(This happens on my first day working in a new grocery store, well over a decade ago, when Google is new. A customer I have just helped with something in the bakery finds me while I’m on a break:)

Customer: “Oh, good! It’s you! You’re so nice; can you help me choose some wine?”

Me: “No, sorry. I’m—”

Customer: “Oh, nonsense! You’re the perfect person to help me!”

Me: “I’m not—”

Customer: *launches into an incredibly detailed description of her dinner, the various wine choices, and what a chore it is to choose wine*

Me: “I don’t know anything about wine pairings. I’m sorry.”

Customer: “Well, why not?!”

Me: *pauses to steady my nerves* “I’m 19, ma’am.”

Customer: “WELL, WHY DIDN’T YOU JUST SAY SO?!” *realizes her volume and pauses* “Oh, I’m so sorry. I really shouldn’t have shouted there, yeah. Do you know how to find something that would go well with my chicken parmesan?”

Me: “No, I’m sorry. The Internet might know. Google would help a lot more than I can, sorry.”

Customer: “You know, I don’t really know if I have that Internet thing at my house, but I do have a computer. If I don’t have the Google, my son can install a Google on it… Oh, and thank you, young lady; you’ve been a dear.”

(I tell her to have a nice day, as she starts to shuffle away, mumbling about computers and “installing a Google,” and I stare after her, amused. The liquor department manager comes up to me.)

Liquor Manager: “Oh, that’s Mrs. [Customer]! I’ve never thought to suggest that she use the Internet before!”

Me: “Is she a regular?”

Liquor Manager: “Yeah, and she doesn’t get that I know nothing about wine pairings, because I hate that stuff!”

Me: “Well, I’m 19. She actually apologized to me when I told her that.”

Liquor Manager: “Wow.” *starts playing with her hair and trying to put it up* “Hmmm. I might actually try to pass for 20. I mean, not that you can even look that…” *sees the look on my face get a bit squinty* “…y-young? I’m not saying you’re lying, it’s just that you cannot possibly be 19! You have got to be… You can’t be 19, is what I’m saying.”

Me: *hands her my ID, which confirms my age* “If you’re trying to say I look over 21, I appreciate the compliment.”

Liquor Manager: “Wow. So… I mean… Wow! You don’t look that age. I mean, you look much younger than you actually are!”

Me: “I’d much rather look my actual age, to be totally honest.”

(She went on and on about how wonderful it was to have such access to the fountain of youth, and how young I looked, even though I kept on making it clear that I really didn’t appreciate much commentary on my age. She kept getting huffy and assuring me that it was just a compliment and that I should just accept that. I found a way to not-so-politely excuse myself, to get back to my job, as I found this manager to be much more unpleasant than the customer and her wine request! Two years, and many liquor-related conversations with my new favorite customer later, the customer found out when my birthday was. She gave me a rosé Champagne, with a card that read, “For your next chicken parmesan, now that you’re old enough to not have to rely on that Google anymore!” She also suggested that I apply for a position in the liquor department, and when I got the job, the liquor manager was so pissed off she quit! Due to my Google-found expertise with wine, I was quickly promoted to replace her, and lasted five years in that job before I left the company.)

(I’m 16 and working a six-hour shift as a bagger. It’s been a long day and I still have an hour until I go home, and I’m feeling stressed and grouchy. A little boy comes up with his mother, and while she talks to the cashier, the boy talks to me.)

Little Boy: “What’s your name?”

Me: “My name is [My Name]. What’s yours?”

Little Boy: “I’m [Little Boy]. How old are you?”

Me: “I’m 16. How about you?”

Little Boy: “I’m four. Do you know how to drive?”

Me: “Yes, I do.”

Little Boy: “Do you know how to cook?”

Me: “Yes.”

Little Boy: “Do you know how to make a cookie?”

Me: “I do, indeed.”

Little Boy: “Do you know how to make an egg?”

Me: “Yep!”

Little Boy: “Do you know how to make a baby?”

(I crack up.)

Mother: *coming over* “I’m sorry! He asks the craziest things!”

Me: “No worries. He made my day!”

(He did! It’s been two years and I still tell this story.)

(I work two different jobs, one through the week, the other only on the weekends. I have just had a minor surgery on my upper right arm. After the procedure, I am told that I am not allowed to lift more than ten pounds for the next two weeks, in order to fully recover. This is fine; my first job as a librarian allows me to sit at a computer and doesn’t often require me to carry heavy objects. My second job as a cashier, however, requires me to lift 24-packs of water, 30-packs of beer, etc., because customers often place these on the belt. I let both jobs know ahead of time that I would be having surgery, and made sure to get a note from my doctor saying I wasn’t allowed to lift more than ten pounds. I go into my second job early to hand them the note and see if I can work at the self-check lanes for my shift, which is only four hours long. There is one person who never works register, because they complain that it “hurts their back” to check for a long period of time, and they happen to be working at this time.)

