(My husband and I have just started to try to conceive, instead of just leaving it to luck or chance. After an intimate night, he asks me to position myself so that gravity isn’t working against us. I ask that he at least hand me my phone so that I have some entertainment until I get up.)

Me: “Please, it’s just right there by you. I would have to get up to get it myself.”

Husband: “No. No distractions. I need you to completely focus on telling those swimmers to get you pregnant.”

Me: *sigh* “That’s not how it works.”

(My parents and I stop by a fast food restaurant. After placing an order and paying for it at the window, my dad makes a comment to my mom about the worker’s dull attitude, and my mom tells him he should try to make her smile.)

Worker: *with a melancholy expression* “Here’s your food, sir.”

Dad: *as he takes the food* “My wife here told me she’d give me $100 dollars if I could make you smile, so how’s about we split it between you and me?”

(A huge, if somewhat embarrassed, smile flashed across her face, and it was a very pretty one, too! I thought it was adorable, and I hope it made her seemingly bad day a little better.)

(The show “Singing in the Rain,” featuring actual onstage rain, has just finished, and the audience is thanking all the actors for a good show. One elderly lady walks up to me.)

Elderly Lady: “Ugh. This show got me wet. It’s a shame; I get wet every other day of the week, anyway.”

(I was scared to shake her hand after that!)

(I operate an ice cream parlor in a small seasonal family resort. Business is slow and the shop is intended to be run by one person. Ice cream is served in the customer’s choice of a cup or in one of three different types of cones, which are stored in plain sight, right behind the ice cream freezer. A couple walks into the shop; they are my only customers at the time.)

Me: *genuinely happy, because these are the first people I have seen in a while* “Hey, guys! How are you doing today?”

(Neither of them responds; they just walk up to inspect the different flavors visible through the glass freezer. I don’t really let it get me down; this happens a lot.)

Me: “Let me know what I can get you, whenever you’re ready.”

Woman: “Cookies and cream.”

Me: “Sure thing! In a cup or a cone?”

Woman: “Cone.”

Me: *I point to each of the types of cones on display as I say their names* “Sure. Would you like a sugar cone, cake cone, or this big waffle cone for an extra 50 cents?”

Woman: “Regular.”

Me: “Sorry, which type of cone? I have this smaller sugar cone here on the left, this flat one in the middle is the cake cone, and this big one here on the right is the waffle cone that costs an extra 50 cents.”

Woman: “I said, ‘regular.’”

(She jabs her finger vaguely in the direction of the entire rack of cones from the opposite end of the counter, but I have no way of telling which one she’s pointing at. I make a judgment call based on my best guess at where she pointed and pick up a cake cone.)

Me: “Sure, would you like one scoop or t—”

Woman: “No, d*** it. Listen to me. I want a regular cone. Regular. I’m speaking English here!”

Man: *to me* “Yeah, dude. Come on, she said it three times now. Are you having a bad day or something?”

Me: “Woah, hey. Different people mean different things when they say, ‘regular.’ I’m just trying to get you what you want. Is that the small sugar cone on the left, or the big waffle cone on the right?”

Woman: *yelling* “I DON’T CARE WHAT OTHER PEOPLE MEAN! I’M AN AMERICAN AND I WANT A REGULAR F****** CONE. I AM NOT SOME [RACIAL SLUR]. I AM SPEAKING F****** ENGLISH. REGULAR! REEEEEEGUUUUULAAAAR!”

(My patience is wearing thin. I carry the whole cone rack over and put it on the counter in front of her.)

Me: “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to stop yelling. I still don’t know what kind of cone you want. ‘Regular’ isn’t one of the options, no matter what country you come from. The small cone on the left is the sugar cone. The big cone on the right is the waffle cone. Say one of those words, or point to one, or leave. Those are your choices.”

Woman: *points to the sugar cone, which is the smaller one of the two* “That one! The regular cone! We call that a regular cone in America!”

Man: “How do you work in an ice cream shop and not know that?”

(I scoop her the ice cream and try to recollect myself before handing it to her.)

Me: “There you are. Sorry about the confusion. Can I get you anything, sir?”

Man: “Yeah, rocky road on a big regular cone.”

(I guess correctly that “big regular” means “waffle,” since at least he used some sort of descriptive word for me to go by. I scoop his ice cream and ring them both up. The man pays for them both with cash, and I hand him back the change.)

Me: *in complete cheerful customer service autopilot* “There’s your change. Have a nice day!”

Woman: “F*** you.” *she grabs the man’s hand with the change, fishes through it, extracts two pennies, and slams them angrily into my tip jar* “Here’s what your customer service was worth to me!”

(My husband and I have recently found out we’re pregnant. We’re excited but also nervous since a year before I had a traumatizing and painful miscarriage. We’re at the clinic where three weeks prior they did an ultrasound but said it was too early. But upon our return this ultrasound showed a fetus but no growth or heartbeat. We’re devastated to say the least. My husband had to step out for a few minutes. The doctor comes back in with blood test results.)

Doctor: “Your choices are to miscarry naturally or have a procedure for it to get taken out. My schedule is tight so we may need to try naturally first.”

Me: “Isn’t it… dangerous for me to try naturally, given my history?”

Doctor: *heavy sigh* “All right, we’ll schedule you for next week when I have an opening. [Nurse] will give you a packet of the information. You’ll be put under so as usual, no food or drink after midnight and no alcohol or recreational drugs 48 hours before. So for the next few days PARTAY IT UP! It’ll probably make you feel better.”

(He then puts his hand on my leg, which I’ve made clear I can’t stand people touching me.)

Me: *trying to keep from bawling* “You are a psychopath. Come near me and I will take your stethoscope and shove it so far up your a** you can hear your own heartbeat, if you have one. I’m going to go find a real doctor.”

(I ran out of there as fast as I could, found my now confused, then angry, husband, and left. I spent an hour in the car crying my eyes out, which might have been eased had I a doctor with empathy. I later found a different doctor that handled the situation properly and discovered the first doctor’s practice was eventually shut down due to fraud and malpractice. Good riddance.)