(I’m on the bus to work, and I have a crochet project out. As it’s rush hour, the bus is close to full. Two young men in suits get on and sit next to me. One watches me work for a bit.)

Suit Guy: “Wow, you’re making it look easy!”

Me: “After a bit, it’s more muscle memory than anything. I’ve been crocheting for four years now, so I’d hope I’ve got something down by now!”

(We talk for a bit about various art-related hobbies. I mention doing some cosplay work while living on the west coast.)

Suit Guy: “Oh! I’m from Idaho! What brings you out here?”

Me: “My grandma wanted me to live closer to her, and offered to pay for the move. What about you?”

(He suddenly looks nervous. The guy with him just kind of nods. He turns so I can see his name tag, where I can read, “Latter-Day Saints.”)

Me: “Oh! Okay! That makes sense.”

Suit Guy: “Sorry, we get a lot of people who get loud and in our faces about religion. It’s… frustrating after a while.”

(I turn my bag to show them the pride patch I’ve put on there.)

Me: “I completely understand being treated badly because of loving who you are. And you’ve given me no reason to see why I should have anything against you.”

(We ended up exchanging numbers before they got off the bus. We’ve run into each other a few more times and they’re always happy to see my current project!)

When answering machines are still relatively new contraptions for home use in the mid-80s, my parents get one for our house. Our dog has been trained to bark on command via hand signals, so, for the novelty value, it’s decided at some point that the greeting message will be the dog barking a few times.

Normally, we don’t get a lot of calls — just family every so often. One day, we return to find the machine blinking that there are a number of messages waiting. The cassette is rewound and the first several messages are nothing but hangups. After a couple of these, there’s finally a stranger’s voice:

“Martha! MARTHA! COME QUICK! They’ve trained a dog to answer the phone!”

I am Hispanic, and I’m doing tourism in southern Canada. My spoken English is far from perfect, but so far, native speakers have had no problem understanding me.

At one point, I go buy an ice cream… and the Asian lady behind the counter doesn’t know what I’m saying. After a few tries, I realize the problem: her English is lacking, too. She can’t decipher my accent and I can’t decipher hers. We just laugh and communicate with mimic and pointing for the rest of the transaction.

(I buy a cheese pastry in a supermarket and, after paying for it, I sit down at a table they have in there for people to rest during their shopping or wait for other shoppers to finish and I start eating it.)

Lady: *keeps staring intensely at my pastry*

Me: “Would you like to have a piece?”

Lady: “Oh, no, I really don’t like cheese.”

Me: “Oh, okay. Thankfully, I do.”

Lady: “Yeah… No, I really don’t like cheese.”

Me: “Okay.”

Lady: “If I ate only a small piece of cheese I would vomit.”

Me: “…”

Lady: “Yes, I would vomit right away. I really, really don’t like cheese. I think it’s really disgusting. For my entire life, I never liked it. I don’t even want to think about eating it. Cheese is disgusting.”

Me: “…”

Lady: “You know, if there was one thing I could ban from the world completely, it would be: fruit juice with apple juice mixed in it, cheese, and red peppers, but seriously, those are really dangerous.”

(Thankfully, I enjoyed the rest of my pastry in silence.)

(Our voting place has been inside an apartment complex near our house for years. I usually walk there, but one year I decide to drive. I go in the morning because I can vote before work and my shift will last past voting hours. No big deal, right? I drive up and the complex has four parking spaces for voters and all are being used. The only other parking space is handicapped. Knowing I am going to run in and out — I have a filled-out sample ballot so all I have to do is color in some circles — I park in a resident’s spot. I hate doing it but figure I’ll be really quick. I am quite literally filling in the last circle when a lady bursts into the voting place.)

Lady: “Who drives a [car meeting mine’s description]? You’re in my spot!”

Me: *fessing up* “That’s me. I’m leaving right now. Sorry, there was nowhere to park.”

(It’s lame, I know it, but I’m complying with her wants.)

Lady: “You’re in my spot! It’s not for voters!”

Me: “I know. All those spots were filled. Again, I’m sorry.”

(I try to leave to move my car, but she isn’t done.)

Lady: “You can’t park there! You—“ *directs her finger to the voting volunteers* “—need to make sure they can’t park there.”

Volunteer: “Ma’am, we do not block people from voting. It is about ten in the morning, so people are going to use those open spots. We will not stop them.”

(She had a small meltdown and I walked out to move the car. Out there I saw one vehicle parked across two open resident spaces near the spot I parked in. Apparently, she could park in two other people’s spot but I couldn’t park in one!)