I stopped at a Walgreens on my way home just to get cases of bottled water (didn’t feel like driving to an actual grocery store).

I was wearing a t-shirt and jeans, very casual. I hoisted three packs of water, and as I was somewhat struggling to get to the register, a lady rudely asks me:

Customer: “Am I in the right place?”

She was trying to pick up a package.

Me: “I think you are.”

Customer: “Why is no one helping me?!”

Me: “Hmm, I don’t know, but I’ve seen before that some Walgreens photo counters have a doorbell you can ring.”

She looked at me so angered, but then she realized.

Customer: “Oh, wait, you don’t work here?”

Me: “Nope.”

Customer: “Oh, you’re just carrying an ungodly amount of water.”

Me: “Yep.”

And then I just walked away.

By no small miracle, I’m sure, I’ve never been confused for someone working at a store. That, or it was only by the nicest people on the planet who always treat workers like actual human beings, only asking like “could you grab this off the top shelf,” so I couldn’t tell.

Today, I’m at the supermarket looking for a particular brand and flavor of hot sauce, but the entire shelf looks like someone hit a ‘randomize’ button on it, so I’m pushing things around and sorting them just to try to find my Mango Habanero. I feel a rather rough tapping on my shoulder, with an annoyed ‘AHEM’ in my ear.

Old Lady: “When you’re done screwing around there, you can actually help me!”

Me: “…What?”

Old Lady: “You have customers here, trying to get your attention, and you’re just playing around with these little bottles and—”

Me: “Aaaaaaaaaah!”

Apparently, a six-ish foot tall, portly guy, with a long salt-and-pepper beard, suddenly squealing like a little girl, baffled this woman into silence.

Me: “Ma’am, I have been waiting fifty-six years to be able to say this.”

Old Lady: “What are you talking about!?”

I crouch down a bit, getting to her eye level, and smiling like a kid telling his wish list to Santa Claus.

Me: “I. Don’t. Work. Here. Thank you, ma’am, I’ve always wanted that chance, I got to cross it off my bucket list!”

The story has a double happy ending. The old lady just wandered off confused instead of kicking up a fuss, AND I found my hot sauce!

I’m with my two boys doing some grocery shopping. I used to work at this store, but I quit a few months back. But it’s still nice to say hello to some coworkers I used to enjoy working with. 

I get in line at the checkouts, and the customer in front of me turns to see me.

Customer: “Oh, good! I forgot the pasta. Can you run and grab some for me since I’m already in line?”

Me: “Uh… I mean, I’m happy to have one of my kids hold your place in line for you if you want to go get something, as long as you’re quick?”

Customer: “I beg your pardon?!”

Me: “Uh…”

Customer: “You’re expecting me to go get it myself?! Fine! Not only will you be getting my pasta, you’ll also be getting your manager so that I can complain about you!”

It dawns on me what’s happening.

Me: “Ma’am, I don’t work here. I’m a customer.”

Customer: “I see you working here all the time!”

Me: “I used to work here, but I quit a few months ago.”

Customer: “Well then, it’s your fault for looking like you work here!”

Me: “Uh, how? I’m not in uniform and I’m here with my children!”

Customer: “Well, how the h*** am I supposed to know that!? You could be training new workers!”

Me: “They’re ten and twelve!”

Customer: “Good! Kids their age should be working instead of running around chasing those Pokémon things!”

Boys: *Both looking up from their Nintendos, both in unison.* “There are Pokémon?”

Me: “No boys, just a lady who isn’t minding her own business.”

Customer: “So rude!”

Me: “Coming from the woman demanding I leave my kids behind to fetch her pasta, even after I offered to keep your place in line for you.”

Customer: “Where do you work now?! I’m going to go there and let them know what a nasty woman they’ve hired!”

Me: “Full-time housewife, hun. My boss is the cat, and—” *I pat the premium cat food I have in my cart.* “—I’m getting good performance reviews all the time.”

