(When I’m in the fourth grade, my parents decide to take my sister and me to Disney World. They elect to do so in the fall to avoid the crowds and the blistering heat. I inform my teacher of this, and he hands me a huge packet of all of the work — not just homework, but classwork, too — that I will be missing while I am gone. However, being a naive nine-year-old, I don’t think much of it, as I’m going to be busy on vacation. My parents know about the packet, but even they assume it’s a “go over this as you’re able” sort of affair. My mom is a meticulous planner and has every day at the parks planned down to the minute, so I don’t really have time to do anything other than sleep when we get back to the hotel. I do get a couple of bits and bobs done, and when I return to school I hand these in to my teacher.)

Teacher: “Where’s the rest of it?”

Me: “Um… I was on vacation. I didn’t have time to do all of it, but I will get it finished now that I’m home. It should only take–”

Teacher: “No, you were supposed to have this done for me when you came back!”

Me: “What?! You never said that! I was on vacation!”

Teacher: “It’s your responsibility to get your work done on time! I am very disappointed in you!”

(I’m the kind of kid who is never in trouble, so I’m already near tears as this is the first time a teacher has ever reprimanded me.)

Me: “I– I’m sorry! I thought–”

Teacher: “I don’t care what you thought! You are staying in for recess for one week, and you will work on this packet then!”

(And that’s how I got punished for going on vacation at nine years old. For the record, I finished the packet after three days of no recess, but he still made me stay inside for the full week. I do realize that the fact he gave me a packet should have been a hint, but I’d love to see his reaction if someone told him he’d better be writing lesson plans while he’s at Disney World!)

(As a college student in the 1970s, I work as a department store cashier. A woman comes to the register in a big hurry and with a big attitude. She begins to toss merchandise from her cart onto the counter. We have just started using electronic cash registers, but they aren’t very fast. In pre-barcode days, all the prices have to be entered on the keypad, and each entry has to process before another entry can be started. This woman keeps yelling at me to go faster and berating me for being so slow. As I have no bagger helping me, it is taking even longer. Impatiently, she starts flinging items into bags herself, which actually holds up even more, because while I am ringing up I also have to keep an eye on her to make sure she doesn’t bag items I haven’t rung up yet. Then, she grabs one of those cylindrical packages of imported cookies and as she flings it into the bag, it bounces, hits the floor, and rolls about six feet away. We both stare at it. She turns to me and shouts:)

Customer: “You go pick that up!”

Me: “I can’t. I’m not allowed to leave the register in the middle of a transaction.”

(After glaring at me, she stalks over to the cookies, picks them up, slams them into the bag, pays for her order, and marches to the door, where she turns and snaps:)

Customer: “I’ve been shopping at [Store] for fifteen years and you are the first not-nice cashier I’ve ever had!”

(I can’t help myself; I snap back:)

Me: “Well, I’ve been working here for only two months, and unfortunately, you are not the first not-nice customer I’ve ever had!”

(I’ve been working in this jewelry store for a while, so I’m usually able to tell when a customer has a ring size that is larger than our regular size seven. A customer comes in and asks to see a white sapphire bridal set. Her ring finger is obviously quite larger than a seven.)

Me: “If you get the protection plan on this, resizing the ring will be free for life, no matter how many times it needs to be done.”

Customer: “Oh, don’t worry dear! It’ll fit!” *shoves the rings onto her finger with a bit of difficulty* “See?!”

Me: “Um, sure! Was there anything else you wanted to look at?”

Customer: “Oh, yeah, there was something down this way…” *tries to take the rings off, but they’re really jammed* “Maybe I’ll use lotion to get it off…”

Me: “We’d rather you didn’t, as lotion really gunks up the ring. We actually use glass cleaner spray to help get rings off, if you’d like to try that first.”

Customer: “Oh, no, I can get it off.”

(She spits on her hand and all over the rings. She then wrenches them off her finger and tries to hand them back to me.)

Customer: “There we go!”

Me: *placing display pad closer to her* “You can just set them down there; I’ll put them back a bit later…”

(The customer wound up buying the rings after I cleaned them thoroughly. My employee had to go into the break room to keep from laughing.)

(For as long as I can remember, my parents have called each other a word that I always presumed was some made-up nonsense pet name and my mother jokingly insisting that it was an Italian curse word; my father’s family is Italian and he’s the one started it. Finally, one day, I decide to use the wonders of the Internet and look up a translation.)

Me: “Mom, you were right! [Word] means exactly what you think it means.”

Mom: “Really?!”

Me: “Except it’s not Italian. It’s Polish.”

Mom: “You mean your father’s been cursing at me in Polish all these years?!”

(As it turns out, my father used to work with some very foul-mouthed Polish fellows and this was the one Polish word he knew. And yes, my parents still use it as a term of endearment. I love my quirky family!)

(I have stopped at a popular fabric store on my way home from work during the holiday season. I’m picking up supplies for my boss and me to put together stockings for our coworkers.)

Me: *muttering to myself* “Red or black? Hmm…”

(A woman approaches me.)

Woman: “Excuse me? Miss? Can you show me where [sewing materials] are?”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I don’t work here.”

Woman: “Of course you do; you’re in uniform.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but I work in security and this is my site’s uniform. I don’t work for [Fabric Store].”

(I point at the company name on my button-down shirt and motion to my black slacks.)

Me: “They wear green aprons and jeans.”

Woman: “Nonsense. If you’re in work clothes, you work here.”

(This goes back and forth several more times, with me getting more frustrated because I want to leave and she won’t let me.)

Me: “Ma’am, I do not know what to tell you! I don’t work here! Besides, I don’t even shop here that much, so I couldn’t even help you as a fellow customer!”

Woman: “Don’t take that tone with me! I know you work here, so you need to do your job! Stop being lazy and telling me you don’t work here! I see your lanyard around your neck, and a lanyard means you work here!”

(A lightbulb goes off in my head and I realize that I’ve left my lanyard with my badge and licenses on in my haste.)

Me: “Oh, you mean this lanyard?”

(I grab and yank on it, causing the plastic safety breakaway to come apart. I shove the cards on it into my back pocket and leave the ends to hang free.)

Me: “There. Now that I’m not wearing it anymore. I don’t work here.”

Woman: “You are so rude!”

(I reach out and grab what I need, my patience gone.) 

Me: “Call me rude all you want, but maybe if you went and found someone who actually works here instead of wasting both of our time, you could have been shown what you’re looking for. Go find someone in a green apron and ask them.”

(I got past her and went to the registers. On my way out, I saw a manager talking to her and heard him say, “Ma’am, we don’t have blue uniform shirts; we have green aprons. Did you harass a customer?”)