I’m driving with my parents when my mom notices the truck in front of us venting a little gas.

Mom: “You should back off, that might be dangerous!”

A quick glance at the truck tells me it’s liquid nitrogen.

Me: “Mom, it’s just nitrogen, you’re breathing it right now. It makes up 78% of the atmosphere!”

Mom: “Well, you never know, they find out that things cause cancer all the time!”

I knew she’d rather die on that hill, so I just stopped talking.

I work in a small and trendy wellness grocery store, the kind that sells expensive volcanic water, sea moss, and hemp honey.

I mention these specific products because a woman walks up to my register with these items. I’m scanning her basket when she asks me, curtly:

Customer: *Loudly.* “Where’s the oat milk? I couldn’t see any.”

Me: “Sorry, the delivery has been delayed, so it will come in later today.”

She narrows her eyes at me and then pulls a pouch out of her bag. Out comes a little pile of crystals, which she arranges on the counter.

Me: “What are you doing?”

Customer: *Blasé.* “Oh, just hexing you.”

Me: “Hexing… me?”

Customer: “And the store. If you can’t provide me with the service I need, the store will be hexed until you do.”

Me: “Riiiight… Do you want me to bag the rest of your items or will the spirits be carrying them home for you?”

She glares, sweeps the crystals back into her pouch, and says:

Customer: “Joke all you want! You won’t be laughing soon!”

She pays for her items and storms out. A coworker wanders over, eyebrow raised.

Coworker: “What was all that?”

Me: “She cursed us because the milk delivery is late.”

Coworker: “You don’t seem that bothered.”

Me: “Yesterday I had to deal with a customer meltdown because they bought the cilantro jalapeno hummus, thinking it was the herby jalapeno hummus, and was refused a refund because they ate the whole thing. They opened four packs of hummus and threw them on the floor before storming out. I think I’m already hexed.”

I’ve taken a little over a thousand calls since starting this job, but today I dealt with my first racist customer over the phone. Truly incredible that they think being mean to the people trying to help them will somehow make us more inclined to help.

I work for a tech company in California. This customer was trying to find information on one of our newly released products. All the information is available on our website, but he immediately calls in yelling that our website is useless, doesn’t tell him what he needs to know, and demands we send him a pamphlet with the details.

I let him know we don’t have any pamphlets to send, but our website has all the important information regarding the product. If he has any specific questions, I can answer them for him.

Customer: “No. The website is useless. You’re useless.” *Hangs up.*

He calls again, trying to get a different support agent, but I answer again.

Customer: *Hangs up.*

He calls again and demands to speak to someone else.

Me: “I’m the only one in the office right now.”

Customer: “You’re lying!” 

Me: “I mean… if you want to hang up and call again, I’ll still be the one answering your phone call.”

He then proceeds to call me a smart aleck and says:

Customer: “You Asian companies are always so passive-aggressive. You need to go back to where you came from and stop selling in America.”

Me: “Sir, you don’t need to be so rude. It won’t get us anywhere. And you’re the one buying from us, we’re not forcing you to do anything.”

Customer: “You Californians think everything is rude. This is why I hate Californians, so soft and prissy. You need to grow up in a real man state like Washington!”

…lol?

He then goes on a rant about completely irrelevant topics, so I just mute my mic and play a mobile game, so I don’t lose my mind over this phone call. 

Finally, when he’s finished ranting, I ask:

Me: “Hey man, I can send you a user manual. Would that help you with what you’re trying to find?”

Customer: “Yes.”

And just like that… the call finally ends.

My grandparents are lucky enough to have some really good insurance, which means they can get regular check-ups at a fancy private hospital.

I’m with them in the waiting room at an especially nice wing (I’m their driver), flipping through a magazine.

That’s when she walks in. Every stereotypical image of the stick-thin valley girl you have in your mind could be found in this one person. Oversized sunglasses, designer bag, pink heels, swaying like she’s on a runway.

She pauses at the check-in desk, flips her hair dramatically, and sighs.

Valley Girl: “Ugh, is this seriously the waiting room? I thought this place was supposed to be, like, fancy.”

The nurse politely smiles and asks her to wait.

She turns, surveys the room like she’s just caught a whiff of something unpleasant, and mutters loudly, looking at my grandparents.

Valley Girl: “God, this place is, like, 80% grandpas. Do they even treat real problems here or is this just where people come to die?”

Grandpa looks up. He closes the magazine, leans slightly toward us, and says, clear as a bell, and absolutely not subtle:

Grandpa: “This hospital doesn’t fill me with confidence if the morgue can’t even keep the skeletons from escaping.”

Grandma and I can’t help but burst out laughing. [Valley Girl] looks shocked, but doesn’t say anything else and sits in steaming silence for the rest of the time we were waiting.

I was comforting my young son after a neighbor’s kid backed out of a promised playdate to go to the park with other friends instead. After letting him cry it out and having a conversation about how much broken promises suck, this was the turn our conversation took:

Son: “We need to move to Europe.”

Me: “Why?”

Son: “Wait, do we live in Europe?”

Me: “No, we live in California, which is part of the United States of America.”

Son: “Well, actually, part of America is in Europe.”

Me: “Um, no.”

Son: “Grrr! You are hurting my feelings!”

Me: “I’m sorry I’m hurting your feelings by not bending reality to place California in Europe.”

There’s a silence, during which my son repeatedly taps his toes against the floor.

Son: “I’m waiting!”

Me: “Waiting for what?”

Son: “For you to do that!”

Me: “What? Bend reality?”

Son: *Exasperated.* “YES!”

I love that he thinks I can do anything, but there are some limits to my power!