(One of the most common substitutions I do is swapping out dairy for soy milk. Most of the time it’s just a taste preference, but it can also be because of allergy. The customer here is about ten or eleven, with a number of other kids around.)

Girl: “…and can I have my milkshake with soy milk? I’m very allergic to dairy.”

Me: “Sure, that’s not a problem. We even have a separate blender, okay?”

Girl: “Oh, good, thanks!”

(A minute later, as I’m handing off her drink:)

Girl: “Wait, can I get whipped cream on mine?”

Me: “Sorry, I— You said you have a dairy allergy? The whipped cream is made from milk.”

Girl: “No, it’s not! It’s whipped CREAM, not milk!”

Me: *thinking quickly* “Is your mom or dad here with you?”

Girl: “Yeah, why?”

Me: “If they say it’s okay, I’ll put whipped cream on your milkshake.”

(A few minutes later, with her mother:)

Girl’s Mom: “Why would you embarrass her in front of her friends like that? That was cruel of you to do!”

Me: “I’m very sorry, but I didn’t want to give her anything that might make her sick.”

Girl’s Mom: “Well, she swells up and stops breathing, but she’s got an Epi-Pen for that. I just can’t believe you would humiliate my daughter. It’s hard enough for her to have allergies. You need to be more sensitive!”

(This went on for about five minutes. The girl’s friends didn’t notice a thing until her mother started carrying on. Best part? I’m also allergic to dairy, and generally consider airways closing up a lot more embarrassing than checking with my mom!)

(It is thirty minutes until closing time when a woman strolls in with a large bag of items, mostly brand name clothes – easily three hundred dollars worth of merchandise. Of course she has no receipt and so I will have to give her store credit. I process the items; there’s a lot of things so it takes a while. My phone rings and I notice it’s a call from inside the store.)

Me: *on the phone* “Customer service.”

Coworker: *on the phone* “Get her driver’s license number.” *hangs up*

(I ask the woman for her license, and while she digs for it, she gets out her phone (she didn’t dial anything nor did it ring) and pretends to tell someone she’s at [Store] doing some returns. I glance at my coworker and the people greeter, who is part of loss prevention, and they are both scowling. My coworker is shaking her head. I know they’re thinking the same thing I’m thinking. I write down her DL number and put it under my counter and continue to ring up the returns.)

Woman: *peers over my counter* “I need that piece of paper back.”

Me: *puzzled a moment, and also somewhat annoyed at having my concentration broken* “Hmm? Oh, uh…”

(I realize she wants her license number back. I don’t know what to say as I’ve never had to do a transaction this big before.)

Woman: “Can I have that piece of paper?”

(My coworker walks back by.)

Coworker: “When we do a transaction this big we have to take the driver’s license number. We keep it confidential.” *she gives me a look*

Me: “We’ll destroy it when we’re done here, okay?”

(The woman goes to the display across from the service desk, of electronic toys, cell phone accessories, etc. She picks up a set of earbuds and drops them into her purse.)

Me: “I have to scan that!”

Coworker: *quietly, to me* “Force of habit.”

(An older gentleman returns some shoes in a bag with the brand’s name on it. I think nothing of it at first because most people put their returns in any bag they have. I go through the usual process — what’s wrong with the item, do you have the receipt, etc. He says the shoes are the wrong size and he indeed has the receipt.)

Me: *looks at the receipt* “Uh… sir, you didn’t purchase these at [Store]; they’re from [Other Store] – in [Far Away City].”

Customer: “But y’all sell Nikes!”

Me: “Yes, sir, but you’d have to go to [Other Store]. We can’t process this.”

(I start to explain that not only can we not just take any product because of inventory purposes but the register would likely not even be able to process the return.)

Customer: *incredulously* “I’d have to go all the way to [Faraway City]?”

Me: “Um, I think they have one in [Nearby City], in the mall there, I think. Would you like me to call…?”

(He took his shoes and receipt and left.)

In order to visit the Presidential Palace (former Royal Palace), you need to make a reservation at least two days earlier. My mother and I arrive on time and wait for the tour to start when an American family of three women and four children, all related, arrive. The first sign that this is going to be fun is that, despite the receptionist telling them about the rule, they make a scene about having traveled from far, wanting to visit, etc. The tour guide decides to bend the rules for the kids and agrees to take them on. Meanwhile, the children practically pick the Reception Hall apart. Since the museum is inside a functioning Government building, you are not permitted to leave the tour without announcing to the guide and waiting for an escort.

Kid #1, around 14 years old, the first chance she gets, takes her shoes off, lies down on the floor, and reads her book. Throughout the whole tour, not once did she look at the building or listen to the guide. But, hey. At least she was quiet, I guess. Still, would she have been allowed to do the same in the White House?

Kids #2 and #3, aged between eight and ten, make a point of touching every single item labeled with a “do not touch” sign.

And my personal favourite, Kid #4. The sweet little darling is about three, obviously way too young for a 100 minute-long tour. She is running around like crazy, getting behind the cordons, climbing up on the delicate historical furniture, while not a single adult from her family, including her own mother, pays ANY attention to her. After the tour guide pleads with the accompanying adults for the hundredth time, the little hellspawn’s mother drops this pearl, saying that Kid #4 doesn’t listen to her and that the kid will just scream if she tells the kid anything, so YOU do something about the kid. She then questioned why should she leave the tour when she paid for it?!

The poor guide, and every other visitor in our group — also paying customers — had to put up with an increasingly hysterical toddler and her entire entitled entourage for the rest of the visit, except the Royal Church. By that time, our guide had finally had enough and forbade them from entering. We asked her if we’d be allowed to buy her a drink on us after all the ordeal.

(My friend and I are shopping at a store when an employee comes to ask if we need help. She seems to have a mental disability.)

Employee: “Can I help you find anything?”

Me: “Not right now, but I’ll be sure to let you know if I need anything.”

Employee: *shocked* “Can you wait here for a minute?”

Me: “Sure.”

(She rushes to the back while my friend and I glance at each other, confused. When the employee comes back, she has a woman with her who I assume is her manager.)

Manager: “Is it true that you said you would ask [Employee] for help if you needed anything?”

Me: “Um, yes.”

Manager: “I just want to thank you on behalf of the store and everyone here. The last customer who she tried to help yelled at her because she has a disability. You just made her day!”

(My friend and I were given discounts on our purchases, and any time we return to the store, we always ask for the employee. She smiles every time she sees us.)