The Curse Of Serial Browsers

, , , , | Related | November 15, 2019

(My girlfriend and I are doing some quick shopping at a popular chain of department stores and her younger sister is tagging along. My girlfriend and I have a specific goal in mind and do not have a lot of time to waste. Her sister, however, is running around to pick up and examine things as we walk past them, leaving me to constantly drag her away while trying to keep up with my girlfriend. She’s not being very discreet and she has knocked things off the shelves accidentally multiple times to the point that we get yelled at by an employee. We are trying to leave, but my girlfriend’s sister is still darting off to grab products off the shelves. Fed up, I rush after her and take her by the hand and tug her after my girlfriend.)

Girlfriend’s Sister: “Hey! Let go! What are you doing?!”

Me: “You keep running off and causing trouble, so I’m holding your hand until we get out of the store.”

Girlfriend’s Sister: “No! Stop! Let go!”

Me: *sternly* “No. Not until we get out of the store. We need to leave and I’m not letting you hold us up anymore.”

(She tried dragging her feet, but it did slow me down and she just ended up skiing across the marble floor. She pounded on my arm with her left fist but failed to cause me any pain. Deciding to stop drawing more attention to herself, she gave up and let me lead her by the hand while she pouted with indignation. My girlfriend was just happy I was dealing with her. While we were checking out and I was distracted, she managed to jerk her hand free, but she had learned her lesson and stayed close and quiet and left with us. Oh, and if you’re wondering how old she was at this time… She was 21!)

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Save The Hood

, , , , , | Right | November 14, 2019

(I work at a family-run dry cleaner. I am finishing up high school, so I am rather young and very inexperienced with customer service. I work at the front counter, taking in clothes for cleaning and receiving payments. We have a policy where items received by 10:00 am are processed the same day, so the morning can be crazy. A lady comes in with a filthy hoodie.)

Customer: “Yeah, I’m in a rush. Can you clean this?”

(Everyone is in a rush.)

Me: “We can try. So, just the one sweater?”

(It’s a hoodie, but there’s no unique pricing for hoodies, and sweaters are the closest thing. The lady nods and I begin collecting her name and phone number and all the information for the order.)

Customer: “Thanks. I hope you can save it. It’s my boyfriend’s favorite. He was in an accident so that’s blood. I’m taking him to the hospital.”

Me: *stunned* “Okay, we’ll try.”

(She left and I had to tag and carry back the blood-soaked hoodie to the “spot” cleaner. I still can’t believe a hoodie was so special they’d stop to have it cleaned before going to the hospital!)

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When Having A Disability Is Quirky

, , , , , | Working | November 13, 2019

(I go to a reasonably large yoga studio consistently four to five times a week. There is one class that I never get to go to since the instructor always teaches the course before my usual one. My general instructor and her TAs have a retreat, so the instructor that usually teaches the prior class becomes the sub for my usual class. I am naturally excited since I have heard good things about her and am excited to try it out. I will also add that I have single-sided deafness; I am deaf in my left ear, but my right ear is perfectly fine. I do have trouble distinguishing what the instructor is saying with loud music. This becomes important later. When class begins, I notice that the sub doesn’t ask the usual question about if anyone has an injury or anything that the instructor might need to know about. The sub just jumps straight into class. As we do our warmup, she goes to the CD player and turns on relaxing music. It is louder than usual, but I excuse it at first because there are no lyrics and I need to strain a little bit harder to hear the instructor, but it should be fine, or so I think. We go to a difficult move. The instructor plays The Beatles “Ob La Di Ob La Da.”)

Sub: “Now sing along to the music! Now, next, make this move…”

(Great song, but I can’t hear the instructor. So, I flag her down. She comes over).

Me: “Can you lower the volume of the music, please? I can’t hear out of my left ear.”

(She looks genuinely upset. She stomps over to the music and lowers the volume down significantly. The rest of the class, she throws daggers at me with her eyes. So, after class is over, I go over to her)

Me: “Hey, sorry about earlier. I do appreciate it. I can’t hear out of my left ear, and I had trouble hearing you.”

Sub: “Oh! Don’t worry. Everyone has quirks. Just be more considerate of others next time.”

(I am shocked and stand there as she just leaves. I become furious, so I find a comment card and write what happened so I can pass it on to the manager. The manager is gone because the class ended after they left. I write in plain letters that being deaf is not a quirk, and not making reasonable accommodations is against the law. Luckily, I get a call from them the next day, and they agree to have a stern talk with the sub. I see the sub two days later before my usual class, and she wants to talk it out with me one-on-one.)

Me: “I hope you do understand why I got so upset.”

Sub: “Yes. Do you usually take [Instructor]’s class?”

Me: “Yes. Now, I do hope you understand why I got upset.”

Sub: “That’s weird. Most people who go to [Instructor]’s class come to my class and say her class is harder than mine.”

(At this point, I just gave up. She thought that I complained about class toughness and not making reasonable accommodations. One of the many lessons that people with hidden disabilities learn is that making reasonable accommodations means that we are lazy.)

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“It’s Not Fair” Is Fair Game To These Mothers

, , , , | Right | November 12, 2019

(I am browsing with my baby in a children’s consignment store that will buy your old children’s items and sell them there. You sign in at the consignment desk, leave your items, and then the staff will call you with an offer once they get a chance to evaluate them. It is written in bold letters on the sheet that items cannot be left overnight or they will be donated, because the store is absolutely packed already. There is a woman standing at the consignment desk starting to raise her voice at the cashier, so I overhear her.)

Woman: “But it is not fair!”

Cashier: “That is our policy, ma’am. When you signed the sheet here, you agreed to the terms.”

Woman: “But it is not fair! Get me a manager!” 

(The cashier brings the manager.)

Manager: “How can I help you?”

Woman: “I brought big bags to you, lots of good, and they are gone!”

Manager: “Yes, because you left them overnight, so they were donated.”

Customer: “I never agreed to that!”

Manager: “Yes, when you signed here, you agreed to pick up your items that we didn’t accept, or they would be donated.”

Customer: “I did not read that! That is not fair!”

Manager: *slightly annoyed* “Do you always just sign things, or read them?”

Customer: “No! Where are my things? Where do they go?”

Manager: “A lady picks them up to give to a nonprofit–“

Customer: “Then do I get a receipt? Like… like when you give a car, or something? Why were they donated? I should get money; I brought them to sell!”

Manager: *pulls up the customer’s record* “We couldn’t take your items because we had too many. We tried to contact you yesterday to tell you. When you didn’t get back to us, your things were donated this morning.”

Customer: “But… it is not FAIR!”

(Unfortunately, my son decided he’d had enough at that moment so I didn’t get to stick around to see how it ended. I can’t imagine she got anything, though, except a lesson in reading before you sign. The staff are mostly veteran moms used to dealing with tantrums.)

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Unfiltered Story #177144

, , | Unfiltered | November 11, 2019

(I’ m the customer in this story, i had just ordered some chicken strips, and the waitress was asking me what i want for a side.)

Me: I would like a salad and some chips.

Waitress: Okay, and whatvwould you like on the salad.

Me: Barbecue Sauce.

(My parents look at me like i am razy but i don’y seem to notice.)

Waitress: No hon, i need to know whatyou want on the SALAD.

Me: Barbecue Sauce

Dad: Are you really that stupid? She wants to know what you want as a dressing.

Me: (Turns 50 shades of red) Italian please.

(My parents proceed to laugh for 10 minutes, i apologize to the waitresses later, and my parwnts have sill not let it go)