I have an emotional support cat. Her name is Alice, and she is the cutest, fluffiest, best senior kitty ever and has the softest meow that you can barely hear unless she really wants or needs you to. I have her because I get really bad anxiety attacks to the point where I’m completely unresponsive, I don’t talk, move, or respond in any way, and I just sit staring off into space crying and shaking. Alice has always helped me through them. She knows the signs of me starting to get an anxiety attack and rubs up against my hand or face to distract me. I usually get the worst anxiety attacks in crowded, hot, and loud spaces or on long car rides and on planes but occasionally need her just out in public.

I went on a trip to Florida with my dad, but we couldn’t get seats next to each other on the airplane for some reason, so I got stuck sitting next to a middle-aged woman. Throughout the entire flight, she constantly berated me with questions about my cat. They weren’t the usual “How old is she?” or “What’s her name?” questions. They were questions like “Why do you have that?”

After I explained that I needed her for emotional support, the woman asked way more questions and made many unnecessary comments.

Woman: “You don’t look like you need her. You just wanted your pet on the flight, didn’t you?”

The flight I was on actually allowed pets as long as they were in their carriers, but Alice was outside and on my lap to comfort me as that had been an especially hard morning.

Woman: “You’re obviously a delinquent and aren’t new to breaking the rules.”

That was probably because I have piercings, dyed hair, and a couple of tattoos.

At one point she even told me:

Woman: “You don’t really need that cat. Put it away before I take it from you!”

She faked sneezing and coughing to get the flight attendants to make me put her away, but they didn’t — because she was wearing her emotional support animal vest, meaning that I need her. People around me were asked if they had any allergies to cats. The woman next to me was not one of the people who did. They told the woman that they could move her to a different seat if she was allergic or uncomfortable, but she declined, even though it would have been much easier for everyone involved.

At one point, I think Alice might have sensed that there was something wrong with me; I was visually uncomfortable and holding onto her tight because of the threat this woman made to take Alice from me. She meowed — not directly at the woman. (May I remind you that she has the SOFTEST meow ever?)

The woman screamed at the flight attendant.

Woman: “That cat hissed at me! She is holding a vicious animal! I’m scared! It needs to be put down; it bit me!”

Alice has never bitten, hissed, or scratched me or anyone on purpose, ever. She doesn’t even play-fight.

Flight Attendant: “Ma’am, obviously, nothing is wrong with this cat.” *To me* “Is everything all right, ma’am?”

Me: “No!”

After like forty-five minutes of this woman’s bulls***, she got moved to a different seat, the staff on the flight apologized to me, and Alice got a seat of her own and extra treats.

This was two years ago, and I haven’t been on a plane since in fear something like this would happen again. Plus, I feel bad if other people have to move seats because of an allergy.

I don’t know what that woman had against my cat, but I think it’s safe to say she’s probably a dog person.

I’m working at a fast food restaurant when a man orders a baked potato with “everything” on it. Here at [Restaurant], our baked potatoes can come with bacon, cheese, chili, shredded cheese, sour cream, margarine, etc. I explain as much to the customer, and he is none too happy.

Customer: “Look! When I say everything I mean EVERYTHANG. Like, if you offer it as a topping, I want it ON MY POTATO!”

He then drove on through to the window, cursing my very existence.

Enter malicious compliance.

We made that baby with every topping imaginable. It was like a scene from “Willy Wonka”, sprinkling crispy onions, squirting honey mustard, slathering mayonnaise and bourbon sauce, and crumbling blue cheese. This potato was a monstrosity, and I would love to have seen the customer’s face when he tried to eat this thing.

I had to settle for the look on the customer’s face when we intentionally waited until he was at the window to enter the prices, naming and adding each topping we put on. The cost? $12.86. It was fun to see his eyebrow go up a little more with each ingredient listed.

I’m so glad all he ordered was the potato, so he could see what he did more clearly. Suddenly, his trap was shut and he paid up, snatching his very heavy potato and hitting the road.

The works, baby!

I’m a bridal stylist; I help people find their wedding gowns. I love my job, and 99% of the time, it’s a happy, wonderful job with great coworkers and customers.

And then there’s the 1%.

I had a bride today who was very sweet but just didn’t connect with the gowns we had. That’s okay; it happens sometimes. She was fine. But her mom (and somehow, it’s always the mom or the aunt) was decidedly not happy and decided to s***-talk me in Spanish the whole time.

Mom: “Does this woman know what she’s doing? She’s pulling nothing but ugly gowns!”

Said gowns were selected by the bride.

Mom: “I hope you don’t ever get as fat as her.”

And so on. Lovely.

Now, I am whiter than a jar of mayo, and I don’t necessarily look like I speak Spanish. However, my parents are from a Spanish-speaking country, even though they’re not ethnically Hispanic. I knew a LOT more as a kid, but l still know enough to get around.

So, I waited until the end, and as they were leaving, I spoke to the bride and her mom in Spanish.

Me: “I hope you have a great day. Please, feel free to come back any time you’d like; we have lots more gowns you can go through if you’d like.”

You know how good it feels when you’re in a ton of pain, and the doctor finally gives you something that works, and you’re suddenly not feeling any pain anymore? Or when you’re craving a specific flavor of ice cream and you manage to find it?

Seeing the look on that bride’s mom’s face when she realized I’d heard and understood the entire hour of her ripping me to shreds was SO much better.

Related:
If You Wouldn’t Say It To Their Face, Don’t Say It Near Their Ears, Part 2
If You Wouldn’t Say It To Their Face, Don’t Say It Near Their Ears

Lately, in my state, we’ve been having some snowy weather that isn’t usual for the area. I’ve had a lot of guests come in and ask me to give them a detailed, off the top of my head weather report for various locations around my state several times.

Me: “I don’t know. Let me look it up.”

Guest: *Rolling their eyes.* “No thanks, I can look it up myself!”

I finally ask a customer who does this to me today:

Me: “Out of curiosity, how is it that you expect me to know these things without looking it up?”

Guest: “You should know by asking everybody before us where they had come from and what the conditions are like, and by watching the morning weather forecast. Are you a local?”

Me: “Yes, but I don’t understand how being a local makes me intuitively understand what the weather is like fifty miles from me off the top of my head.”

Guest: “We were just expecting someone with local flavor, I guess you don’t have any.”

Me: “I guess I don’t.”

People do this same thing with restaurant opening and closing times. I have no idea what world people are living in where they think because I live here, I know when Big Bubbas Burger Bungalo closes on a Monday, and are actively disappointed in me when I google it.

I’m a twenty-two-year-old woman renting a house with my boyfriend and three male friends. I am not much of a drinker, but the boys are, which means I often ended up being the designated driver.

The liquor store is a few miles down the road, too dangerous to walk but not a hassle to drive.

Almost every weekend, I will end up driving one of them to the store to get more drinks. I don’t mind driving but I do require one of them to go with me. It’s usually a fun trip and they buy me food or gas in thanks.

Since some places won’t sell alcohol to somebody who has already been drinking, I will “buy” (using their money but my ID) each time with them standing beside me.

After a few months, the cashier decides to blow my life up (for all he knows.) He asks me, in front of a visiting friend, not one of the roommates:

Cashier: “Where are your usual boyfriends? Why do you I have a different guy each time you come into the store?”

My jaw drops and my friend just laughs.

Me: *Scoldingly.* “It’s none of your business.”

When we got home, we told the story to everyone else and had a nice laugh about it.