(My husband and I are driving along a fairly busy four-lane highway, in the left-hand lane. We are on our way to look at a furniture sale. He is driving and I am looking through the sales paper at the deals the store is offering that weekend. Suddenly, my husband hit his brakes.)

Husband: “S***!”

Me: *dropping the paper and looking up* “What happened?”

Husband: “Look in front of us! This lady is crazy!”

(A middle-aged woman in an Infinity has just zipped in between our truck and the SUV we were driving behind. She is so close to the SUV, it looks like she’s attached herself to its bumper. Even after hitting the brakes, we are also still incredibly close to her at the moment, too. Keep in mind, we are in my husband’s Ford F-150, and the SUV ahead of us is pretty large, too. If [Husband] hadn’t been paying attention, this lady in her Infinity would have gotten crushed between the two when she suddenly pulled between us like that.)

Me: “She seems to be swerving a little… Maybe we should write down her license plate?”

(As soon as I say this, she suddenly swerves over again into the right-hand lane, then all the way over into the paved shoulder of the road. She then USES THE SHOULDER to pass several people before swerving back into the actual traffic lanes! She continues to do this, even almost hitting a guardrail head-on when she whips back into the shoulder to pass another car in the right-hand lane.)

Me: “Oh, my God! She’s going to kill someone!”

Husband: “Where are all those highway patrol cars we saw out here last weekend? One would be nice right about now. Did you get her license plate?”

Me: “No, I wish I had, though. Seriously, she is going to cause an accident!”

(The lady is soon out of sight. About ten minutes later, we notice traffic slowing down and see a minivan pulling off into the center-median area that separates the east and westbound lanes.)

Husband: “You don’t think she crashed, do you?”

Me: “I’m not sure. We’re about to find out.”

(It wasn’t the Infinity, but another car that had gone into the median and was now straddling the wire fence running down the middle. The person in the mini-van was already out of their car and checking on the person in the Honda. We slowed and pulled into the median to ask if we needed to call 911, but the first person who stopped had already done so, and it seemed like the person who wrecked was shaken up, but not seriously injured. Apparently, “someone” had swerved in front of him and he over-corrected, ending up in the median. The “someone” kept on driving.)

(I have a table at a local festival where I am selling copies of the books I wrote. A male customer, probably between 45 and 50 years old, comes to my table. He asks how it’s going — the usual — and then picks up my newest book about a zombie world. I tell him a bit of what it’s about. I’m a girl.)

Customer: “Hmm… I’m just trying to think if a boy would like this.”

Me: *happily* “Of course a boy would like it!”

Customer: “Yeah, but the protagonist is a girl.”

Me: *not quite as nicely as my last answer to him* “So? Boys can read about girls.”

Customer: *shaking his head* “Nah. No they can’t.”

Me: “Why not?”

Customer: “They can’t relate.”

Me: *clearly annoyed at this point* “Of course they can! Girls read books about boys.”

Customer: “Yeah, but that’s different.”

Me: “How? How is that different?”

Customer: *long pause* “Girls are different.”

Me: “No, they’re not. A girl reading a book about a boy is the same as a boy reading a book about a girl.”

Customer: *still shaking his head* “No, I don’t think so.”

Me: “Why can a girl read a book about a boy, but a boy can’t read a book about a girl?”

Customer: “Well, my son is 17… and he likes to read… I don’t have any cash on me, though.”

Me: *smiling* “That’s okay; I take credit cards, too.”

Customer: “Oh…”

(He buys it, I think only because he realizes he is being a moron and feels bad for clearly offending me.)

Me: “Do you want a receipt emailed or texted to you?”

Customer: *rudely* “No, then I’ll have to give you my information.”

Me: “Okay, you don’t have to get one; I was just giving you the option.”

(It was so hard for me not to sign the book, “I hope you like it even though it’s about a GIRL!” But I was also giving away chapter samplers for my next book, and was able to finish the transaction off with, “Oh, and here’s a free chapter sampler for my book that’s coming out next year. Your son will definitely like it because it has girl AND boy protagonists.”)

(I have just left the doctor’s office and walked to the pharmacy to wait for a prescription to be sent over. The young girl at the register is on the phone, so I wait for her to acknowledge me.)

Cashier: “I’ll be right with you.”

Me: “Okay, thank you.”

(A few minutes pass.)

Cashier: “Okay, picking up?”

