I work at a fast food place that sells kids’ meals that contain little plastic toys. A mother comes up with her two children, a boy and a girl. Lately, the toys don’t conform to gender stereotypes, but back when this story took place, they did.

I hand the kids their meals in the fun little boxes, and they immediately open them up to see the toy. The boy immediately starts playing with his spaceship, and the girl looks on, jealous.

Little Girl: “I want a boy toy!”

Mother: “Me, too, honey. Me, too.”

I was born on the 11th of September, 2001. I’m English, so it’s never been a particularly evocative fact, and I’ve only ever met one person who was personally affected by the tragedy. When I was ten, I was in an afterschool club and overheard two teachers talking.

Teacher #1: “How long ago was 9/11 now?”

Teacher #2: “At least a decade, I think. I can’t remember exactly what year it was now.”

Teacher #1: “Surely not. I thought it was about five years.”

Me: “It was ten years ago — eleven in a few months.”

Teacher #1: *Scoffing* “How would you know? You’d barely remember.”

Me: “Because that’s my birthday, and I’m ten, so it has to be ten years.”

Teacher #1: “I really don’t think you’d know. It’s been five years.”

Me: “…but I’m not five.”

Teacher #1: “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Me: “…because 11th September 2001 is my birthday?”

Teacher #2: “…and it’s now April 2012?”

Teacher #1: “I think you’re both wrong. The maximum I would say is six.”

Teacher #2: “…Years aren’t subjective, [Teacher #1].”

Teacher #1: “How would she know what happened on her birthday?”

Teacher #2: “I assume because her parents mentioned it?”

Teacher #1: “Well, I think you’re wrong, and you shouldn’t lie for attention.”

With that, she flounced off. I looked at [Teacher #2], utterly baffled.

Teacher #2: “Don’t worry. I know you’re not making it up. Take this as proof that adults can be as wrong as anyone else.”

[Teacher #1] was nasty to me for the rest of the school year. I still can’t wrap my head around what her train of thought was.

I’m in line behind a customer who’s buying a battery.

Cashier: “Do you want your receipt?”

Customer: “No, thanks.”

The cashier throws the receipt away.

Customer: “Do you guarantee your batteries? What do I do if I install it and it doesn’t work?” 

Cashier: *Fishing the receipt from the trash* “That’s why I asked if you wanted your receipt.”

A customer in her late teens or early twenties and a woman who I assume is her mother are in the store.

Customer: *To her mom* “It gets colder in Europe because it’s further from the sun. I need a thicker jacket.”

Customer’s Mom: “Let’s ask if they have winter jackets.”

Customer: “Oh, Europe has a winter, too?”

Customer’s Mom: “Uh… are you serious, dear?”

Customer: “I thought America invented the seasons, so why would we let Europe have them?”

Customer’s Mom: “Have you been watching the news with your father again?”

Customer: “News? Ugh, so gross.”

The customer comes over to me.

Customer: “I need a jacket for Europe.”

Me: “I can help you with that. Will it just be for casual walking through a city, or are you going to be outdoors a lot?”

Customer: “I’m gonna be drinking!”

Customer’s Mom: “No, dear, you’re not.”

Customer: “Yeah, I am! The legal drinking age is younger there!”

Customer’s Mom: “It might be, but you’re still on a school trip, so they’re not allowing the students who have turned eighteen to drink. I signed the permission slip that said as much.”

Customer: “I’m an adult! They can’t stop me!”

Customer’s Mom: “Maybe, but then they’ll lose their insurance and I’ll be fined, which means you’ll be fined. The places you’re going to will know not to serve alcohol to the American students.”

Customer: “I won’t tell them I’m American. I’m more Amazonian, anyway.”

Customer’s Mom: “No, dear, you’re Arizonian.”

Customer: “Whatever, geology is for mids.”

Customer’s Mom: “Just stop.” 

Related:
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 14
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 13
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 12
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 11
The More You Read The Worse It Gets, Part 10

I am fixing some disorganized shelves in the bookstore when I overhear my female coworker talking to a male customer.

Customer: “Actually, you should have these programming books in the science section, not electronics. It’s a very complicated profession and involves good math and science skills. You have to be very intelligent.”

Coworker: “Yes, I’m studying programming at college.”

Customer: “Oh… really? Well, maybe you haven’t got to the hard stuff yet. Y’see, in programming, when—”

The customer then goes on a long-winded explanation of what it “takes” to be a programmer.

Customer: “And that’s what a programming language is.”

Coworker: “That’s amazing!”

Customer: “And I had to learn all of that in a year.”

Coworker: “Wow! You’re so smart! Good job.”

The poor customer has no idea she’s being sarcastic. She finally gets him to finish and buy the d*** book. I walk over to the counter after the customer is gone.

Me: “What an obnoxious mansplainer!” 

Coworker: “Oh, I like it when men try to explain the most simple components of the subject I’m about to get my degree in. I kind of treat them like toddlers. ‘Good job, little guy! You’re so smart!’ Only one of us is being condescending, and it’s not him.”