Me: “Hey, [Coworker #1], I had surgery the other day, and I have a doctor’s note here saying that I can’t lift more than 10 pounds. I see that [Coworker #2] is on the self-check; do you think they’ll let me switch them?”

Coworker #1: “Probably not, but we can go over and ask, anyway.”

(We walk over to [Coworker #2]. I have a noticeable bandage on my right arm.)

Coworker #1: “[My Name] has a doctor’s note saying she can’t lift more than ten pounds. Would it be okay if you moved over to a regular lane?”

Coworker #2: *takes a brief glance at my bandaged arm and sighs* “Well, my back’s been bothering me today, and I really don’t feel like checking right now.”

Me: “But I just had surgery the other day, and I have a note that says I am not allowed to lift a certain amount; it could tear the stitches.”

Coworker #2: “Well, I guess, but my back has been hurting.”

Me: *cuts in, slightly annoyed* “Look: I have an official doctor’s note, and I think that it’s a little more valid than you just saying that your back is hurting.”

Coworker #2: *huffs* “Fine, but if my back starts bothering me, I want to switch back.”

(They stalked away to the regular checkout lanes, and I took my place at the self-check. The entire time we worked, they apparently talked about me to our other coworkers, and occasionally they shot me dirty looks. They did ask what I had surgery for, as if the bandage wasn’t enough proof. Shockingly, they never did ask to switch, so I guess their back wasn’t hurting them as much as they thought!)

CONTENT WARNING: This story contains content of a medical nature. It is not intended as medical advice.

(I am in a supermarket at the tills when the young woman in front of me, about to pay for her goods, suddenly freezes. She stands still and stares into space, down at her purse, which is falling out of her hands. She is standing in front of a plastic wall.)

Cashier: “Excuse me, miss? Excuse me?” *to herself* “P****.” *turns to me* “Can I put your things through? I’ll void her stuff if she’s ignoring me. Self-entitled snowflakes and their phones.”

(I look at the woman carefully and notice she has an epilepsy bracelet.)

Me: “Erm, I think she’s having a seizure.”

Cashier: *condescending, as if to a child* “No, because if she was having a seizure, she’d be on the floor, wouldn’t she?”

Me: “I’m a doctor, madam, and I’d like to get your manager.”

Cashier: “No. She’s a snowflake who’s looking at her phone instead of paying, and she’s holding up the queue.”

Me: *sternly* “Madam, I really do think she’s having a seizure. They don’t all writhe around on the floor.”

(I called the number on the bracelet and the ambulance came within a few minutes. Last I heard, the young woman was fine, but the cashier voided the woman’s shopping AND mine, saying that it was our choice to step out of the queue and that I must be joking if I thought I was getting my shopping back, even though I simply went outside to the ambulance to explain what had been going on.)

This story is part of our Epilepsy roundup.

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(I work for a supermarket in the home delivery department. I have spent the last week and a half acting up into a role of team support. My job is to support drivers while they are on the road, and to communicate with the customer service team regarding the status of orders. Sometimes we have orders that are “stored,” which means that, for whatever reason, payment has been unsuccessful. At these times, we call the customer to try and sort the payment out. If the customer does not answer, we leave a voicemail and arrange for an email to be sent. In very rare circumstances, customers don’t get their shopping and call customer service to find out where it is. More often than not, this is after the delivery window, and the shopping is returned to stock. This leads to the following conversation with customer service.)

Employee: “Hi there. It’s [Employee] from customer service. I’m trying to track down a customer’s order.”

(After we establish who the customer is and I explain that the order was stored, this conversation happens without fail.)

Employee: “Is there any chance if the customer pays that we could get their shopping out to them?”

Me: “No, sorry. That’s not possible; the transaction has expired and we can’t access it anymore to take payment.”

Employee: “But what if we could get them to pay? Can we get the shopping out to them?”

Me: “No. There is no possible way for them to pay; they have to reorder. The transaction has been closed; we would have no way to take payment. The shopping has been returned to stock.”

Employee: “Well, we really need to make this customer happy, so can we not take payment?”

Me: “We have no means to process that. I can’t do the impossible.”

Employee: “Well, I’ll just have to phone your store manager to confirm this.”

Me: “Uh, okay. Fine.”

(Every time, the store manager comes in and checks that 1) the transaction has expired and 2) the shopping is returned to stock, and then tells customer service this. Customer service then explains that they promised to get this shopping to the customer that day and that we need to make it happen. The manager refuses and tells customer service not to promise things like that next time. This happens far more than it should.)