(I am working at a fancy vet office close to the rich part of town, so most of our clients are more willing to do what is necessary for their pets regardless of cost. An older couple brings their senior small breed in for teeth cleaning.

The vet assistant is responsible for going over admissions paperwork that includes optional services and a section that would allow the doctor to do teeth extractions without calling the owner first. We include this option because many times, we cannot get a hold of the owner to ask permission. after the client has been placed in a room I enter ready to go over paperwork.)

Me: “Good morning! I have some paperwork to go over with you really quick, and then we can take [Pet] back and get him started with his procedure.”

(The woman starts to fill out the form while I’m going over what each section is. When I get to the part about optional services that, of course, cost extra, i.e. nail trims, more in-depth blood work, etc. She throws the pen down and starts yelling at me.)

Woman: “Don’t you dare try to sell me something!”

Me: “I am sorry, I was just going over the form; these are additional services you can add on if you’d like but you don’t have to.”

(She just stares at me sternly, so I move on to the part of the form that allows the doctor to do extractions.)

Me: “Okay, do you allow the doctor to do what is necessary as far as extractions go or would you prefer—”

Woman: “I told you not to sell me anything. I don’t want to hear it! If the doctor wants me to do something she can tell me herself!”

Me: “Okay, would you—”

(I was going to say, “Would you like me to get the doctor?”)

Woman: “I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT!”

Me: “Fine.”

(I leave the room and go get her doctor and tell her that she needs to go into the room and finish the check-in, because I will not be talked to like that again. The doctor knows who the couple is.)

Doctor: “Oh, yeah, they can be weird like that.”

(Apparently, after the doctor went in, they were all smiles and agreed to let the doctor do whatever she needed to.)

(I work in a large professional music store in Vancouver and we serve all types.)

Me: “Hey, what can I get you?”

Customer: “I’m the guitar player for Melissa Etheridge. I need some guitar strings.”

Me: “Oh, okay. Cool.”

(I notice his tour tag around his neck that he apparently needed to wear outside the concert venue for our enjoyment.)

Me: “What kind of strings do you need?”

Customer: “Guitar strings, bud.”

Me: “Okay, what kind of guitar strings?”

Customer: “Six-string.”

Me: “Acoustic or electric?”

Customer: “What do you mean?”

Me: *puzzled* “Do you need strings for an electric guitar or an acoustic guitar?”

Customer: “Electric.”

Me: “What brand and gauge of string do you want?”

Customer: “Yuppers. Electric.”

Me: “Do you want Ernie Ball? D’Addario’s?” 

Customer: “I don’t know. Whatever.”

Me: “Do you use a particular brand?”

Customer: “’Lectrics, usually.”

Me: “Okay… What gauge?”

Customer: “What?”

Me: “What gauge do you use? Lights, Extra Lights, Medium…”

Customer: “Dude, they’re not cigs, they’re strings.”

Me: “I know that but they come in different gauges, depending on what you like. I use lights, for example.”

Customer: *cocky* “Oh, so you’re a player? Ever play in concert? Like in front of a ton of screaming fans?”

Me: “I’ve played some cool gigs, but nothing like Melissa Etheridge. Maybe a thousand people at most.”

Customer: *laughs condescendingly* “Dude, that’s pretty bad. Small-time.”

Me: *annoyed* “Well, at least I know what gauge I use. That’s gotta be worth something. How is it that you play with Melissa Etheridge but you don’t know what strings or gauge you use? Are you sure you play with her?”

Customer: “What?”

Me: “Let’s go over to the guitar area and maybe you can show me some licks.” 

Customer: “Dude, I don’t have time for that. It’s not guitar lesson time.”

Me: “Surely you’ve got two minutes to whip off some licks? Here, just wait and I’ll get a guitar.”

Customer: “Dude, I gotta go here. I gotta get back.”

(He starts leaving the store.)

Me: “What about the strings?”

Customer: *out the door* “No time!”

(Turns out he was most likely just a roadie as he certainly wasn’t the guitar tech, who would have known about such things.)

(I work at a fine-dining restaurant chain as a hostess. We have a happy hour deal most days of the week in the bar/lounge. I can’t make reservations in the lounge for this time according to our policy. We also use a computer system for our guests so we have information noted on most of our regulars. I get a phone call.)

Me: “Thank you for calling [Restaurant]. This is [My Name]; how can I help you?”

Caller: “Hi, [My Name], this is [Caller]; you guys know who I am. I should be in the system. I’m there every day. I want to make a reservation for four people tonight at 6:30?”

Me: “Of course, give me just a few moments to get that in the system… All right, you’re all set for—” *repeats information back to her* “—we’ll see you then.”

Caller: “Oh, I also would like to make that for the bar.”

Me: “Okay. Ma’am, I’ll go ahead and write that you prefer the bar, but I can’t guarantee a table in there for you as that is during our happy hour and it is first-come-first-serve.”

Caller: *scoffs* “Useless. Is [Coworker] there? She knows who I am. She’ll help me.”

