(I am an artist and this is about my first convention, about ten years ago — around 2010. I am very nervous and because I don’t know what to do the whole day, I decide to make an art piece, in the hopes it attracts people. It does and it helps my sales a bit. The piece I am making is A3 sized and I start it at 9:00 am. I finish at 4:00 pm. A few people visit me throughout the day to see my progress.)

Lady: “Oh, you finished! It looks wonderful!”

Me: “Thank you.”

Lady: “I saw you started this piece this morning and I was amazed you finished it this fast.”

Me: “The atmosphere really gave me energy.”

Lady: “Let me buy this from you.”

Me: “Oh, I’m sorry, but I don’t sell originals. Only prints.”

Lady: “What? Don’t be silly! I’d pay a good price for it. Here, let me pay you 5€.”

Me: “No, ma’am, I really don’t sell my originals. Maybe you can find something on my table that interests you? The prints are quite affordable.”

Lady: “Oh, come on. I like this piece. How about 6€?” 

Me: “Ma’am, I worked all day on this. And I don’t sell originals. If I would, I couldn’t offer these affordable prices on the prints.”

Lady: “Then what do you want? 10€? It’s not worth 10€; it’s just a kid’s drawing!”

(I am twenty-six years old.)

Me: “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to sell this. I can have it made as a print for you and ship it to you, if you’d like that?”

Lady: “No, I want the original. It’s quite clear you don’t know how things work around here. You won’t make any money as an artist if you go on like this!”

(The lady left. I may not be a world-famous illustrator, but I do know my worth.)

(I’m a young woman with an alternative, kind of gothic-like taste of clothing. Today, I happen to be at a kind of a “girly” store — the place where people generally least expect me to be — and I’m wearing black flared jeans that are covered with rings, chains, and straps. A little girl, about four years old, approaches me.)

Girl: *staring in awe at my jeans* 

Me: “Hi there. You like my jeans?”

(The girl rushes to her mom, pulling her shirt to get her attention.)

Girl: “Mommy, mommy! That lady wears weird pants! But they’re cool! Oh, Mommy, can I get those, too?”

Mother: “When you get older, hun. I don’t believe they come in your size.”

(She then smiled at me, and the little girl looked like I’d made her day. Well, she made mine by thinking I look cool! A welcome relief to all the usual loathing looks, that’s for sure.)

(In my studies for a bachelor’s degree in chemistry, the full last year is an internship. Half of this is working as a regular employee; the other half should be spent on a kind of graduation project. Lucky me, I need to find a place at the height of the financial crisis. I do manage to find a place with some delays, but as time goes by, it turns out to be an unpleasant place to work. The manager has zero motivation, I get a “trainer” who joined the company after me so he also doesn’t know how things work, there is a lot backstabbing and gossiping amongst coworkers, a coworker who sits next to me refuses to learn my simple name — like John, Jim, Jerry, Jeff, but never James — etc. As the half-year point draws near there is a day where everyone gives a short report at school and has a little chat with their mentor. As we’re discussing my progress, I explain that I feel really unpleasant doing my internship there, but at the same time, I know that spots are scarce, finding a new one would be more difficult for just half a year and only a project, oh, and since I flunked out of an earlier education, my government funding is already being cut short so any delays will cost me. I end up crying.)

Mentor: “Are you sure you want to continue your internship there?”

Me: “I do think it’s my best option.”

Mentor: “You’re not planning to stay out of some undeserved sense of loyalty?”

Me: “Oh, h*** no! If I arrive tomorrow and the place is on fire, I’ll take a stick and start roasting marshmallows!”

Mentor: “Woah! Okay, you don’t want to do that. Seriously, that’s a terrible idea.”

Me: “Sorry, I was being hyperbo–“

Mentor: “All that sugar will ruin your teeth!”

(That little joke derailed my depressive spiral and we were able to set up a plan. I stayed at the company with clear agreements on both sides. I got a barely passing grade but managed to graduate in time.)

(My dad takes me shopping and he decides to treat me to a pancake. We walk to a small pancake restaurant with a lovely view. Because it’s summer, we sit outside. Behind us are a couple of old ladies who are talking loudly. They go from subject to subject and sometimes mention how delicious the pancake is. When I happen to cross them on the way to the restroom, I see how they are actually scraping the plates clean, all the while exclaiming how good it was and how sad they are it is gone. Then, the time of their bill comes.)

Server: “Hello, was everything to your liking?”

Old Lady #1: *sighs* “Honestly, it was terrible. The pancake was undercooked and the vegetables were still raw. The sauce was just swimming under and over all the fat of the pancake. Honestly, I don’t know how you could serve that.”

Server: *a bit taken aback* “I see… And yours, miss?”

Old Lady #2: “I didn’t know it was possible to mess up a cheese and bacon pancake, but apparently, it is.”

(My dad and I are following this conversation intently. I feel upset because I know the ladies are lying, but my dad’s eyes start to glimmer.)

Server: “All right… but why didn’t you warn me? I could have taken it back; I could have switched it for you. Why didn’t you say anything when I passed by?”

Old Lady #1: “Well, eh… we didn’t want to be rude…”

Old Lady #2: “You looked so busy!”

Old Lady #1: “So, what can you do for us?”

Server: “Honestly, I can’t do anything for you. The plates are scraped clean. I can exchange something if it’s not good, but not when it’s completely eaten and the plates are clean.”

Old Lady #2: *loudly* “But it was disgusting!”

Server: “Next time, please let us know right away, so we can do something about it. Now, would you still like some coffee or just the bill?”

Old Lady #2: *huffs* “Bill, please!”

(This was my first encounter with people trying to scam a free meal. I have to admit that I really liked this “dinner-and-a-show” and my dad left a bigger tip than usual. In the Netherlands, tipping is not necessary and you usually only tip if you really liked the service.)

(My family and I are enjoying a weekend away at a vacation park. On Friday evening, we decide to go to the main area to have a bite to eat in one of the restaurants present in the park.)

Hostess: “Hello, welcome. How can I help you?”

Me: “We would like a table for six for dinner tonight.”

Hostess: “Ooh, I am afraid I can’t help you with that at the moment; management made a slight error in the scheduling today, and they forgot to schedule anyone besides me to work in the restaurant.”

Me: “O…kay, we’ll just find something else to eat, then.”

Hostess: “That might be best, yes; our other restaurants are open.”