After being very ill, I decide to get a Tree of Life tattoo on my right forearm to remind myself daily of what I’ve survived and still have some lingering issues from.

Shortly after I get back to work, one of the store’s “Frequent Flyers” comes in. She is known to generally be someone you want to avoid talking to unless you are bored or don’t value your sanity. The primary reason for this is that you will spend a lot of time listening to tangents and repeating the same answer over and over, sometimes to the exact same question!

The rest of my coworkers are all busy, so I am the sucker who has to approach her that night. Cue frustration and forty-five minutes of my life that shall forever be wasted. But, it’s almost made up by the gem that she’s about to dispense on my ungrateful being.

I’m trying again to wrap up the interaction when, out of the blue, she asks me, pointing in the general direction of my tattoo:

Customer: “Is that a tree?”

Me: “Yes, it is.”

Customer: *Giver of sage advice* “Did you know that tattoos are permanent?”

I’m literally stunned and take a moment to find a polite way to answer.

Me: “Well, yes, that was the intention.”

She didn’t say anything else, and I escaped without further harm.

My father-in-law has been working with electronics and audio since the last ice age (or at least the mid-1950s). He has always been paranoid regarding magnets and magnetic tools near tape recorders. This all happened in the 1990s, so tapes were still in use for audio recordings.

He called me one evening having a problem with his three-and-a-half-inch diskettes. (Young people: imagine a three-and-a-half-inch 3D-printed save symbol.)

His problem was interesting. He inserted the diskette in the drive, formatted it, tested it, saved a file, verified the file, ejected the diskette, and inserted it again.

And now the diskette was corrupted.

He had tried several times with the same result before calling me.

I tried the same operations — with success. 

Father-In-Law: “What was the problem?”

I said nothing and just pointed at the magnetic paperclip dispenser, which I had moved first. My father-in-law, aware of all magnetic tools, had placed the dispenser next to the computer, right under the drive.

Every time he had removed the diskette, he had erased it.

I work in a hotel. A couple of weeks ago, most of the power was out on our side of the state and likely wouldn’t be restored for four days, so people were freaking out and flocking to hotels. [Energy Company] workers were coming in from other states just to help get power restored, so we had a ton of them.

I was alone with a lobby full of people, selling rooms by the second. I had three “hold” buttons on my phone, meaning I could put three people on hold at any one time. All night, I regularly had three people on hold and more still calling in. I started having to ask people to call back in fifteen minutes.

And since people can be impatient, it was a total s***show. This was one of the two most annoying and entitled calls of the night. The other is in this story.

I put this woman on hold at least six times — and not even because she was waiting twenty minutes to get a response. No, instead, it was because every time I put her on hold, she immediately hung up and called back. I explained to her that I was the only one there and would get to her if she stayed on the line. She said okay. I put her on hold. And lo and behold, she’d hang up and call again. And again. All of this took place in the same ten minutes. I could’ve finished what I was doing and gotten back to her in five minutes if she’d just stayed on the line and waited, but common sense is a flower that doesn’t grow in everyone’s garden.

I picked up the phone and asked to put her on hold. Again.

Caller: “No, I was already on hold and you never got back to me.”

Me: “Okay, well, like I said, I’m the only one here, and I have a lobby full of people and two others on hold, as well.”

Caller: “I want to speak to your manager! Transfer me to them right now.”

Me: “Ma’am, do you understand what ‘the only one here’ means? I’m. The. Only. One. Here.”

Caller: “Well then, you’re going to solve my problem right now! I’m not waiting, and you will not put me on hold again.”

Me: “Okay.” *Click*

I seriously hung up on her! And she didn’t call back again. Hey, I didn’t put her on hold!

It was probably the funniest thing I did that week, to be honest. The woman at the front of the line for the desk got a kick out of it, too.

Guest: “Oh, I like you; you’re my kind of gal!”

Related:
There’s Little Power In Entitlement
A Most Inhospitable Hospitality Interaction

This story reminded me of a time I had a similar issue with the DMV. They wanted two forms of proof of my residence. I had the lease, but nothing else. All my mail goes to a post office box, so when I move I don’t have to change my address at thirty places and worry that mail will still go to the old address. My rent includes utilities, so no bill comes to me for those, either.

Clerk: “Do you have a bank statement that lists your residence?”

Off I went to the bank. I asked them to change the address on the account, for which they requested no proof or validation. I then had them print a current statement showing that address on their letterhead. Then, I had them change the address on file back to my mailing address.

The DMV accepted this document as authoritative and issued my license.

Related:
Your First Mistake Was Expecting The DMV To Make Sense

I used to work at a clothing store, run by a woman who would buy vintage and high end items, repair them, and then sell them in the store. We didn’t have multiple sizes of things and the only bulk items we bought were little trinkets and soaps, sometimes jewelry.

One day, when the owner had gone out to get more supplies, a couple walk in. The wife was on the wrong foot the moment she opened her mouth. She seemed to think we were her slaves, that she was queen of the world, and everything had to be in her size.

Her husband would grunt and repeat what she said in a more nasally aggressive voice. It was the longest two hours of my life.

We had everything organized by size, and did not have extras in the back. After explaining that for what felt like the hundredth time, I was about to throw a purse at her head.

Wife: “This is not my size. Why don’t you have my size?”

Me: “Maybe look at a larger size rack?”

Wife: “No, no, no! I am a two. I have always been a two. I was a two when I had my kids. I am a two now!”

Husband: “No. She is a two. A two. A two!”

The owner came in while the happy couple was shopping and asked me what the problem was because I had “that look.” I explained the woman was being picky.

Eventually the wife stormed up again, with a pair of pants, demanding I read her the size.

Me: “That is a six.”

Wife: “I am a two not a six. Why do I fit into these?”

Owner: “Those are a six. If you fit into them, then you are not a two.”

The wife got silent, turned to her husband, and waved the pants around.

Husband: “Now, listen here, I don’t like the way you guys have been helping my wife. She asks questions and gets attitude. You should use your eyes and actually look at the tag and see if there is a problem. She wants to know the size, tell her the size.”

Owner: “Sure. I will take a closer look.”

She puts the pants on the counter, pops out her glass eye, and holds it close to the tag.

Owner: “Still a six.”

The couple sputtered, waved their hands around like blind birds, and storm out. They left a huge mess I had to help clean up, but only after I spent twenty minutes laughing about it with the owner and the other cashier. 

She was the best boss I ever had. I was sad when I had to move for college.