(The items I make are appropriate for everyone, but I give descriptive names for all my one-of-a-kind pieces. A guy in his twenties comes into my shop.)

Guy: “These are cool! What’s that on the tag?”

Me: “That’s the item’s name.”

Guy: “Oh, cool! Yeah, I like this.”

(He browses for a minute before reading a tag, then turns to me, bright red.)

Guy: “That’s a girly name! That’s totally girly! D***, you tricked me! I didn’t know they were girly names!”

(As he flees the shop, my partner calls out:)

Partner: “Wait! We also have bubble wrap for your fragile masculinity!”

I had some issues with ovarian cysts when I was in high school, so I had to go in for a pelvic ultrasound. In the instructions we received prior the appointment I was told I needed to drink 32 oz of water before coming in so that my bladder would be full, which helps them to get better images. Now, I was 15 and very skinny. I had just gone through a growth spurt and at 5’5″ I weighed in around 100 pounds. I drank the water and immediately had to pee; I looked down, my pelvic area was bulging already. This was 10 minutes after I drank the water, right as we were leaving, and it was a 30 minute drive to the office.

Needless to say, that drive, through a bumpy, uneven construction site, was miserable. I was in such physical pain by the time we got to the doctor that I was in tears sitting in the waiting room. When I finally got called back to the ultrasound room and I lay down on the table, the ultrasound tech gave my visibly full bladder, by this point halfway to a pregnant belly, a bit of a side eye, but continued with her explanation of the procedure. I heard none of this, as all of my energy and focus were tied up in not urinating all over that table.

She begins the ultrasound, poking at the watery skin ball that is my pelvis, until after a few moments she stops. She can’t see anything. There’s too much liquid.

I ask her what to do and she tells me that I need to go to the bathroom (which was luckily adjacent to the exam room) and “pee a little, then stop” so that there would be a good amount of liquid for her. By this point, I have been in intense physical pain because of this full bladder for roughly an hour, so these instructions felt more than a little impossible. But, being a determined kid, I went in there and against all odds, I did it. So the rest of the ultrasound goes off without a hitch, and afterward I am finally able to fully relax my bladder for the first time that day.

As I was getting ready to leave, the technician asked me how much water I had been instructed to drink, and was appalled when I told her 32 oz. She went off about how they should’ve looked at my chart to see my height and weight because they would’ve been able to tell just from that that the amount should’ve been lower, and it was lucky that I was able to control my bladder so well; otherwise, the whole appointment would’ve been a waste.

A few days later my mom gets a call from the doctor’s office and guess what? Turns out the whole appointment was, in fact, a waste, since the notes were wrong in my file and the ultrasound tech performed an abdominal ultrasound instead of a pelvic one. I was less than pleased.

At least I knew not to drink so much water for the next one.

(I am working in the produce department of a grocery store. I am cutting up fruit with the more experienced [Coworker #1], who is just a little younger than me, when [Coworker #2] who is doing stock for produce, walks in.)

Coworker #2: “Hey, [Coworker #1], a customer asked whether we get our grape tomatoes from Mexico or the US. I told her I’d ask you because I don’t know.”

([Coworker #1] and I look at each other with confusion for a second, wondering why someone would ask that, before [Coworker #1] responds uncertainly.)

Coworker #1: “I… think we get them from Mexico? I’m not sure.”

(As they’re talking about it, I suddenly have a thought. [Coworker #1] goes into the refrigerated room where we keep all the produce stock, and I ask [Coworker #2]:)

Me: “Hey, is the customer an older white lady?”

Coworker #2: “Yeah, why?”

(I laugh and nod my head in confidence before explaining.)

Me: “I bet you that if you tell her they’re from the US, she’ll buy them, but if you tell her they’re from Mexico, she’ll put them back.”

(We both laugh, but I am very confident in my theory, as we live in an area that is pretty close to the countryside and full of elderly white people. [Coworker #1] comes back in and confirms that we do, indeed, get our grape tomatoes from Mexico, and I restate my theory to her. When [Coworker #2] leaves to tell the woman that the tomatoes are indeed from Mexico, I ask him to tell me what she says. Later on, I bump into [Coworker #2], and he tells me what happened. He walked back to this woman who was still holding the small plastic container of the tomatoes in her hand.)

