(I’m doing a grocery run with my ten-month-old daughter, and a middle-aged woman takes a peek at her sitting in the stroller. I also have a babyface.)

Middle-Aged Woman: “Oh, what a cutie! And look at those little shoes!”

Me: “Yep, Grandma has good taste!”

(I head to the ice cream aisle to find my husband and the woman catches up to me again.)

Middle-Aged Woman: “Excuse me, did you say the baby is your grandchild?”

Me: “Oh, no, she’s my daughter. Her grandmother that bought her shoes lives near Boston.”

Middle-Aged Woman: *visibly relieved* “Oh! I was thinking you would have to have gotten pregnant at twelve for her to be your grandchild!”

Me: “Well, I’m almost forty, so I’m technically old enough to have grandkids.”

(The woman gave me the biggest deer-in-headlights look and beat a hasty retreat.)

I’m at a center that celebrates Polynesian culture. Everything is awesome until I have to use the restroom. It’s a busy day and all eight stalls are full with a line out the door. It should be noted that I’m in a wheelchair and there is only one disabled stall.

Things are going pretty quickly and I’m almost at the front; only one person is ahead of me. The disabled stall opens up. The person in front takes it.

I sit there for five minutes, saying, while getting progressively louder, “You can go ahead of me. I can only use the disabled stall.” At least a dozen people skip me until finally — finally! — that lady emerges. She won’t look at me and just walks out of the bathroom without washing her hands.

It isn’t that I wanted to jump to the front of the line, but when you have seven other stalls and I only have one, can’t you please just take the next one?

(When I was around four or five, my parents, my grandparents, and I are on a small trip through Canada. When we decide to stop at a steakhouse restaurant for lunch, my grandmother quietly complains about everyone smoking inside, despite the fact that there are “NO SMOKING” signs everywhere. This was nearly 20 years ago, so I assume the smoking laws — even in Canada — were not as strict. She doesn’t kick up a fuss or bother anyone about it, but she does continue muttering about it while she looks at the menu. Being a rule follower myself — and having smokers for parents who are very strict about smoking areas — this bothers me, as well. I ask to be excused from the table. My family allows it, thinking that I am just going to go play at the arcade. Nope. I approach one of the tables where an older couple is smoking, and I point at the “NO SMOKING” sign hanging on the wall. Mind you, we are placed pretty much in the middle of the restaurant. A little American girl in a white, frilly dress approaching a table of strangers is very noticeable.)

Me: *in a loud voice* “Excuse me, but isn’t that a ‘No Smoking’ sign on the wall?”

(Conversations go silent. The man frowns while the woman awkwardly laughs and says:)

Woman: “Yes. Yes, it is.”

Me: “Then why are you smoking?”

(The couple looked at me, then at each other, and then doused their cigarettes on a plate they were using as an ashtray. The rest of the patrons followed suit, and I happily thanked the couple before going back to my table. My grandmother was super proud and my grandpa snickered. My parents, on the other hand, decided that we needed to eat quickly and leave because it was hunting season.)

(My friend and I are waiting for a train, chatting with each other, when this heavily drunk man comes up and tries to talk with us. He absolutely reeks of alcohol, to the point where I feel nauseous, and he makes sounds several times as if he is about to throw up while he is leaning over us. We manage to scoot out of our seats and move down the platform, leaving him to flop down on the bench we just vacated. We get to another bench further down the track, settle down, and start chatting again, when there is a loud humph from the lady sitting on a bench behind us.)

Lady: *after we turn to look at her* “How rude are you, running away from that poor man? He obviously just wanted someone to talk to.”

Me: “Then why don’t you go talk to him?”

(She gaped like a fish for a few seconds as my friend and I just stared at her, before gathering her things, getting up, and walking off… in the opposite direction from where the man was.)

(I recently overheard this argument.)

Man: “…it’s dangerous!”

Woman: “Says the man who plays with matches.”

Man: “I don’t play with matches; I burn random junk to see what happens! It’s totally different!”