Me: “All right, ma’am, I can take your card or cash whenever you’re ready. If you’re going to pay with debit, just hit the blue button first.”

Customer: “I would never use a debit card! They are the devil’s plastic! I’ve never carried one and I never will!”

The customer goes on a long, repetitive rant about the “devil’s plastic” and how debit cards ruin lives.

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, will you be paying with cash today?”

Customer: “No, you idiot! I have a credit card!”

I’m fixing up the always messy clearance section when my boss comes over to see how it’s going. We talk about how messy the customers are, especially with the clearance section, and she drops this gem just before she walks away.

Boss: “When I get home, my husband always asks me, ‘Did you at least make it to the car before crying today?’”

It’s another Saturday in retail and, as usual, my store is crazy busy. I’m about an hour into my shift when a family comes up to my register: parents, toddler daughter in the cart, and older daughter — maybe six or seven — watching me with big eyes behind round glasses. She looks a bit like I did at her age, which amuses me, and the mom and I make pleasant small talk as I ring up their items while the dad keeps the toddler entertained. All in all, they’re nice people.

Me: “Are you interested in applying for a store credit card today?”

Mom: “No, thank you.”

Daughter: “Can I get a credit card?”

Me: “Oh, no, honey. You have to have a job to get a credit card.”

Mom: “That’s right. You have to be at least eighteen.”

Daughter: “Oh.” *Thinks about this for a few seconds* “But I don’t want to get a job, and I don’t want to be eighteen! I like my life!”

The parents and I burst out laughing.

Me: “That’s the best thing I’m going to hear all day. I need that on a T-shirt.”

Shortly after I move into my first apartment, I find myself at a store, enjoying the luxury of shopping for bath towels, hand towels, and washcloths on the basis of what would match the tile color. The shelves aren’t terribly organized, so I walk around for quite a bit, probably going “Hmm” a lot, trying to find out what patterns of towels have matching washcloths, which seem most absorbent, etc. I notice a woman watching me do this. 

Eventually, she comes up to me.

Customer: “Do you have any baby towels?”

I figure she’s an employee who sees that I am trying to get a full bathroom set.

Me: “I don’t have a baby, so no thanks.” 

She looks at me funny.

Customer: “Do you work here?” 

Me: “Oh! No, sorry.”

I can only assume my dithering looked like very inefficient shelving!

I work as a Christmas seasonal worker at a well-known bath products chain. Their slogan is “Handmade Cosmetics,” and it’s in big white letters under the shop’s name. I hear a coworker trying to explain something to a tourist and having some problems speaking to them. I go to her aid. The tourist is angry and talking super-fast, so I first ask my coworker if they need help.

Me: *In Spanish* “Do you need help? I can speak to her if you want.”

Coworker: *In Spanish* “Yeah! I don’t get what she means at all; it makes no sense.”

I find this weird because this coworker is pretty fluent in English, as most of us are. Our shop is in a pretty popular tourist hotspot, so it is always full of foreign customers. In any case, I turn to the tourist, who is getting impatient.

Me: “Hello! What were you looking for? I’ll help as best as I can.”

Tourist: “Well, I want to know if you sell glycerin and essential oils for soap making.”

Now I understand why my coworker was confused. We only sell finished products.

Me: “I am very sorry, but we do not sell that.”

Tourist: “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Coworker: “Our products are handmade, though; they are all-natural and ethically sourced.”

Tourist: “But do you do it at home?”

Me: “No, we have a few factories in Europe which send us the finished products.”

Tourist: “Then you are lying! Outside says it’s homemade. If you make it in a factory, it’s not homemade. You should not lie about that!”

Me: “Ma’am, nowhere does it say that. Our goods are handmade, though.”

Tourist: “No, no, home-made. You should not say it’s homemade if it’s not. Do you know where I can buy glycerin and essential oils?”

Coworker: “Um, no?”

Tourist: “Then goodbye. And do not lie to your customers anymore; it is not homemade and you should be ashamed of yourselves for lying!”

After the tourist leaves, my coworker and I just look at each other and say, in Spanish:

Us: “What the h*** was that?”