(This is many years ago when my husband and I are just dating. I am working a second job as a bartender as I am a single mom of two. On this particular evening, it is my night to get off early if my bar is slow. My husband and his brother, sister-in-law, and best friend come into my bar just before I am released.)

Husband: “Okay, you’re off. Let’s go to [Bar under new management across town].”

(We head there, but then I remember that since I was working I don’t have my purse or ID with me. I ALWAYS get ID’d at bars at which we aren’t regulars.)

Me: “I don’t have my ID; they won’t serve me.”

Husband: “I’m sure it’ll be okay.”

(We walk into the bar.)

Bartender: *to me* “ID, please.”

Me: *starts giggling*

Bartender: *VERY angrily* “Well, I have to see your ID! See those two guys down the bar? They’re cops! I could get arrested!”

(I know them; they aren’t cops.)

Me: “No, no, I’m sorry. I was just giggling because I just told [Husband] I would get ID’d. I work at [Bar] and I totally get it! We’ll just go somewhere else.”

(We leave. As we’re driving away…)

Husband: “Wow, she was a real b****! We just live up the street; let’s go get your ID and go back.”

(We go get my purse and ID and go back. Note, it’s approximately midnight, and closing time is 2:00 am. We walk back into the bar. I’m the OLDEST out of our group by at least two years.)

Bartender: “ID’s! All of you! Now!”

(We all show ID.)

Bartender: “Okay, what do you want? Make it quick; I’m about to close!”

(We look around questioningly, as there are about twelve people scattered around the bar.)

Husband: “I’ll have a [Beer #1].”

Brother-In-Law: “I’ll have a [Beer #2].”

(We all order about the same thing. The bartender gets out some six-ounce juice glasses and starts filling them with a draft beer we didn’t order; all our beers were bottles or cans.)

Brother-In Law: “Hey! I don’t know about the rest of you guys, but I haven’t had a drink all night! I’d like the beer I ordered, or at least a regular-sized draft!”

(We all agree.)

Bartender: *extremely angry* “THAT’S IT! Get out! ALL OF YOU! AND YOU—“ *looking directly at me* “—ARE A SMART A**!”

(We all looked confused and left. The next day, my husband returned, as he knew the owner. The owner told him the bartender reported that at 2:00 am, when she was cleaning up to close, a “bunch of rowdy kids” came in and she had to throw them out. My husband informed him that it was me, a paralegal and part-time bartender at [Bar], which is well known, him, a local business owner, his brother, a corporate attorney, his wife, and our friend, a transport company owner. As it was only midnight, we would have sat there and had a few each and tipped generously, but as we were treated so badly, we wouldn’t be back. Needless to say, I heard that bartender didn’t work there anymore after that. And that’s the one and only time in my life I’ve EVER been kicked out of a bar… because I was OLD ENOUGH TO DRINK, and proved it!)

(I’m at a small, friendly, family-owned restaurant where we all know the owners and their children and some of their family, including an eight-year-old son. Also, they don’t do tips here. There are sheets of order forms on each table. One customer starts waving the order form and the boy comes over to take it.)

Customer: “No, kid.”

Boy: “My parents are the owners; I can take it to the kitchen.”

Customer: “Why do you work here? Why aren’t you in school?”

Boy: “It’s a half-day today and I’m just helping out.”

Me: “It’s okay; let [Boy] take it. We all know him.”

Customer: “Why would anyone let kids work here?”

Me: “He’s the owners’ youngest son.”

Customer: “And they put him to work already?”

Me: “No, he’s just helping because he is here. He doesn’t have hours or salary.”

Customer: “Then that’s just illegal. To have a kid work and also get no salary? Does he get tips?”

Me: “No, there are no tips here. Check the signs.”

(I’ve noticed the boy has gone to get his mom and returned.)

Mom: “Hi. My name is [Mom], and I’m own this place with my husband.”

Customer: “Why do you let your kid work here? For no pay! And no tips?!”

Mom: “Most of us working here are family, and we pay good salary. Also, my son isn’t exactly working here; he’s just helping us.”

Customer: “He’s still working!”

Mom: “Just helping. He can help as much or as little as he wants.”

(At this moment, a few other customers all chime in saying it’s fine.)

Customer: “This is ridiculous!”

(He stood up and just left.)

(I work for a popular craft retailer. The location where I work is well known for being very understaffed due to our exceptionally high turnover rate. There are two stations in the store: the registers and the cutting counter. Typically, I am working at the registers, but this time they have me on the cutting counter because I am dual-trained. The cutting counter works a lot like a deli; you take a number, wait your turn, and then tell us what you want cut. The cutting counter is a lot to handle while it is very busy; we had one employee quit after the first three days of it. I see customers who have no measurements or no idea how to read a pattern, bring in a whole dining room chair for us to measure, and have orders ranging from 1 to 30 cuts which take from 30 seconds to 30 minutes to get through. I call the next customer in the intercom.)

Me: “Would customer holding [number] please come to the cutting counter?”

Customer #1: “Excuse me, I was being helped by another employee and I missed my number.” *shows me her number that is about five behind*

Me: *looking at her with a brow up, knowing it is company policy to accept a customer past her number* “Oh, okay, how much do you need?”

