My two friends, both women, got married this spring. [Friend #1] has had her dream wedding planned since she was a kid, while [Friend #2] has always said she’d be happy with a courthouse wedding, but went along with [Friend #1]’s plans since she didn’t have a strong opinion one way or another.

They were getting married in [Friend #1]’s hometown, and [Friend #2] travels a lot for work, so [Friend #1] was the one onsite coordinating a lot of things, to the extent that [Friend #2] had only done one quick walkthrough of the reception venue a week before the wedding, while [Friend #1] had been in frequent communication with the manager there and had met her in person several times. It’s also important to note that [Friend #2] has a gender-neutral name.

The day of the wedding, after the ceremony at [Friend #1]’s church, two disasters struck almost simultaneously: [Friend #1]’s dress was stepped on and torn, and the reception hall called to inform them that there was an issue with the seating chart, and they needed them down to resolve it ASAP. Luckily, my friends had scheduled a bit of a break in time between the ceremony and the reception, so [Friend #1] went with her mother, who is a seamstress, to fix her dress, while [Friend #2] headed to the reception to deal with the problem there.

When [Friend #2] showed up at the reception venue, the manager got very confused, and asked her what she was doing there. [Friend #2] was very surprised to get that question, as she was still in her large, white dress, and informed the manager that she was having her wedding reception there that afternoon and needed to speak to her.

The manager immediately began sputtering and saying that there must have been some mistake, that another wedding party had already booked the venue, that [Friend #2] needed to tell her party to move on, and that they simply couldn’t accommodate them without any notice… And [Friend #2] began panicking, thinking that somehow their booking had been canceled and they wouldn’t have a venue for the evening.

It took about five minutes before the manager and [Friend #2] actually began to listen to one another, at which point they realized that the wedding the manager was speaking about was [Friend #2]’s wedding. She had only ever met [Friend #1], heard her refer to her fiancée by a gender-neutral name, and assumed that she was marrying a man. Then, when she saw [Friend #2] show up in a white dress, talking about her wedding reception that night, she thought some crazy bride had shown up to try to bully her way into the venue.

Luckily, [Friend #1] and [Friend #2] had a good sense of humor about it, and like to joke that [Friend #2] almost got everyone kicked out of her own wedding. And in case anyone was wondering, the seating issue was resolved easily, and [Friend #1]’s dress was mended so well, you never would notice the seam.

(I am shopping for some small craft things while waiting to meet friends, and the cashier has just rung up my half-full basket.)

Cashier: “That’s £20, please.”

Me: *while swiping my card* “Wow, really? How often is it a round number like that?!”

Cashier: “Uh-huh.”

Me: “That’s funny. £20 exactly, no change.”

Cashier: *looking confused and handing me my receipt* “Yeah. Thanks…”

(Talking to my friends later, I pulled out the receipt. It was then I realised I’d been in a store where everything is exactly one pound.)

(I am the customer service manager. At our store, our tobacco selection is kept by the manager’s station and behind two “speedy checkouts.” There is a large blue and white sign that says, “EMPLOYEES ONLY,” hanging from a gate that blocks customers from going back there. These two registers are the only place you can buy tobacco. A woman approaches me and taps me on the shoulder.)

Me: “Yes, ma’am?”

Customer: “He wouldn’t sell me cigarettes.”

(She points to a cashier at a regular register.)

Me: “Uh, well, you can’t buy tobacco at that register.”

Customer: “Yes, you can!”

Me: “No, the system won’t allow it. Where did you even get them?”

Customer: “I just walked back and got them. Are you going to reprimand him or not?”

Me: “Uh, no. You’re not allowed to just get your own cigarettes. That’s why they’re behind the register.”

Customer: “I didn’t know it wasn’t allowed!”

(I calmly pointed to the large blue and white sign, which she obviously passed to get to the cigarettes. I sold her the cigarettes anyway, asking for her ID when prompted. I could have bypassed it, but I wanted to see if she was from another state. She lived right down the road from the store and according to her ID, she had lived there for over two years. Why she thought she could go back there was beyond me. And if you’re wondering, I asked the cashier at the speedy register if she saw the lady. She said she didn’t but there was a decent line so she may have slipped past. We had a talk about that, too.)

(We offer some additional insurance on our website, as there are a few things the standard warranty does not cover and we do not legally have to accept returns for. We have made the description of this insurance five short sentences, the second of which says that in the event you want to make a claim, we need photos of [document] and the item itself. It is the end of a very stressful week with customers not reading the warnings on our website and at the checkout about our current shipping delays, and about 90% of our job this week has been dealing with customers upset that their stuff hasn’t been shipped within three days, so we are all slowly losing patience.)

Customer: “My item was delivered last week, but I need a replacement item due to [reason]. If you check my order, you will see that I purchased the insurance, so I need it sent out as soon as possible.”

Coworker: “No problem. If you could just email a photo or scanned image of [documentation] and the [item], we will get that arranged for you.”

Customer: “I disposed of them when they arrived last week.”

Coworker: “Would it be possible to retrieve them? It does state on the insurance page that we require this evidence to arrange a replacement for you.”

Customer: “They are at the bottom of my rubbish bin. Do you seriously expect me to dig through and get it?”

Coworker: “If you want a replacement item, yes.”

Customer: “Fine. I will get them. I’m sure I am not the only customer who would not appreciate having to go through this just for the insurance.” *rants for a couple of minutes about how disgusting his bin is and how this is awful customer service* “Do you not think that your company should make this policy about evidence clearer?”

Coworker: *with about a week’s worth of frustration that has now evolved into pure sarcasm* “We always appreciate feedback and suggestions from customers. We took great care making the insurance information as short and concise as possible as we know that not all of our customers like to read things before purchasing. We even made the requirement for photo evidence the second sentence so that customers wouldn’t have to read the whole thing. But if you have any suggestions on how we can make this even clearer to our customers, by all means, please enlighten us so that we can save others having to go through their bins instead of keeping [document] somewhere safe.”

(There is a pause.)

Customer: “I want the name of your manager and how to contact them.”

Coworker: “Certainly. His name is [Manager]. You can email [email address] and make sure that you put, ‘For attention of [Manager],’ in the subject to ensure that he gets it.”

Customer: “Good. He will be hearing about this.” *click*

(Our coworker did not get in trouble over this, especially as this was not the first time the customer had tried complaining about something after failing to read the information on our website.)

(Our bathrooms are out of order, due to something deep in the pipes. Toilets, sinks, water fountain, all out. All are located in a short hallway near the front door, which we block with a bench. We then post “OUT OF ORDER” signs all over the bench, the walls, etc. And yet, as I work the register just outside the hall, I get someone walking up, looking at the signs, asking me, every ten minutes or so, “Are the bathrooms out of order?” Finally, I can’t take it anymore…)

Customer: *walks up, looks at signs, turns to me* “Hey, are the bathrooms out of order?”

Me: “No. It was a test. I’m sorry, but you failed.”

Customer: *looks at me, looks at signs again* “Oh. Okay.”

(And then, he literally hung his head and wandered away.)