(I recently applied for a local position at a huge, multibillion-dollar corporation. I receive an email from their HR department.)

HR Department: “We reviewed your resume and think you would be a good fit for this position. I need to verify that you are under forty years old and also do not have a disability. Also, attached is a legal agreement that you can never sue us for any employment problems in the future, including discrimination, or join a class action, that you will never join a union, and that you will never have a disability or otherwise ever require any form of reasonable accommodation to perform the work.”

Me: “I can verify I am under forty years old; however, you should be aware that both of those things are illegal to request or condition employment on in this state.”

HR Department: “We reviewed your resume and do not feel you would be a good fit for this position. Good luck in finding employment elsewhere.”

I’m the dumb one in this story. My baby had some breathing trouble and was hospitalized for a month and a half prior to surgery. One of the times I was staying overnight, a respiratory therapist I hadn’t met before came in to check the settings on the oxygen. I saw she had a cursive font tattoo on her arm. Confused, I asked,

“Does your tattoo say, ‘Thy will be donut’?” 

The therapist showed me her arm and said, “No, it says, ‘Thy will be done’.” What I had taken as “donut” was the word “done” with a cross after it.

(I live in a four-story apartment building in downtown Vancouver where the two exit stairwells are used regularly by residents to enter and exit the building. They act as a sort of communal back door that can be opened just as the front door can be. I often use the back door as it is the closest doorway to my apartment. One evening, I am leaving to take my dog for a walk and take the usual route down the stairs and to the back door. However, when I get to the exit and push on the door it won’t budge, so I push again harder this time and continue to try to push it open. When it still doesn’t move, I look out the little window and see a man just outside the door.)

Man: *muffled speaking as the door is closed* “There is a woman sitting in front of the door.”

(There is more muffled speaking between the woman and the man. I push on the door again thinking she must have moved, and I still feel resistance. When I push again, it finally moves as she has gotten on her feet and is moving away from the door.)

Me: “What are you two doing out here?”

Man: *says nothing*

Lady: *angry* “I was just trying to find a place to eat a sandwich and smoke a joint! I don’t see what the problem with that is?!”

(Smoking weed is legal in this province but is still subject to bylaws of smoking away from doorways.)

Me: “One: this is a doorway and you need to be like 15 feet away from it as there are private residences right above you. Two: you are blocking a fire exit!“

(My dog is barking at them, and lucky for me, he has a big deep bark so he sounds much scarier than he actually is.)

Me: “You need to leave and find somewhere else to be.”

(The lady and man then left in an angry huff. The average age of the occupants in my building is probably 60+; I’m one of the only occupants in my 20s. Any one of my neighbors with walkers would definitely not have been able to exit safely in an emergency. It still makes me so angry to think about how thoughtless and dangerous this lady was being.)

(I am scheduled for a late flight, and I decide to use the restroom while waiting for the flight to board. When I get into the restroom, it is empty except for one stall on the far end. So, I head into the nearest stall. As I am closing the door, a man speaks up from the stall on the far end.)

Man: “Occupied!”

(I figured that me closing the door must have shaken his door or something, so I don’t think more on it and sit down to do my business. A few moments later, he speaks up again.)

Man: “I said occupied!”

(I’m kind of confused, thinking maybe he wants an apology? That would be too awkward for me, so I just decide to ignore him. After a couple more moments, I hear a loud grunt, and the sound of his stall door banging open. He stomps over and pounds on my stall’s door.)

Man: “I said occupied!”

Me: *shouting a bit in surprise* “Well, this one wasn’t!”

(The man gave an odd, gargling growl, and then ended up stomping out of the restroom. No sound of him washing his hands. I’m sorry that you have “performance anxiety” or whatever was your problem, but you don’t get to expect to have a public restroom with four stalls all to yourself.)

(I don’t work. In this day and age, it’s a controversial choice. I’ve yet to find a non-awkward way to answer. Here are a few attempts:)

Them: “So, what do you do?”

Me: “Mostly cooking and cleaning.”

Them: “No, for a job.”

Me: “I don’t have one.”

Them: *awkward silence*

(Another time:)

Them: “So, what type of job do you have?”

Me: “None.”

Them: “Why not?”

Me: “I’m disabled.”

Them: *starts giving medical advice or alternatives to traditional work*

Me: *grins and bears it*

(Another time, with my partner:)

Them: “[Partner], you work so hard! [My Name], what do you do?”

Me: “Make sure she has a nice meal to come home to.”

Them: “You don’t work?! That’s very selfish of you!” *starts ranting*

Partner: *interrupts* “The last time she overdid it, she wound up in bed with a three-day fever. She doesn’t work. That’s fine. I make enough for both of us.”

(Unfortunately, this leads to us never talking to them again, because my partner hates them and they treat me like a leech. I really don’t know how to handle the job question.)