(I have been working at the same bookstore for three years, but I have a terrible memory for faces and names. Customers remember me much more frequently than I remember them. One day, I am very busy and overtaxed when a lady walks up to me.)

Customer: “I’m sure you don’t remember me, but I was in here last year.”

(I don’t remember her at all and cringe inwardly, waiting to hear what her complaint is.)

Customer: “You recommended this travel guide to me, and I had the most lovely vacation! I just wanted to let you know.”

Me: “Oh. Uh, thank you! People never come back and tell me when something was good.”

(She left with another travel book.)

(A customer walks up to the register with a cookbook.)

Customer: “Can you please tell me how many recipes are in this cookbook?”

Me: “Um…”

(I look at the book and don’t see a specific number anywhere, so I point to the table of contents.)

Me: “This many.”

Customer: “Okay.” *proceeds to count out the number of recipes in the cookbook*

(I am about eight months pregnant. I’m carrying small, and from the back, if you can’t see my belly, I don’t look pregnant at all. Plus, my body is giving me a pregnancy advantage: cleavage. To top it all off, my hair and skin have never looked better. I’m sitting behind my desk, working Friday evening store hours, when another bookstore owner, who is also a customer of ours, comes in. I haven’t met him before, but my store owner tells me he’s recently divorced — and a big flirt, which is one of the things that led to his divorce.)

Customer: “I’m going to fly to Paris next weekend!”

Me: “That sounds terrific! Have a wonderful time.”

Customer: “Have you ever been to Paris?”

Me: “No, I haven’t.”

Customer: “You should come to Paris with me! I’ve been several times. I’ll show you all the sights! It’s a beautiful city; very romantic. We’ll have a fabulous time.” *sits on the front edge of my desk, leaning in suggestively*

Me: “Oh, I don’t think so. My doctor says it wouldn’t be a good idea for me to fly. I’m not even able to go to Israel later this month with my husband.”

(I push my chair back to get some space from him and stand up.)

Customer: *awkward pause, and then turns to my boss* “Are the bindings still up on the second floor?”

(I am a 30-year-old female. A male customer, some 15 to 20 years older than me, has been hitting on me and I have politely turned him down. A week later he comes back in to pick up a book he’d ordered.)

Customer: “I wasn’t asking you to marry me and have my children. I just thought you might like to be my mistress!”

(I work at a well-known bookstore. This occurs while I am covering someone’s break at customer service.)

Customer: “Hello, I was wondering where your ghost-writer section is.”

Me: “I’m sorry. We don’t have a section of books that were written with ghost-writers, but I can help you find one. What genre are you looking for?”

Customer: “I’m not looking for a book. I’m looking for a ghost-writer.”

(I begin to process that she is asking me for a person.)

Customer: “I’m writing a book and it is too hard, so I thought I’d come here and find someone to write it for me.”

(I have to take a few minutes and explain to her that we don’t write the books, only sell them. I’m not quite sure she gets it. After she leaves, I go back to my coworker and tell him what happened.)

Coworker: “You should have sent her to me. I would’ve charged her $10,000 a chapter!”