One of the defining characteristics of [Grocery Store] is that you pay for your cart. There’s a device that locks all the carts together, so when you need one, you insert a quarter into the device, decoupling it from the next cart. When you finish shopping, you return the cart to the line and recouple it, at which point you can then remove your quarter. However, [Grocery Store] does not offer a similar function for anything else — not hand-carried baskets, and definitely not for BAGS.

I hit the [Grocery Store] nearby for a few small things. Usually, I don’t need to bother with a cart due to the low volume. Instead, I bring in my own foil-lined insulated bag, put items into it while I shop, tell the cashier how many of each item I have so I don’t even need to unload them, and easy-peasy, no carts required.

As I left the store a few weeks ago, a woman saw me with the bag in hand. I hadn’t zipped it up yet, as I was still messing with my mask.

Woman: *Snapping her fingers* “Hey, you. YOU!”

Me: “Yes?”

Woman: “Give me that when you’re done.”

She pointed at my bag.

Me: “Ma’am, these are my groceries. I won’t be done with them until I eat them in the coming weeks.”

Woman: “I know that. What do I look like, a moron? I meant the bag, idiot.”

Me: “Ma’am, this bag is also mine.”

Woman: “Yeah, it’s yours now, but when you bring it back to get your coin, then I want it.”

Me: “Again, this is my bag, not the store’s. [Grocery Store] doesn’t have bags; they only do the quarter thing for the carts.”

Woman: “Bulls***, they have bags at the checkout. I can see them from here.”

Me: “Yeah, those are for sale, not temporary use. And this bag isn’t from [Grocery Store] I got it on [Online Retailer].”

Woman: “Whatever, you should still bring it to me. I only need it for a few minutes, and I don’t have a quarter for the carts anyway.”

Oh, so we’re in one of those situations.

In my current military job, I’m an instructor, and one of the skills we master during this assignment is the art of staring in silence with a completely blank look on our face. It’s a great tool to force students to engage in discussion, embracing the silence until one of them gets so uncomfortable that they start talking about anything just to break the silence. We also use continuous questions to challenge students to delve deeper into topics, lots of “why” and “how” questions that force them to come to their own conclusions.

I leveled her with my instructor stare. After almost ten seconds:

Woman: “Well?”

Me: “Well, what?”

Woman: *Getting more and more shrill* “What are you waiting for? Go unload your groceries and bring me that bag!”

Me: “Why would I do that?”

Woman: “Because I need that bag to shop!”

Me: “Why is that my problem?”

Woman: “WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!”

Me: “Why is your lack of bag or coin something I need to help you with?”

Woman: “Because!” *Pauses* “Because…”

She cocked her head to the side a bit, and then she rallied back into indignation mode.

Woman: “UGH, just get out of my face, you little s***!”

Me: “Weren’t you the one who stopped me to demand I give you my personal property?”

She devolved into guttural utterances that barely resembled a spoken language. I was still hiding behind my stoic instructor face.

Woman: “You people are what’s wrong with this country!”

She stormed off into the store, without a cart.

Me: *Waving* “Have a wonderful day!”

In June 2020, my wife and I bought a house in a small city in the east of the Netherlands (not Holland), in an area with lots of camping spots and bed-and-breakfasts. It needed a bit of work; it needed a new kitchen, some wall fixing, and of course, getting rid of big heating plates and replacing them with floor heating.

This house also has a front garden. Well, more like, “Let’s put some stuff in randomly and some boxwood in a pattern and let the weeds cover the rest!” And the front window had a small leak, which caused some moisture between the glass plates. Not the finest front a house can have.

During the summer holiday, we started replacing the kitchen and did some more work, and the house was getting somewhere. Three months later, the kitchen was in and it is getting homier. Finally, we had time to relax, enjoy the fruits of our labor, and float in the swimming pool.

But then, I heard the doorbell. I went to the door and saw two people: a man and a woman in their forties with backpacks. Why would they be here?

Me: “Yes?”

Woman: “Hi! We want to stay here for the night; we made a reservation.”

A reservation? For what? Using the toilet? Getting a negative-one-star dinner with my cooking skills?

Me: “Reservation for what?”

