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If I Had A Nickel For Every Time This Happened…

, , , , , , | Working | June 20, 2022

The way my company organizes itself is that we’re split into three- to five-person teams that each handle a certain specialty. I’m a woman and the team lead for four men.

When I first started with the company, the teams were named “Team 1,” “Team 2,” “Team 3,” etc. Because the names are not memorable, the team leads, and eventually, upper management started referring to each team by specialty instead. Unfortunately, those specialties tended to change throughout the year. Documents from last year might refer to my team as “Longtail” and from this year might refer to them as “Webex”.

It was decided to let the teams give ourselves official names. We chose “Nickel” as a dorky reference, and we were instructed to submit a team photo. As a team full of people in our late thirties and early forties, we decided to make our most gangsta poses possible in an effort to seem young and hip, though gangsta hasn’t been in style since we were in college.

We submitted the name and photo to management.

The next day, I was called into Human Resources.

I thought initially that the poses were too much, but HR reassured me that there was nothing wrong with the poses.

HR: “You should see what the other teams submitted. No, the problem is this. Here. Look at their pants. Did they do that deliberately?”

I looked at their pants — really looked — for the first time, and they all appeared to be sporting improbably large boners.

HR: “They trust you. Please find out for us.”

The way I found out was just by brazenly asking. It turns out it was deliberate; they had all chosen to wear, essentially, codpieces at the urging of their instigator and ringleader. I asked him why, and he said:

Employee: “To demoralize the other teams and crush their spirits.”

Long story short, my team is being disbanded and three of the men are being let go. The ringleader is having some portion of his compensation clawed back.

I’m no longer a team lead, though I got to keep the pay bump. The ringleader and I are being put on separate teams.

Why does it feel like I’m the one being punished?

We Kind Of Hope This Literally Came Back To Bite Her

, , , , | Right | June 20, 2022

A lady came in looking to buy an Anole lizard from us. I pointed out to her a good starter cage size — 24 by 16 by 16 inches — and other essentials she would need.

Me: “You should know that Anoles don’t like being held, so if you want something you can hold, this is not the best choice.”

Customer: “I don’t have the money for that! I’ll just use this since it’s a small lizard.”

She grabbed a small cricket cage, maybe 5 by 6 by 12 inches.

I refused to sell her the lizard due to the cage size she was putting it in. She came back three days later and got the big cage and two lizards from my coworker. I had warned him she might be back, but he forgot about it.

Two weeks later, the woman returned the lizards in a cup.

Customer: “These lizards are boring, and they don’t like being held!”

You Can Have A Free Ticket The Heck Out Of Here

, , | Right | June 20, 2022

Customer: “The woman who was here yesterday told me that I could get free tickets if I came in today!”

I played along for a bit, but eventually…

Me: “Yeah, that never happened.”

Customer: “But I was told yesterday that I could get free tickets! The woman in the shop said so! And you have to honor that because it’s a verbal contract!”

Blah, blah, blah.

I interrupted her.

Me: “I was the only one in yesterday!”

Cue storming out with the usual, “I’m never shopping here again!”

You weren’t shopping here anyway, love! Bye!

Self-Check Out This Timing!

, , , , , , | Right | June 20, 2022

Around ten years ago, I started my first job at nineteen. Back then, I had a lot of enthusiasm for trying to move up in the company. After working my way up from bagger to cashier, I eventually got to run the self-checkout. This shift was a 6:00 pm to 2:00 am shift, with the store itself closing at twelve, leaving me to clean until 2:00 am and a few odd workers stocking out of sight.

One night, it was just about to hit twelve when one of the last customers to check out asked me to make change from my till at the podium. This was strictly against policy, and I told him I could not. After pestering me for a few minutes, this creepy forty-something-year-old man asked if there was “anything he could do to make it worth my while” in a very creepy voice. I went to get a grocery worker to help me, who was an older lady.

At this point, only one self-checkout unit was still open, which was for workers who wanted to quickly buy something before all tills were closed.

So, when the lady from grocery came up and told the creepy guy he had to leave because the store was now closed, he pointed out the open self-checkout which, in comedic timing, I had just been closing, and the unit announced loudly, “This checkout is now closed.”

The creepy guy yelled, “Oh, f*** you!” and finally left.

Oooh, That Feels GOOD

, , , | Right | CREDIT: Ok-Fox-8931 | June 19, 2022

When I’m nineteen, I am a hostess in a large chain of Mexican restaurants. I’ve hosted before at another restaurant, so I know what I’m doing, and how to (generally) handle customers who are being rude.

It’s a Sunday. It’s lunchtime. There’s an NFL game on TV, and the TVs are only in the bar. We are on a wait of fifteen to thirty minutes. The lobby is full and so is the atrium. We’ve been asking people to wait either outside or in their cars, taking phone numbers to call people back.

In walks a woman with her son, who is probably no older than sixteen. All goes well until I ask the woman for her phone number.

Woman: “Why do you need that? It’s private information!”

Me: “Ma’am, it’s very crowded in here. We need you to wait outside or in your car. The number is so I can call you when a table opens up.”

Woman: “Well, I’m parked in a disabled spot. I need my husband to help me back out.”

I nod, and before I get the number, she walks away — to the bar. Her husband walks in, and the woman flags him down, shoots me the smuggest look, and says:

Woman: “Take us off the list; we’re sitting at the bar!”

I live in a state where there are two places in a bar: the cocktail area (kid-friendly) and the actual bar (not kid-friendly). The woman and her family are sitting in the bar, not the cocktail area. So, my petty self gets the bartender.

Me: “Hey, see that lady over there? She was terribly rude — and her son is definitely underage. Could you… could you card him?”

Bartender: *With a grin* “Oh, yes, absolutely. I can do that.”

A few minutes later, the woman shrieks:

Woman: “He’s DISABLED! YOU HAVE TO LET HIM SIT HERE WITH US!”

Bartender: *Calmly* “There is cocktail seating for families with kids.”

Woman: “But there’s no room!

Bartender: “Then you’ll have to go to the hostess and get on the list.

The woman stomps over to me.

Woman: “It’s been fifteen minutes. Get me a table!”

I have the pleasure of smiling at her and saying in my most pleasant customer service voice:

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but since you asked to be removed, you’re no longer on the list! It’ll be thirty minutes. Can I get a name and a phone number?”

The look of rage on her face fueled me all day as she stomped out, husband and son in tow.