I’m at the service desk, helping a couple with a return.

Me: “Okay, so your refund will go back on the card you used to purchase the item.”

Wife: “No. We want cash.”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but store policy is that refunds go back the same way they were originally paid.”

Wife: “It’s a debit card, so we have the right to ask for cash back instead.”

Me: “No, ma’am. Refunds are processed the same way the original payment was made. It will go back to your debit card.” 

I repeat myself a couple more times, but she refuses to accept it. Finally, she turns to her husband.

Wife: *Loudly, right in front of me.* “I’m supposed to get cash back. This b**** just doesn’t want to give me my money.”

My retail smile immediately drops. I just stare at her blankly.

Me: “This b**** doesn’t get paid enough money to give a s*** about yours. Store policy is store policy. If you don’t like it, write a complaint, but don’t take it out on the minimum-wage worker who’s the only one here trying to help you.”

Wife: *To her husband.* “You gonna let her talk to me like that?” 

Husband: *Calmly.* “I will. And I wish more people would.”

The wife storms off, swearing at me the whole way. The husband lingers just a second, mouthing a silent:

Husband: “Thank you.”

Then he follows after her.

I’m working at the customer service desk when the customer phone rings.

Me: “Thank you for calling [Store], how can I help you?”

Caller: “Hi, uh… this is going to sound strange, but my wife is shopping in your store right now.”

Me: “Okay… what can I do for you?”

Caller: “She’s going to buy olive oil. We don’t need olive oil; I found the spare. Could you… announce that over the intercom for her?”

I pause, because this is not exactly in the training manual.

Me: “…You want me to tell your wife not to buy olive oil?”

Caller: “Exactly. Her name is [Full Name].”

I shrug. Why not? I grab the mic.

Me: *Over intercom.* “Customer announcement for [Customer’s Full Name]. Your husband says that he found the spare olive oil. You do not need to buy more. Repeat: you do not need to buy more.”

A couple of customers nearby start laughing. Sure enough, ten minutes later, a woman comes to the front desk, holding some olive oil.

Customer: “Need a refund on this.”

Me: “Are you—”

Customer: “—I am she.”

Me: “I guess your husband didn’t get to you in time.”

Customer: “Coward.”

Me: *Quizzical look.*

Customer: “He could have just called me, but then he’d know I was right about having some extra olive oil in the cupboard somewhere, but instead of me telling him ‘I told you so’ he calls the store and gets you to do it! Coward!”

Me: *Processing the refund.* “I… see?”

She tuts some more and walks out when we’re done.

A couple of hours later, I’m walking past the checkouts and I see the same woman! She’s back, and she’s holding olive oil again. We make eye contact.

Customer: “He’s a coward and an idiot. It was normal cooking oil he’d found. He didn’t know there was more than one kind of oil.”

Me: “So… he was right about there not being more olive oil at home?”

Customer: “…well if I didn’t realize that until now, he sure as h*** isn’t going to!”

I am buying some scented candles. Another couple is nearby doing the same. The woman opens a candle jar and sniffs.

Woman: “Ugh! This says Ocean Breeze, but it doesn’t smell like our beach at all.”

Man: “Honey, this says notes of sea salt, jasmine, and driftwood. Our beach smells like warm Bud Light, seagull poop, and someone grilling six feet too close.”

The woman scoffed, placed the candle down angrily, and stormed away. The guy sighed and slowly walked after her.

I picked up a guy from a bar in broad daylight, heading to a casino. Nothing unusual about that, until we got on the freeway.

Almost immediately, a car started tailgating me. Close and aggressive, with the horn blaring every few seconds. I flinched and checked my mirrors.

Passenger: “That might be my wife. Don’t worry, she’ll stop following soon.”

She did not, in fact, stop following.

She stuck to us like glue for the entire twenty-minute ride. The horn never let up, not in traffic, not at lights, not even when I changed lanes.

We pulled into the casino parking lot, and the guy practically launched himself out of the car like it was on fire. His timing was good; she screeched in behind us and nearly clipped him as he ran for the doors.

Right before the glass doors closed behind him, he looked back at me, dead serious.

Passenger: “Don’t ever get married.”

And just like that, he disappeared into the casino while his wife’s tires screamed behind him like a NASCAR pit stop gone wrong.

I’m a real estate agent showing a mid-century three-bedroom to a married couple. The husband is quiet and polite; the wife seems determined to find fault with something.

As I’m pointing out the features of the main bedroom, she stops dead.

Me: “So we come upstairs to the master bedroom—”

Customer: “—Excuse me, what did you just call this room?”

Me: “Oh, I just said this is the, uh, the primary suite.”

Customer: “That’s not what you said at first.”

Me: “Right, yes. Industry habit. A lot of us are trying to switch terms.”

Customer: “That term is incredibly offensive!”

Me: “Yes, I’m sorry, it was a slip of the—”

Customer: “—Hundreds of years past slavery, and we still use such disgusting language! No. I’m sorry, but I cannot stand here and listen to that kind of language. I’m going to wait in the car.”

She turns and leaves in a huff.

Her husband lingers for a second, looking embarrassed, then gives me a sheepish shrug.

Husband: “We’ll take a flyer. And, uh… I’ll text you later.”

Me: “Will she be okay?”

Husband: “She just didn’t want to like the house because it’s my selection. She doesn’t really care. She’s always telling people she has a master’s degree.”