Me: “No, ma’am, she’s not here today, but that is our policy and she would have to tell you the same thing. I do apologize for the inconvenience.”

Caller: “Inconvenience? This is ridiculous. Do you know who I am? I’m in there every day and I’ve never had this issue.”

(I look at her recent history and notes and see that she has been told multiple times by multiple coworkers about the policy for the lounge, but I decide it’s not worth it to give attitude back to her and risk getting in trouble with my manager.)

Me: “I’m so sorry, ma’am, but that’s been our policy for over a year now and no one should be guaranteeing you a table in the bar during those hours.”

Caller: “Well, they are because they always let me sit in the bar. I want to talk to your manager right this second. They know who I am.”

(I transfer her to the general manager and get a call from the office a few minutes later.)

General Manager: “Hey, [My Name], so that woman that you spoke to…”

Me: “Yes, did I do anything wrong?”

General Manager: “No, no, of course not. That was [Caller]; she does this at least once a month. When she calls, just take the reservation and don’t give her a lounge table.”

Me: “Okay, will do.”

General Manager: “Oh, and if she ever asks for a manager, tell her we’re not available.”

(I am a checker in a grocery store, working after the managers have already gone home and the stockers are working the aisles. There is a certain customer who most of us dread dealing with because he says inappropriate things to the checkers as “jokes.” One night, he comes storming up to my check lane, basket in hand. Important to the story: [Rice Mix] is on sale.)

Customer: “There isn’t any beef [Rice Mix] on the shelf! This is [expletive] ridiculous.”

Me: “Did you ask the stockers? There might be more in back.”

Customer: “You ask the stockers. That’s your job. I’m not going back there for that.”

(I sign out of my register and walk to the aisle the rice is in with him following right behind me. The stockers are stocking the [Rice Mix] section and have been for a while. I ask one of the stockers if there is any more beef [Rice Mix] on the pallet or in back, and he says they are completely out and gives me the date they expect more, which is after the sale is over. I turn back to the customer.)

Me: “If you go up to the office, they will give you a raincheck for the rice.”

Customer: “I don’t want a [expletive] raincheck, I want my beef [Rice Mix]!”

Me: “The store brand is cheaper than the sale price on the [Rice Mix], and there is a beef one.”

Customer: *now screaming* “This is [expletive]! I will have your job for this!”

(I am tired and past caring.)

Me: “You can have my job. It really isn’t that good.”

(He stared at me for a moment in disbelief and the stockers started laughing. He screamed that he was going to have us all fired. Then, he walked to a different register, checked out, and left. I never heard anything from management and I never saw him again. It wasn’t a glorious triumph, but I’m counting it as a win.)

(I fall off my bike on my way to get some dinner before covering an overnight shift at the front desk for my coworker on a night I don’t usually work. I bang up my knee pretty good, but I am able to walk and everything, and working at a retirement home means orphaned canes. This is about twelve hours after I fell, and my shift is over. We have calendars listing weekly events in the elevators.)

Coworker: “You didn’t change the calendars last night.”

Me: “No, I fell off my bike. Can’t walk that far. I can wait here if you want to do them now.”

Coworker: “No, I’ll get someone else to do them. Why didn’t you do them?”

Me: “Because I fell off my bike yesterday.”

Coworker: “But you can walk?”

Me: “Yeah, it’s not that bad, but it’s really limited how many steps I can take today.”

Coworker: “But you didn’t change the calendars.”

Me: “Yeah, because I can’t walk that far. My knee hurts.”

Coworker: “But you can walk home?”

Me: “Yes, because I didn’t do the calendars.”

Coworker: “Then why didn’t you do the calendars?”

Me: “Because I can only walk so far. And not fast enough to catch the elevators.”

Coworker: “Then why didn’t you come back to the desk and rest in between?”

Me: “Because that is physically more steps.”

Coworker: “No, it’s not; you rest in between.”

Me: “It’s physically more steps.”

Coworker: “Whatever. Why didn’t you stay home?”

Me: “Because I was already covering a shift and there wasn’t anybody to take it?”

Coworker: “I wouldn’t have come in if I was in pain.”

(Note: this coworker didn’t show up for her shift the day before, stranding the coworker I was covering for two extra hours and making our boss work the shift.)

Me: “Well, I have chronic pain, so it isn’t that big of a deal.”

Coworker: “Then why didn’t you do the calendars?”

Me: “Because I have a limited number of steps.”

Coworker: “Whatever. I don’t believe you anyway.”

Me: “All right, if you could only eat 2,000 calories a day, you wouldn’t spend it all on candy, right? You would eat something else? That’s what I’m doing with my steps. I have a limited number.”

Coworker: “I don’t get it.”

Me: “And I don’t think you ever will.”

(I limped out then with my cane. As it was the weekend, I had to go further to catch public transit and barely made it home as it was. I don’t think I would have made it if I’d done the calendars. I’m very glad that I don’t see her very often. Thanks for nothing, [Coworker]!)