I attended a private Catholic high school many years ago. Most in my area required a specific, monogrammed uniform that was sold at a specific store. You could not buy them elsewhere, and the administration loved giving you detention if you wore khakis that did not have their acronym on them. Their sizing was horrible, so this happened very often. The pants had to fit a specific way as well: both baggy and skin-tight ones were not allowed.

I ended up working at this store one summer a year after graduation, and since I had personal experience with how awful those uniforms were, it was my designated area every shift. One interaction has stayed a fresh memory for ten years.

This student is an incoming freshman. Her mother is with her in crisp business attire with a Bluetooth piece in her ear and not much patience for her teenager’s attitude. She is not talkative but does pay attention when I show them the uniform options and the school’s policy.

I help the girl find three sizes likely to fit and explain that the size on the label might say five, but it really is a size two. She takes them in to try them on, and I tidy up the area while I wait for her to decide so I can pull more of the size she needs, all while she is complaining about how awful they fit her and how they don’t show off her legs at all. I check the fit with her mother, and off I go to pull the correct pairs when I hear this gem.

Mom: “You’re going there to learn, not to get a dollar in your underwear. Enough.”

I did not hear another word from her outside of yes or no until they left. She was pretty embarrassed by her mom’s admonition, but knowing how that school was, the admin’s dressing down would have been worse. I don’t miss that store and I especially don’t miss how many kids would leave in tears for how poorly those pants fit, especially on anyone not under a size seven or anyone tall.

I worked in a clothing store with a guy I’ll call Clive. Clive was, without a doubt, the stupidest fellow I have ever (or hopefully ever will) met. He was once tasked with placing sales stickers on some clothes, and then he proceeded to place them inside the clothes. When asked why?

Clive: “So they wouldn’t fall off.”

Us: “But they’re stickers. Their sole intention is to not fall off.”

Clive: “But they fall off all the time.”

When we checked his work, we realised he actually hadn’t been peeling the stickers off to reveal the sticky backs. He had just been tearing them off and hoping for the best. For weeks after the sale, we kept finding random torn sales stickers falling out of stock with exclamations like, “Clive strikes again!” and the like.

When it was time for the next sale, my boss decided Clive would not be involved. At the beginning of the sales planning meeting, he gathered the staff and started with:

Boss: “The plan for the sale is simple, like Clive. But unlike Clive, the plan just might work.”

A customer is returning a pair of shoes.

Customer: “They were too big! I want my money back.”

As soon as I lift them up to check them, I notice mud and grass stains and stones stuck in the sole.

Me: “I can’t take them back because they aren’t faulty. We encourage all our customers to try shoes on and test them before going outside in them.”

She then takes them back, leaves the store, comes back in, and tries to return them again.

Customer: “These are faulty. I want my money back.”

Me: “I can’t return these because I know they aren’t.”

Customer: *Thinks for a moment* “But these were for my daughter who has Down syndrome, and you should feel like s*** for denying me a refund!”

She stormed off. I did not feel like s***.

I run a side business doing custom-made costumes. Most of my projects are done without fanfare, but then I get these gems.

Client: “Hi. I want to do this costume. Just need the shirt. Thanks.”

The link they provide goes to a WWII reenactment supplier. The specific page is a replica of a Hitler Youth uniform. After a few moments of “yikes”, I collect myself and respond to the message.

Me: “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this commission. You may be better served to order from the reenactment site instead.”

Client: “Are you saying I should spend $90 on a shirt?! I don’t have that kind of money! I only contacted you because I thought you’d be cheaper!”

Given I charge a $20-an-hour commission fee, and it takes me five to seven hours to make a button-down shirt, I definitely wouldn’t be cheaper. And I am not about to do business with a wannabe Nazi.

So, yes, honey. That’s exactly what I’m saying.

I work in the fitting room at a clothing store. A woman comes in to try on a T-shirt.

Me: “Hi! My name is [My Name]. Let me know if you need another size or anything.”

Customer: “You’re too happy, and I can’t deal with it.”

She left without trying on the shirt. I guess I need to start hating life more?