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.

I ordered an OLED Switch from the website of a major electronics chain, and I went to pick it up in the store.

While I was buying it, a woman’s child saw it and started whining about it. The woman offered to pay me the base cost for it. I’m not above a bit of scalping if the price is right, but it wasn’t.

Woman: “A grown-a** man like you shouldn’t be playing video games!”

Me: “Well, this grown-a** man is going to go play Pokemon on his new OLED Switch.”

She fumed and tried to snatch my bag, not realizing it was one of those anti-theft ones with metal handles to prevent that exact act. She lost the tug of war and tried to leave, but she got stopped by security.

I was asked if I wanted to press charges. I did.

I am checking out a woman at my grocery store.

Me: “And would you like to donate to [Charity] that helps conserve and protect local bee populations?”

Customer: “And why would I ever want to do that?! Gross, disgusting things! They should all be killed.”

Me: “Well, without bees, we wouldn’t have flowers and—”

Customer: “What?! Flowers come out of the ground, dear, not from bees. Honestly, what are they teaching you in school?”

Me: “We must have had very different educations, ma’am.”

Customer: “That’s right! And don’t you forget it!”

I work for a pet store chain in one of their big warehouse stores. Someone dragged their dog the length of the store while it was having diarrhea. And then, they just left it on the floor. They didn’t notify anyone to ask to get it cleaned up and didn’t go to any of the stations meant to clean up after dogs.

My manager pulled rank over me, so I had to clean it up while he covered my register.

I was traveling with my kiddo from the states to my home country, which takes around eight hours with connections, so I booked first-class seats for both of us. However, due to the health crisis, in this airline, ours was the last group to be called to board.

When we boarded, it turned out a woman and her kid were in our seats. I politely told the woman so, but she ignored me. And as we were the last to board, I had to call the flight attendant and let her know that, because we were soon to take off.

She came and the woman just repeated in Spanish, “Lo siento; no entiendo,” over and over again — “I’m sorry; I don’t understand” in English. The flight attendant felt frustrated as she explained the situation to her in Spanish. It was obvious Spanish wasn’t her first language, and yet the woman pretended she didn’t understand.

But here comes the funny part. I am a Spanish speaker, so I grinned and told her in Spanish that she was in our seats and had to move to their seats. She then got red-faced and told me — all in Spanish, of course:

Woman: “I’m a single mother! You should respect your elders. You should go with your brother to the regular seats because I deserve to have the first-class ones!”

Me: *Also in Spanish* “You’re not my elder; I’m twenty-seven. And I don’t give a f*** about you being a single mother. You can pay for the tickets as I did; I’m a single parent, as well.”

The woman had the pleasure of having me as her translator, telling her and her child to go back to their seats or they would be escorted out of the plane.

In the end, she went back to their seats and told me in English how my kind have ruined the States. I just laughed at them and told her to enjoy their seats.