It was less than a week before Christmas. It was nearing the end of my eleventh year of school. I was with my friend, looking for new casual outfits for the year-end party that our school held annually. It was lunch break, and we were walking around the mall located directly in front of our school.

We were both wearing black pants, black leather shoes, and yellow collared shirts since our school decided to color code the students according to their departments. The staff inside the mall were wearing tailored shirts and skirts, so the situation I went through was even more baffling.

We decided to first look at the shoe aisle since there were fewer people there and my friend wanted to wear new shoes to the party. I noticed that there was a group of women, maybe in their early to late thirties, in the middle of the store. Despite the hustle and bustle, they were by far the noisiest there. For some reason, the moment I looked at them, a woman who was taller than me started eyeing me. My guts told me that it was not going to end well with her, so I avoided further eye contact and just continued shopping.

About fifteen minutes later, when I finally found the dress that I wanted, I heard the group of women saying things along the lines of:

Woman #1: “It’s so messy in here!”

Woman #2: “Shouldn’t this be a mall? There are clothes everywhere.”

Woman #3: “No one is even here to assist people.”

Woman #4: “Some of the staff are just standing around.”

For the record, it was a fairly small store and since it was that time of the year, the staff were awfully busy. There was a tsunami of people, so it’s no question that the place had clothes lying around. The place was normally very tidy, though.

I just continued to ignore them and proceeded to kneel on the floor and search the lower racks for accessories. No more than a minute later, loud stomping headed my way, followed by a sharp tap — almost a slap — on my shoulder. It was the woman I had made eye contact with. Without even letting me ask what her problem was, she bombarded me with her questions and accusations.

Woman #1: “I’ve been calling for your attention for a while now, but you were ignoring me. How thick of a skin must you have? Look at this place! It’s a mess. How could anyone find what they are looking for? Shouldn’t you be assisting the customers and folding the clothes that they chose from and putting them back where they got them?”

I had to bite my lip to stop myself from questioning her sanity. There were at least forty customers at the store at that time. How could she expect to see a staff member waiting for every single one of them?

My friend in the aisle behind me was watching this all unfold. After more than a minute of the woman yapping, I slowly and clearly said:

Me: “Ma’am, that is not my job. I don’t work here.”

Woman #1: “That’s impossible! You look just like… them?”

I wanted to capture that moment when she looked at the cashier about five aisles away and realized that we were wearing different uniforms. She backed off without apologizing and stormed to her companions. Needless to say, she was embarrassed.

Related:
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 42
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 41
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 40
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 39
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 38

If you want to book a large table for your Christmas party at a restaurant, you need to order and pay for your meals in advance. In November, you think, “Roast turkey with all the trimmings? Yum!” But a week before Christmas, by now you hate the sight of turkey, and you know you are having it again next week. During the meals, it’s like watching military exercises — the precision of those teams of cooks and servers moving like an army, serving more meals than they usually do in a week each night. There is no room for specifications or special orders that haven’t been informed about and paid for in advance.

My sports team had organised Christmas dinner at a pub to commemorate a successful year. As the meals we had ordered a month ago started arriving, it was clear some dishes were more impressive than others. My — ahem — friend expressed her disappointment that [meal #1] she had chosen looked relatively unappealing. Then, a few moments later, the waitress came out.

Waitress: “I’ve got three more [meal #2]s.”

My friend’s hand shot up.

Friend: “Yes, I ordered [meal #2]!

And she shamelessly took someone else’s dinner. When the final dish was brought out, the poor team member had to accept the inferior dish that was all that was left. I still remember her disappointed face.

I didn’t say anything. For a moment, I was just shocked that she would do something so blatant in front of me, and by the time I regained my composure, she had started eating, so nothing I could say would rectify the situation.

I apparently have some kind of death wish, because I start working in a large store the last week of October. It is a frenzy, and I am put in charge of the Toys and Electronics sections, the two busiest sections for this time of year.

By the time Christmas Eve comes around, I am pretty comfortable in my role and closing the store. I am working with a training manager who is about my age but pretty out of touch with anything not dealing with hunting or sports.

We are getting ready to close the store and I hear wailing — not screaming, but it sounds like someone’s world is ending.

I round the corner and there is a woman losing her mind and my poor training manager just looks helpless. I get the mental “HELP ME” scream.

Me: “Is there something I can assist with today?”

Woman: “I’M THE WORST GRANDMOTHER EVER! I FORGOT WHAT KIND OF TOY I’M SUPPOSED TO GET MY GRANDDAUGHTER AND THEY ARE ON A PLANE, SO I CAN’T CALL AND ASK!”

Me: “Oh, no! Can you try to describe it to me?”

Woman: “It’s the one with the pictures.”

Me: “That doesn’t really narrow it down much. Can you remember anything else?”

Woman: “It says the pictures!”

While I am in my thirties, I don’t have children, but I can vaguely form a picture of what she is talking about. I can’t quite name it yet, but I definitely recall it from my days of being a youth assistant in my youth church growing up.

Training Manager: “I can walk you over to our infant section and we can look there and see.”

Woman: *Cutting him off* “I already looked there; I didn’t see it. They are going to ban me from being Grandma if I don’t get this toy!”

I highly doubt this, but [Training Manager] asks her to humor him, and they walk back over to the infant section. I have a hunch out of nowhere and walk to our tucked-away “Retro Toys” section, and there it is, staring me in the face: the “See-And-Say” in all its glory. I can barely hide my smile as I put the toy behind my back and track them down in the infant department.

Woman: “It isn’t here, it isn’t here.”

She just keeps repeating this over and over.

Me: “Ma’am, is this the toy you were looking for?”

She sees it and instinctively leaps at me giving me a surprisingly powerful hug.

Woman: “That’s it! That’s the toy! Oh, thank you, thank you, both of you! Thank you so much!”

Tears of joy are streaming down her face as she continues to hug both of us. After a few more seconds of gratitude, she puts the toy in her cart and says, in the coolest cool-granny way possible:

Woman: “Granny of the year, thanks to you boys!”

I never knew a ten-dollar toy could bring someone that much joy. Huh, neat.

It is 1991. I am working on Christmas Eve. There are eight of us, including the owners, and we are closing at 5:00 pm to have a little celebration.

At 4:55 pm, this lady comes through the door, upset and in disarray. Keep in mind, this being Christmas Eve, the counters are fairly bare, and this is a hardware store, after all.

Customer: “I need you to stay open late so that I can get Christmas presents for my kids!”

She looks around for ten minutes and has an absolute fit about us not having any child-friendly toys. Then, she exclaims:

Customer: “You’ve ruined it for me! I’ll have to go to a gas station!”

Owner: “Lady, did you not know that Christmas has been coming for the last year?”

She went red and slunk out of the store. I love the owner; he doesn’t put up with bulls***.

It is Christmas and my five-year-old niece just learned about baby Jesus. She is the only kid at the table; the rest are tweens or adults. Although my niece is mostly very well-behaved, she doesn’t always feel the need to sit and be quiet when it is required.

Aunt: “[Niece], you need to be good now, just like baby Jesus.”

I mutter very quietly to my dad so the little one doesn’t hear.

Me: “Didn’t he go missing at the age of twelve so that his parents had to look for him?”

Dad almost choked on his food.