(It’s Valentine’s Day and I’m having lunch with my best friend who hasn’t arrived yet. I’m female, and so is she. I get seated and the waiter hands me a menu.)

Waiter: “Hello, welcome. I see that you’re waiting alone. Might you be waiting for someone special? Like, a date?”

Me: “No, not a date. My best friend is coming.”

Waiter: “You can’t fool me, one only dresses that skimpy for a date!”

(The waiter gestures to my clothing and winks. I’m completely confused, because I have jeans and a heavy sweater on, which shows no skin at all.)

Me: “You call this skimpy?”

Waiter: “Yep, I sure do! Anyway, can I get you something to drink while you wait for your date?”

Me: “It’s not a date. And I’ll have some ginger ale.”

(He goes and I’m a little annoyed by his presumptuous manner, but I brush it off thinking he’s just weird. Finally my best friend arrives and gets seated.)

Best Friend: “Hey! Sorry I’m late. Got stuck in traffic.”

Me: “No problem.” *lowers voice* “Actually this waiter of ours is so weird, that he thinks—”

Waiter: “A-hem! I see your date has finally arrived!”

Me: “For the last time she is not my date! She is my best friend!”

Best Friend: “Hi!”

Waiter: “Ooh! Lesbians!” *winks* “Don’t worry, we are VERY LGBT friendly here!” *wanders away with a skip in his step*

Me: *facepalm*

Manager: “Stop helping!”

Me: “What?”

Manager: “You need to stop helping!”

Me: “With what?”

Manager: “Everything!”

Me: “Um… why?”

Manager: “[Employee] has only worked here three weeks and he talks nonstop about how you’re such a good worker. So, you need to stop helping!”

Me: “Why not just tell him to stop?”

Manager: “I tried that. All he does is talk about how good of a worker you are… and a little bit about the Avengers, which he hasn’t even seen.”

Me: “Okay…”

Manager: “Stop helping!”

Cashier: “Would you like a bag?”

Me: “No, thanks. I have my own.”

(I point to my reusable bag, which is pink.)

Cashier: “That’s too pink. I can’t use that.”

(Thinking he’s joking, I laugh.)

Cashier: “No, I really can’t use that. It’s too pink.”

(The cashier opens a plastic bag and puts my purchases in it, avoiding my own bag.)

Cashier: “It’s too pink!”

(I am the author of this story on Not Always Right. I am in a popular book shop some 30 minutes away from home with my best friend. At the time, I am wearing a Marvel shirt with Loki on the front, and the phrase “I DO WHAT I WANT.” We approach the counter with film magazines. Our cashier is a woman who appears to be in her mid-thirties to early forties.)

Cashier: “Is this all for you today?”

My Friend: “It is, thanks.”

(I turn to browse through the pages of one of the magazines, as I indicate that we won’t be needing a bag. The cashier gives me a strange look and points at my shirt.)

Cashier: “What are you wearing?”

Me: “Marvel’s Loki. ”

Cashier: *stares*

Me: “God of Mischief? Brother of Thor? Portrayed by British actor Tom Hiddleston in Kenneth Branagh’s Thor and Joss Whedon’s The Avengers?”

My Friend: *sighs* “Just say yes. Otherwise, she’ll never shut up about him.” *coughs* “OBSESSED!”

Cashier: “…Isn’t he supposed to be the devil?”

Me: “Pretty much. But, come on. Tom’s Loki is one hell of a looker.”

Cashier: *backs away* “You worship the devil!!”

(Surprised by the cashier’s reaction, my friend and I exchange a look.)

My Friend: “Oh, come on! Yeah, Marvel consumes her life, but it’s just a bunch of comics.”

(The cashier screams and waves her arms.)

Cashier: “DEVIL WORSHIPPERS! MAY GOD FORGIVE YOU FOR YOUR SINS!”

(At this point, my friend is yelling back and demanding to speak with the store manager. Leaning close to the counter, I stare the cashier in the eye with a straight face.)

Me: *deadpan and demonic* “PREPARE YOURSELF, FOR THE TIME OF THE DARK LORD HAS COME.”

(My friend stares in shock as the cashier bolts, drawing even more attention as the manager arrives to finish the transaction and apologize. Apparently, the woman has a history of jumping to severe conclusions, and has hair-trigger nerves.)

My Friend: “Why didn’t you just tell her off?”

Me: “Well, you know what they say: the Devil plays all the best tunes.”

(I’m at the register and buying tampons. When the clerk rings me up, he picks up them up with the tips of his fingers, like they are covered in poison, and makes a disgusted face.)

Clerk: “Do you want a bag for these?”

Me: “No thanks, I’ll just put them in my—”

Clerk: *winces, squeals and claps his hands over his ears*

Me: “—in my PURSE. PURSE. Jeez, dude!”

(He breathes a deep sigh of relief. I get out of there as fast as I can. I didn’t see him there the next time; apparently he couldn’t cope with handling feminine products!)