Me: “Yes, it was just sent over from [Doctor]. Last name, [Last name]. Born [birthday].”

Cashier: “Hmm, doesn’t look like it’s here yet. You can have a seat and wait, if you’d like.”

Me: “I’ll do that. Thank you.”

(I take a seat and begin scrolling through Facebook while I wait. The phone rings again. A woman comes in and goes right to the register.)

Cashier: “I’ll be right with you, ma’am.”

Woman: “I just left [Doctor], and she sent a medicine order over for me.”

Cashier: *nods, covers phone receiver* “Just a moment.”

Woman: “It’s under [Woman].”

Cashier: *nods, holds up one finger* “As soon as I’m done on the phone, ma’am.”

Woman: “It should be ready.”

Cashier: *nods*

Woman: “Ugh.” *turns to me* “Can you believe this service?”

Me: “I can.”

Woman: “What?”

Me: “Well, she’s clearly busy, and you were told many times that she would be with you after her phone call.”

Woman: “Why don’t you mind your own business?”

Me: “You asked.”

Woman: “The youth of today are so disrespectful! If you were my daughter, I’d have you over my knee for talking to me like that!”

Me: “Guess I’m lucky you’re irrelevant.”

Woman: “How dare you?!”

(I return to my Facebook browsing. The woman sits directly beside me, continuing her rant about disrespectful youth and poor customer service. The cashier hangs up and takes the woman’s information. Of course, it isn’t ready. She resumes her rant, pacing in front of the register.)

Cashier: “[My Name], your order is ready.”

Woman: “Where is mine?”

Cashier: “I’ll let you know as soon as yours is ready.”

Woman: “I’ve half a mind to take my business elsewhere!”

Me: “Don’t use it all in one place.”

Cashier: *trying to keep a straight face* “No copay, [My Name]. Have a good day.”

(I have a chronic illness which, sparing some of the grosser details, makes it extremely painful for me to walk when it flares up. Stairs are an outright no when this happens. One bad day while waiting for an elevator, the following occurs on the second floor of a building.)

Woman: “Hey! Are you all going up or down?”

Me: “Down.”

Woman: “Then you should just take the stairs! Don’t you know that elevators are for the disabled, elderly, and people in a rush?”

(Keep telling yourself that, lady.)

(I am working the register at my store. My coworkers are all busy elsewhere, and it is a slow part of the day, when an old man walks up and purchases a small item. Things are going normally until I hand him his change. It should be noted that I have a mild form of adult acne.)

Customer: “Do you know you have a red thing on your face?”

(He points toward a small flare up of acne on my cheek. I blink for a moment, because while part of me knows what he’s pointing at, no one has ever said anything directly to me about it before.)

Me: “What do you mean?”

Customer: “You have a red thing on your face. I know what that is. It’s caused by anxiety.”

(I have never had anxiety issues, and now that I have confirmed what he’s talking about, I speak with a deadpan tone.)

Me: “Sir, I have acne.”

(I’ve never really been self-conscious about my acne, but I don’t like the way he’s talking about it. He takes his receipt and starts heading for the door while still talking to me.)

Customer: “Yes, and that is caused by anxiety. I have seen this before.”

(My tone has gone cold, and in my head I’m wondering why my personal health is his business.)

Me: “Sir… my mother is a nurse.”

(What I’m hoping he’ll pick up on is the implication that, “if something were seriously wrong with my face, she would know,” but he doesn’t get the hint.)

Customer: “I worked fifty-five years in medical technology maintenance.”

Me: “So, you never actually practiced medicine, then.”

Customer: “I have seen this before. It’s anxiety.”

(He then starts rambling something I don’t quite follow, but he makes it sound like he’s had bugs grow out of his own acne in the past. Or seen them grow out of acne in other people. Or maybe even caused them to grow out of other people’s skin infections. The main thing I key in on is his use of the words “grow out of,” which does not give me mental images of bacteria. It genuinely sounds like he’s talking about live insects growing out of people’s faces, which is incredibly creepy.)

Me: “Are you a doctor?”

(I ask this bluntly, trying to convey with my tone and expression that if he is not a licensed medical professional, I do NOT want his opinion on my face, and he needs to stop talking.)

Customer: “I work with medical equipment. But I have seen this before. It’s anxiety. It is.”

(Thankfully, after that the customer just kind of nodded and walked out the door. To date, he’s the creepiest customer I’ve had to serve.)