(I’m at the store pharmacy in a retirement community waiting for my prescription. There is a row of chairs, and I watch an elderly couple come over. The man sits down. His wife has a grocery cart, and apparently he plans to wait while she is shopping. I assume that due to his age or a disability, he isn’t able to walk around the whole store with her. Then, I overhear this:)

Wife: “Do you want to have a cookie while you wait?”

Husband: “Yeah.”

Wife: “Then go get it yourself. I’m not getting it for you!”

(I’m a man, and my female friend from California is visiting me in Maryland for the weekend before her next semester of college starts. We’re going to tour DC with my girlfriend. Her first morning after her flight, we’ve woken up, and I come out of the shower to find her still sitting on my futon.)

Friend: “Um… Hey. Can I ask you a stupid question?”

Me: “Sure.”

Friend: “…”

Me: “Go on.”

Friend: *chuckles* “Do you have any pads?”

Me: “No, I’m afraid I don’t have much of a need to stock feminine hygiene products. Did you forget to pack some?”

Friend: *sheepishly* “Yes.”

Me: “There is a supermarket nearby; I’d be happy to walk down and buy some.”

Friend: “No, no, I don’t want to have to make you do that.”

Me: “Well… [Girlfriend] should be here in about an hour; I can ask her to bring some.”

(She agrees, and I text my girlfriend about the problem. She finds the situation amusing and agrees to bring some pads for my friend. Unfortunately, my girlfriend is delayed, but my friend insists that she doesn’t want to burden me with a five-minute walk to the store, so she sits on my bed watching a movie in her PJs for two hours until my girlfriend arrives. I introduce them to each other.)

Girlfriend: *fishes a selection of pads out of her purse* “Um… Here?”

Friend: *hugs her* “Yes! You’re a lifesaver!”

Me: “No, she’s a pantysaver.”

A few years ago, I was having some issues with irregular periods and had to have my first pelvic exam. It was something I had avoided for a long time, because even the idea of it put me in a panic. My mom suggested I go to her gynecologist, and I agreed, largely because she was a woman and I refused to do it with a male doctor.

So, the day of the appointment finally came and I was a nervous wreck over it, actually nearly throwing up at times. But I went and met with a nurse first, and she put me a tiny bit more at ease.

But not for long. I was taken into the exam room and handed a “gown” to change into. I was told to have it open in the front, but it didn’t even come close to fitting me, so I was practically naked. If I pulled it as tight as I could around me, there were still at least six inches of skin uncovered across my chest, stomach, and lap. Then, the doctor didn’t come in for over half an hour, and at that point I was crying out of anxiety. When she finally came in, she asked if a student shadowing her could sit in, and I’m glad now I said yes.

The doctor began by rather aggressively checking my breasts while she started singing the opening lines to the song Do-Re-Mi from The Sound of Music, “Let’s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start.” She explained by telling me she had a two-year-old grandson who could only be calmed down by The Sound of Music when he was worked up, and she thought maybe it would help me, too. I was speechless.

I’m not sure why she thought it was a good idea to compare a grown woman having an anxiety attack to a tantrum-throwing toddler, but I’m still offended. The rest of the exam was relatively uneventful, with the student talking to me and holding my hand through much of it. I’ve promised myself that I will not let this experience scare me away from potentially necessary medical care in the future. But The Sound of Music is completely ruined for me forever.

(The Vice President of our company has authorized me to send some biological samples to a microscopy lab, but she has apparently forgotten that she gave permission. This particular Vice President is one of those people who can never, ever be wrong.)

Vice President: *yelling* “You sent the samples to [other lab]? You can’t just do that! You’re never allowed to bring these samples offsite without my permission!”

Me: “But you gave me your permission.”

Vice President: “No, I didn’t! I never would have agreed to that! We have procedures here, and apparently you don’t feel like following them!”

(I walk out of her office and straight to my desk, where I pick up the Request Form that she signed the previous day to authorize me to bring the samples to [other lab]. I return to her office and place the form on her desk, assuming that I’m playing the trump card by showing her, indisputably, that she approved this transfer of samples. She’s quiet for a few moments while she stares at the Request Form, and I think I’ve won. But then:)

Vice President: *yelling again* “That’s not my signature!”

(And that’s why, at the company where I work, even getting everything in writing is insufficient.)

(I walk into a grocery store. At the front end of the store is a display of watermelons, and I put one in my cart. A while later, I’m in the back of the store when another customer notices.)

Woman: “Oh! I didn’t see watermelons in the produce section.”

Me: “No, they were at front, in a display near the self checkouts.”

Woman: “I’m not sure where you mean.”

Me: “I’m headed that way. I can show you, if you’d like?”

(I lead her there and gesture to the watermelons before turning to go check out. She shoots me a dirty look.)

Woman: “Ahem! You’re welcome!”

Me: “I’m sorry, what?”

Woman: “You didn’t say, ‘Thank you’!”

Me: “I helped you. Shouldn’t you be thanking me?”

Woman: “No, because… I… I mean… Young people have no manners!”

(She snatched up a watermelon and stormed off with it.)