Coworker #2: “So, I just checked with one of the people from produce, and she told me that we get those tomatoes from Mexico.”

Customer: “Oh, okay.”

Coworker #2: “I’m sorry about the wait.”

Customer: *while looking him in the eye* “I’m sorry, too.”

(She then put the tomatoes back and just walked away. I whisper yelled, “I knew it!” and we both laughed about it for the rest of the day. Just to clarify, every person involved in this was white, including me.)

(I’m working behind the customer service counter, where we keep tobacco products. There’s a register and the lottery machine and people usually, but not always, stand in line at the right station. It’s fairly busy and a customer walks up to the lottery machine.)

Me: “Hi. How can I help you?”

Customer: “Can I have a pack of cigarettes?”

Me: “Sure! What kind?”

Customer: “[Brand].”

Me: “What kind did you want?”

Customer: “Lights.”

Me: “Okay. Did you want [Type #1] or [Type #2]?”

Customer: “[Brand].”

Me: “Yes, but the tall or short ones?”

Customer: “Lights.”

(I physically grab both [Type #1] and [Type #2].)

Me: “Do you want this one?” *shakes [Type #1]* “Or do you want this one?” *shakes [Type #2]*

Customer: “The [Brand] ones.”

(This goes back and forth for another couple minutes before he finally tells me he wants [Type #1].)

(During a Saturday full of errands, the roommate and I decide to treat ourselves to lunch out. The waitress gets our drinks right, but the food is where the fun begins…)

Me: “The taco salad looks good, but it comes in that big fried tortilla bowl. No bueno.”

Roommate: “They have the [menu item]. Same stuff as the taco salad, but no bowl, and it’s even a dollar cheaper.”

Me: “Perfect!”

(When the waitress arrives, I order the [menu item] by name, even pointing it out on the page to be sure I’m talking about the right thing. My roommate orders a sandwich, with no mayo, which she doesn’t care for. A few minutes later, when the food arrives…)

Me: “Well, hello there, giant tortilla bowl. I could’ve sworn…”

Roommate: “And there’s mayo on my sandwich.”

(We flag down the waitress.)

Me: “Excuse me, but I ordered—”

Waitress: “That’s what you ordered, hon.” *walks away*

Roommate: “Okay, then. Not even going to bring mine up.”

(The salad is good, most of the mayo wipes off the sandwich, and we think all is well. Until, foolish people that we are, we decide to have dessert…)

Me: *to waitress, pointing at the tabletop ad for the pie-of-the-month special* “This strawberry pie looks good. Can I have a slice, please? And that’s going to be everything, so if you can bring the check, too, that’s great.”

(My pie and the check come together, and I am just enjoying my first bite when…)

Roommate: “They charged us for the wrong pie.”

Me: “Seriously?!”

Roommate: “Yep. Look right there. Strawberry cream pie.”

Me: “Which this definitely isn’t. At least we were only charged for the salad I ordered, not the one I got?”

(After finishing the pie, we go to the register to pay.)

Me: “Hi, there was actually a mistake on my bill. I ordered the strawberry pie, but I’m being charged for the strawberry cream pie. Can I get that adjusted, please?”

Cashier: “Ugh, really? It’s only 70 cents difference, you know.”

Me: *holding very firmly onto my temper* “I would like it adjusted, please.”

Cashier: “Fine. I’ll need a manager for that. Wait just a moment.”

(The manager arrives, and while keying in his override…)

Manager: “It’s only 70 cents difference, you know.”

(I have had enough.)

Me: “Yes, I’m well aware of that. However, it’s 70 cents difference on an item I didn’t want, didn’t order, and didn’t get. Your waitress also got both our entrees wrong, which was more than a little frustrating. Please just fix the check so that it reflects what I should be paying for what I got.”

Manager: *muttering* “All this fuss over 70 cents…”

(I was incredibly tempted to go back to our table and tip the waitress exactly 70 cents.)