(A woman steps up to me.)

Customer #2: “Why are you helping her? She missed her number, so she needs to take another.”

Me: “Well, ma’am, it is policy that we take a guest who has missed their number. Besides, she missed it while she was getting help from another associate.”

Customer #2: “She did this last Friday; last Friday she missed it by like ten!”

Customer #1: *looking confused* “I’m sorry, but I wasn’t here last Friday.”

Customer #2: *getting ticked off* “Yes, you were! You said that an employee was helping you before and you missed it! Would you get your manager?”

Me: *amused and reaching for my radio* “Sure. [Manager], could you come to the cutting counter to speak to a guest.”

(I love putting emphasis on “to” when it comes to rude guests I don’t want to deal with.)

Manager: “What’s going on?”

Me: “My customer missed her number, so I had to take her, and this customer got upset at me for taking her.”

Manager: “Well, ma’am, it is company policy for us to take someone next who has missed their number.”

Customer #2: “That’s not fair for the rest of us who have to wait just because she didn’t listen, again.”

Manager: “Again?”

Customer #2: “Yes, again. She was here Friday and cut in line!”

Manager: “Well, regardless, she did miss her number and we need to take care of her next. What number do you have?”

Customer #2: *shows a number four numbers ahead*

Manager: *quietly* “[My Name], please help the next guest. I will take care of this.”

(The confrontation continues to go on for about three minutes.)

Customer #1: “I’m sorry that I caused such a scene.”

Manager: *turning to [Customer #1]* “You’re okay; don’t worry.”

Customer #2: *shocked and repulsed* “You are saying she is okay because she is white! Oh, h*** no! This is ridiculous! This store is so racist!”

([Customer #2 ]is black. My manager is trying to calm her down.)

Customer #2: “Fine! I will wait for my fabric to be cut!”

(After she gets her fabric cut, she storms to the registers.)

Coworker: *over the radio* “[Manager], this customer wants the number of customer service.”

Manager: “We are not allowed to give any company numbers to customers; she will have to look it up herself.” *gets off radio and talks to me* “I will just need to send an email to the district manager with your statement about what really happened before her complaint comes through. There is nothing to worry about; they will dismiss her as a crazy customer.”

(A group of three women comes up to us.)

Three Women: “Can we get his email, too? We saw the whole thing and she was very out of line.”

Manager: “I cannot give the email, but the website would have our customer service number. Just tell the complaint department what really happened.”

Three Women: “Sure thing!”

(That lady never came back!)

(I’m the assistant manager of a lawyer’s office, and whilst I get everything done, I’m really laid back and insist on being left alone. When the manager quits, his replacement isn’t fully aware of my way of working.)

Manager: “Where is [My Name]?”

Assistant: “Um, I do believe he’s asleep in his office.”

Manager: “ASLEEP?! HE HAS AN IMPORTANT MEETING WITH [VERY IMPORTANT CLIENT] IN FIFTEEN MINUTES!”

Assistant: “Yes, he knows. Don’t worry; everything will be fine.”

Manager: “FINE?! WE HAVE AN IMPORTANT MEETING AND HE’S ASLEEP!”

(The manager blasts into my office.)

Manager: “[My Name]! WHERE ARE YOU?!”

Me: “Under my desk! Go away!”

Manager: “MY OFFICE! TWO MINUTES!”

(I’m in her office in one minute.)

Manager: “WHY WERE YOU ASLEEP? DON’T YOU KNOW WE HAVE A MEETING IN TEN MINUTES?!”

Me: “Yes. Everything’s under control.”

(She spends the next ten minutes quizzing me on the meeting, which makes us late. Then, because she is so concerned about my being asleep and not prepared, she isn’t prepared herself. After the meeting ends:)

Me: “Next time, just worry about yourself and leave me alone.”

(I am ordering a pizza from the local pizzeria. I am over seven months pregnant with weird cravings, and I’m moody after a tough day at work, not to mention very hungry. None of these are good excuses for my behavior.)

Me: “Yes, I would like to order a large mushroom, anchovy, and pineapple for delivery.”

Pizza Guy: “Umm, could you repeat that, please?”

Me: “Yes, I would like to order a large mushroom, anchovy, and pineapple for delivery.”

Pizza Guy: “Seriously?!”

Me: “Yes.”

Pizza Guy: *says with a laugh* “What are you, pregnant?”

Me: *half yelling, half crying* “YES! YES, I AM! AND YOU BETTER HAVE IT HERE IN THIRTY MINUTES OR SO HELP ME—“

Pizza Guy: “Yes, ma’am!” *hangs up*

(Of course, I feel bad about yelling almost immediately. By the time the delivery guy shows up, I have my apology ready and a good tip. As I am trying to apologize through tears, he stops me and asks me to eat a slice in front of him. I am so hungry that I do as he asks.)

Delivery Guy: “Lady, we had a bet that this was a prank call. None of us thought anyone would eat it. The pizza is free.”

(I tried to insist he take the money and he even refused the tip. I ordered — and paid — for several more of these pizzas about twice a week. Even now that my kids are in their teens, I still love mushroom, anchovy, and pineapple pizza.)