The customer turns around, enraged but silenced, as she moves into the checkout area to start unloading her groceries. I can hear her complaining to the cashier about me, desperate to get me reprimanded in some form for daring to not let her get her own way.

The cashier looks over to me, smiles, waves at me, and then says something to the customer that forces her to stand there in silent fury for the rest of the transaction. 

When it’s my turn to get rung up.

Me: *To the cashier.* “Sorry, she was crazy.”

Cashier: “Yeah! She was demanding that the store ban you as a customer for being disrespectful.”

Me: “What did you say to her?”

Cashier: “That you, while you worked here, you were our mama-bear who protected us from vindictive customers who tried to get us fired for small mistakes, and if the manager came down here to hear both customers’ sides of the story the one getting banned wouldn’t be the one she liked.”

Adding yet another reason to the list of why I loved working with my ex-coworkers! 

Related:
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 54
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 53
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 52
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 51
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 50

Let’s say that my name is something like Maya Greene. There is another Maya Greene who works in medical records and billing in some way or another (the emails have changed in nature over time, so I presume they’ve been moving up in their organization.) This story takes place over the course of the better part of a decade, and all of these emails originated from the same practice. Paraphrases because I can’t recall the exact text of every email.

EPISODE 1:

Doctor: “Hello, Maya, I’m writing about [Patient]’s records. Can you please send them to [Other Practice]?”

Me: “Hello, Doctor, you have the wrong email. My name is also Maya Greene, but this is a private email address.”

Doctor: “Apologies! She uses personal email for things sometimes, and I just guessed the address it should go to. I’ll make sure I have it right next time.”

I write it off as an anomaly until a few years later…

EPISODE 2:

Admin: *On a multi-person thread.* “Hello, Maya, please find attached the consolidated billing information you requested for the month of June.”

There’s an Excel spreadsheet attached, with actual names and billing amounts, along with other sensitive information! No password protection, nothing.

Me: *Replying all after having a stiff drink.* “Hello Admin, you have the wrong person. Hilariously, this is the second time this has happened; not hilariously, I now work in cybersecurity. You should not be sending information of this nature to a private email address, and ESPECIALLY not in this format; moreover, I recommend that you report this data leak to your cybersecurity team immediately. I am deleting the email and its attachment.”

Admin: “Okay.”

Someone Else In Thread: *Privately to me.* “Don’t worry, I reported it since I don’t think anyone else took you seriously.”

A few more years pass…

EPISODE 3:

Trainee: “Hello Maya, I am seeking approval for [Training.] What should I send you to make sure it goes through this time?”

Me: “Hello, this is awkward. My dead name is Maya Greene, and I have no relation to the Maya Greene you’re trying to email. Moreover, you shouldn’t be sending anything of a business nature to a personal email address. Please delete my address out of your contacts and send this to the correct Maya Greene’s business email address.”

Trainee: “I am SO sorry! I’ll do that right now.”

I wonder when they’ll do it next. I’ve half a mind to contact their security team directly and tell them to put in an outbound mail rule that prevents people from sending to things to my (now dead) email address and to initiate an investigation into Maya Greene for potential use of personal email for business purposes…

I’m a woman under forty. I have an autoimmune disease that requires regular visits to a type of specialist who typically sees older patients. It’s entirely internal, so I don’t look sick. I’ve just handed the receptionist my credit card for my copay, and we are chatting while we wait for the payment to process.

A deliveryman approaches me and sets down a large package.

Deliver Man: “I have a delivery.”

I assume that he’s trying to get to the receptionist.

Me: “Oh, I’ll be out of your way in just a second.”

Deliver Man: “I said that I have a delivery.”

Me: “And I’ll be out of the way in a second.”

Deliver Man: “I need someone to let me in!”

I stare at him.

Me: “You can wait!”

He throws his hands up and is about to say something else when a nurse pops out of the back and calls him over. He takes the package and goes over to her, grumbling.

I get my card back and go on my way. I realized later that he probably thought I was on staff due to my age, even though the staff all wear scrubs, while I was wearing athleisure and sneakers…