(I’m female, and in my early 20s I am feeling out my nascent lesbianism. My family is pretty cool, but I am still quite nervous about coming out, especially as I’m not sure if I am gay, bi, confused, or going through a phase. One night, I go to the cinema with my dad to see the first Bridget Jones movie. At the end, he turns to me and, clearly trying to use young-person language, says:)

Dad: “So, Colin Firth? Is he… fit, then?”

Me: *caught off guard* “Ermmmmmm. Um… Ah. Um… Well, Dad, I’m not so much into boys at the minute.”

Dad: *without missing a beat* “So, Renée Zellweger. Is she fit, then?”

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(I’m a customer in line for a midnight premiere showing of a movie featuring a lot of violence. The movie has some notoriety because a little girl says a particularly bad word in one scene. The movie features superheroes, however, and one family has mistaken it for a kid-friendly movie.)

Cashier: “Ma’am, I can’t recommend you seeing this movie with your kids.” *gestures to two kids in superhero Halloween costumes* “It’s rated R, and isn’t appropriate for them.”

Mom: “I raise my kids right. I pay your salary. They’ll see what we want. It’s just pretend superheroes, like Spider-Man and s***!”

Me: “Ma’am, I’ve read the comic book; it’s really gory and bloody. You might want to look it up first, just in case.”

Mom: “F*** you!”

(In the opening scene of the movie, a deranged man in a bird costume jumped from a roof, and splatted into the ground. This woman immediately stood up and paraded her kids and husband out. Over an hour-and-a-half later as we left, she was still yelling at the ticket guy. Poor ticket guy.)

(I’m work at concessions at a movie theater. A middle-aged lady in a nice coat walks up, looking at the menu screens. I smile and give my standard greeting.)

Me: “Hello! How are you doing today?”

Customer: *huge sigh, not even looking at me* “Oh, I’m just trying to get over how much I dislike your theater.”

Me: “…”

(My grandmother takes me to see the animated movie “Anastasia” when it comes out. We’ve only seen the first few minutes. All the narration has said so far is that the Czar used to rule Russia, Anastasia was his daughter, and Rasputin was a mystic who was close to the royal family. Accurate enough, and certainly recognizable as right before the Russian Revolution.)

Narration: “The year was nineteen hundred and sixteen.”

Grandma: “Did she say 1916 or 1960?”

Me: “I dunno.”

(Give me a break; I was seven. I think for a second.)

Me: “You were alive in 1960, and not in 1916. Do you remember this?”

Grandma: “This is based on something that really happened?”

(I’m still not sure if she actually forgot that the Russian Revolution happened and that Czars were a real thing, or if she didn’t realize that no matter how unrealistic the rest of the movie was, if it was set at the time of the revolution it would still have to be in 1916, not 1960.)

(I am standing behind the concessions counter with my coworker. I haven’t had a register all day, and have instead been put in charge of “running” to get the popcorn, food, drinks, etc. The day has been slow, so my coworker and I are chatting as we refill the candy drawer. A woman approaches the counter with her ten kids and a large backpack.)

Coworker: *nervous* “Excuse me, ma’am, but you can’t have that in here.”

Customer: “I can’t have what in here?”

Coworker: “The backpack. We have a policy against it, and we can’t allow you to take it into the theater.”

Customer: *visibly infuriated* “What do you mean I can’t have my backpack? What kind of stupid f****** rule is that?”

(The manager on duty hears the customer getting upset and comes over to the two of us. He’s a tall man with a stern face, and my coworker relaxes when he comes to our aid, sure that the woman will take his word for it.)

Manager: “What’s the problem?”

Me: “No problem. We were just informing the customer of our no-backpack policy.”

Manager: “Yeah, you can’t bring those in here.”

Customer: “Why the f*** not?”

Manager: *calmly* “It’s company policy. We can’t take the risk of you bringing recording equipment or firearms into the theater. Did you drive here?”

Customer: “Yes, I drove here. What does that have to do with anything?”

Manager: “I’m going to have to ask you to take the bag back out to your car, then, ma’am.”

Customer: “Then who’s responsible for my stuff?”

Manager: *shoots my coworker and me a questioning glance before responding* “You are.”

(The customer became even more enraged, and snapped at her children to follow her to the car and stormed out, swearing up a storm. My manager looked at us and started laughing, excusing himself to the back room in case anyone noticed. The lady stayed outside for ten minutes and then came back in. All of her kids’ pockets were bulging with candy, and they were waddling uncomfortably past the counter, trying not to be noticed with their outside food. Yes, she really spent ten minutes arguing with us over our policy because she wanted to carry in her dollar store candy.)