Woman: “For the B&B.”

In the meantime, the man was just standing behind her, struggling with his backpack.

Me: “Um, this is not a B&B; this is my house.”

Then, there were a few seconds of silence as the couple and I just stood, looking around. It felt  like five hours.

Woman: “Oh! Okay, where is the B&B, then?”

Me: “I think there is one down the street.”

Woman: “Ah, okay! Bye.”

And they left. The man never said anything.

I kept wondering why they would think this was a B&B? I searched on the Internet and found the answer. I live at number twenty-seven. There is a B&B at number seventeen.

I checked the B&B. They have a lovely garden and even a sign at their house. My house doesn’t have that.

I can’t wait for next summer to see if more people come to my house.

I am walking down a busy street in NYC when a man steps in front of me.

Man: “Your hair is beautiful.”

I try to side-step him.

Me: “Thank you.”

He steps in front of me.

Man: “Hey, look, I’m an artist trying to get my name out there.”

Me: “Move.”

Man: “Look, wait. I’m [Man]. What can I call you besides beautiful?”

I recognize him from somewhere. It doesn’t click right away, but when it does, I decide I can waste a few minutes with him.

I give him a random name, and he starts to write the fake name on the CD sleeve.

Man: “Okay, [Random Name], now look: I just need a donation of, like, $10.”

Me: “Why?”

Man: “For the CD, you know?”

Me: “Nobody buys CDs anymore. It’s all online.”

Man: *Getting mad* “Now look—”

Me: “I don’t even have a CD player.”

Man: “Are you f****** joking?!” *Louder* “Hey! Hey, I need a cop! Come here!”

A nearby cop comes over.

Man: “This girl asked for a CD — I wrote her name on it and everything — and now she won’t pay me for it.”

Me: “I never said I’d pay for anything.”

Man: “I put her name on the CD! I can’t sell it to anyone else!”

He shows the CD.

Me: “That’s not my name.”

I pull out my ID and show the officer. He looks at my ID, then at the CD, and then at the man.

Cop: *Grinning* “Well, she’s not [Random Name]. Go on, miss. Have a nice day.”

Man: “What the f***, man? Come on! This b**** is costing me money!”

Me: “Thank you, sir.”

I get a few feet away before I continue talking.

Me: “And by the way, these CDs are probably blank. I have one back at my apartment if you want proof.”

The man lunged at me but the cop grabbed him and put him on the ground. I walked away to the sounds of the man yelling at the cop for allowing me to scam him as he was being tucked into the back of the cop car.

I’m about nine years old and my mother has brought me to the library to read some books. I’m standing peacefully by a shelf when a girl about my age rounds the corner. She promptly moves into my space.

Girl: *Aggressively* “Are you a Christian?”

I was raised Presbyterian and don’t actually know the word “Christian” because I have never been told that we are part of a larger religion, and it has never come up at school or with my friends. Privilege at its finest, I suppose.

Me: “Um… I don’t know.”

Girl: *Still aggressive* “Do you have Jesus in your heart?”

Me: “Oh! Yes.”

Girl: “GOOD.”

She then walked away, leaving me confused and a little upset. When I told my mother about what had happened, she explained that, yes, our family was Christian. At least I got to learn something thanks to that weird kid.

I am walking down Hollywood Boulevard when a man steps into my path. 

Man: “Hey, girl, you are beautiful. Let me tell you a little about my music. Do you have a minute?”

Me: “No, thanks.”

I step to the side but he steps in front of me again.

Man: “Now look, I’m getting big on Instagram, but I’m out here—”

Me: “I’ll kick you.”

Man: *Hands up* “Easy, girl, I’m just trying to share my music.” 

I walk around him and he yells after me.

Man: “You wanna be a cold b****, that’s between you and God.”

I keep walking.

Man: “Yeah, f*** you, stupid whore!”

He continues to yell at me as I walk down the street. On my way back, the same man steps in front of me again. 

Man: “Miss, you are gorgeous! Can— Oh, f*** no.”

I just laughed as I walked by.

The next weekend, I was walking the same street and saw a woman standing a few feet from the “artist” telling everyone that he gave her a blank CD and refused to give her money back. He did not look happy.