I ran cross country in high school in the early 2000s. One year, we had an exchange student from Germany on our team. She was friendly, polite, and soft-spoken, and very easy to get along with. She was also very, very good — in fact, she was the only one of us girls to qualify for the state championships. We other girls went to the championships to cheer her on. The state course has a notorious hairpin turn on a hill, which can be tricky to navigate during the 5km (3.1 mile) race.

Our teammate ran well, clocking in a time that was fast even for her. We all met her at the finish line to congratulate her.

Teammate: “How was the hairpin turn?”

Exchange Student: *Still catching her breath* “It was s***ty. F****** horrible!”

She noticed our immediate awkward silence, clapped her hand over her mouth, and lamented:

Exchange Student: “Oh, no! I said it in English!”

I work in a big box department store. Mystery liquids on the floor are just part of life. You find them, you get them cleaned up.

I was on my way to a break when I spotted a short trail of drips of some sort of reddish-pink liquid on the floor. For a larger spill, I would have guarded it and called a coworker over to bring me some paper towels, but for just some drips, I decided to take the ten or fifteen steps in the other direction to grab the towels myself.

As I came back, I saw an elderly lady with a walker about to step on a cluster of drips.

Me: “Excuse me, ma’am, please be careful. There’s something on the floor there, and I don’t want you to slip.”

Customer: “Oh. Thank you. I didn’t see it.”

She looked down at it. Then, she bent down and started smearing one particularly large splatter with her finger. I was a bit alarmed. I had no idea what this stuff was, and some of the chemicals we sell are toxic, or even caustic!

Me: “Ma’am, please don’t do that!”

Then, she tasted it.

Yes. You read that right. She stuck her finger in her mouth to taste a mystery liquid from the floor of a big box store.

Customer: “I don’t know what it is.”

Me: “Uh… I don’t, either… but I’m here to clean it up…”

Customer: “Oh, all right.”

And she continued along her way.

I work in a restaurant and bar. Some angry customers stop to yell at me as they’re leaving.

Customers: “We have to go to the emergency room because of a shellfish allergy! Why didn’t you tell us the crab artichoke dip had crab in it?!”

That’s the same dip they ordered by saying the full name.

Sometimes, I wonder about people.

I work at a very well-known retail chain in the USA. We also sell beer, wine, and tobacco products. The company policy is that we must see an ID/driver’s license every single time someone wants to purchase these products. There is no exception to this policy. We will get fired if we do not check ID.

I have a regular customer come to my register with a bag of chips and a bottle of wine, and she also asks for a pack of cigarettes. It’s the beginning of summer in Florida, it is already upwards of eighty degrees (almost 27C) outside, and she doesn’t look like she walked to the store in this heat.

Me: “Can I see your ID?”

She proceeds to show me her medical marijuana card.

Me: “I need to see the other one, ma’am.”

She then pulls out her concealed carry permit.

Me: “No, I mean that I need to see your state-issued ID or driver’s license.”

Customer: “I don’t have it.”

Me: “Those are not accepted forms of ID to purchase alcohol and tobacco. I have to have an ID or driver’s license issued by the state.”

Customer: “I just don’t understand. I come in here all the time.”

Me: “And every time, you are told that we need your ID.”

Customer: “Well, I just won’t be coming back here anymore.”

As she is walking out the door, I add:

Me: “And you are supposed to have your driver’s license considering you are, you know, driving.”

My youngest brother is nine years younger than me. One night, my other brother (only two years younger than me) and I are having a conversation about sexism, and we throw around some terms that the youngest hasn’t heard before.

Youngest Brother: “What’s a misogynist?”

Me: “If you’re a misogynist, it means you think that men are better than women. If you’re a misandrist, it means you think women are better than men. And if you’re a feminist, it means you think men and women are equal.”

Youngest Brother: “Oh. I want to be a feminist, then.”

He’s going to do fine in life.

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It’s As Simple As That