put her down for soccer. She hates ballet.”

Registrar: *gritted teeth* “Gymnastics then.”

Me: “No! I wanted to put her down for soccer!”

Registrar: “Hey. If you can’t read the sign, don’t register your b****** child.”

(I look. The sign simply says giving children a happy time, and stuff about making sure every child has a fair game.)

Me: “There’s stuff about fair game. How many children have you registered that are playing over the vacation?”

Registrar: “35.”

Me: “How many are girls?”

Registrar: “18.”

Me: “How big are the soccer, football, and hockey teams?”

Registrar: “Nine each.”

Me: “And the ballet and gymnastics, how many girls in each?”

Registrar: “Nine each.”

Me: “How many girls are in the sports teams?”

Registrar: “None. Look, girls can’t handle that s***. They don’t want to get dirty or hurt. If they do, they f****** cry and it’s annoying. Anyway, boys don’t do ballet and gymnastics, so I have to only put the girls down. We got fewer girls than we expected. Otherwise, there’d be too few and we’d have to cancel them.”

Me: “You do know you’re being sexist?”

Registrar: “You want to argue with it, [then] take it up with [Organizer].”

(The organizer is behind the kiosk, signing up another mother with a girl and boy.)

Me: “Excuse me; your employee put my daughter down for ballet when I chose soccer.”

Organizer: “I know he did. We have to put some girls in ballet and gymnastics; otherwise there wouldn’t be much to teach.”

Me: “Not every girl that comes here!”

(The other mother quickly looks at a form for her daughter.)

Mother: “I put [Girl’s Name] down for hockey!”

Organizer: “We just do our best. We need to make sure every class we teach this vacation is equal and fair. Read the sign. We’ve had to divide them into different numbers.”

Me: “I don’t care WHAT you say; you two are being sexist; plus, it’s hardly ‘equal’ if you put EVERY girl in these lessons and not allow them to take part in the sports! My daughter wants to play soccer and you put her down for ballet.”

(The organizer lifts up some plastic packaging; it’s bright pink with a pattern of fairies, stars and cakes.)

Organizer: “Remember to pay $3.50 for this on your way out.”

(The other mother and I immediately leave. We tell our friends’ children and other children from my children’s school about this, and soon, they completely boycott, with only 16 of the original 37 children signed up for sports. They were all boys, I might add. I don’t think they can divide that by five.)

(My neighbors have gone out for the day, and have asked me to babysit their youngest daughter, who is about two years old. I bring her to the mall so we can do a little shopping. I have her strapped into her stroller, and am pushing her around through the clothes racks. As I pause to look at some tops, a rather large customer walks past a rack, and knocks off some of the merchandise. She bends over to pick up the clothes.)

Two-Year-Old: “D***! That lady got a fat a**!”

(The customer rounds on me with a death glare.)

Customer: “What did you just say?!”

(I point at the two-year-old girl, completely mortified.)

Me: “I am so sorry! That was her!”

(The customer opens her mouth to berate me when the two-year-old girl pipes up again.)

Two-Year-Old: “D***! What a fat b****!”

(The customer stares at the little girl in shock before glaring at me again.)

Me: “She’s not mine! I’m just babysitting!” *to the child* “You shouldn’t say things like that! It’s very mean, and rude! Who taught you that anyways?!”

Two-Year-Old: “Big sister! Now buy me candy, b****!”

(I quickly wheeled her away under the glaring gaze of the customer. I didn’t babysit her ever again!)

(My mother and I are clothes shopping, when I notice a comic book store has opened. Being a massive geek, I have to go check it out. My mother, who is tolerant but not at all interested, follows reluctantly. Her hobby is equestrian-eventing and she always refers to the horses affectionately as ‘ponies.’ I walk into the store and immediately end up chatting with the cashier, because she is wearing a ‘Doctor Who’ t-shirt, and she has a sonic screwdriver on her belt. My mother is wandering around the store poking things for about three minutes, and then comes to stand behind me.)

Mother: *in a whisper* “I like ponies.”

(I ignore and continue chatting to the cashier.)

Mother: *a bit louder* “I like ponies.”

Me: “Okay, Mom, let me just find [issue of Doctor Who comic], and then we’ll be off.”

Mother: *following me through the shelves* “I like ponies!” *louder* “I like ponies!”

Me: “Ah here it is; let me pay and we can leave.”

Mother: *almost yelling* “I like ponies!”

(I go back and chat with the cashier, while she rings up the comic and finds the name of another series we’d talked about.)

Mother: “I LIKE PONIES! I. LIKE. PONIES!”

Cashier: *laughing uncontrollably* “I take it you’re the household geek-a-freak?”

Me: “You have no idea.”

Mother: “PO-NIES!”

(I am three years old. My mom takes me shopping at one of the big department stores. They have a cafeteria downstairs and clothing on the second floor. While my mom is shopping, I wander off. She searches frantically for me and finally finds me in the cafeteria surrounded by people and candy, eating ice cream. My only excuse is I really love ‘Little Orphan Annie.’)

Me: “Yes, I’m an orphan. My orphan house mother is so mean. We never get candy and she never lets us sing…”

(It takes a little convincing on my mother’s part to make them believe I am lying. I like to think she eventually forgave me.)

(I am wandering through the mall, and a guy working at the pet store decides to try hitting on me. After a minute or two of small talk, he switches tactics and tries some bragging.)

Guy: “So, you know, I can work on any kind of engine that has ever been built!”

Me: “Really? What do you think of sleeve-valves?”

(The guy stares at me blankly.)

Me: “You know, sleeve-valves. Aren’t they neat? I know they had their problems, but it’s such a shame that they never really gained popularity.”

Guy: “Sleeve-valves?”

Me: “They were used in engines of some of the cars from the 1920’s, mostly the Sterns and Willys Knights.”

Guy: “Oh, well I meant I can work on any modern engine that has ever been built.”

(I think he picked the wrong girl to try out that pick-up line. It’s a shame too; if he had actually been able to back up his statement, he would have had me hook, line, and sinker.)