My mom is an amateur geologist. She makes polished cabochon rock necklaces to sell at gem fairs. She runs into a lot of interesting potential customers.
Customer #1: “You must have painted these! There’s no way the rocks are colored like that naturally.”
On another occasion:
Mom: “These rocks formed over millions of years.”
Customer #2: “No, they must be fake! The world is only six thousand years old!”
Neither person ended up buying anything.
When I was three or four years old, I took dance lessons in a class with other kids the same age. There was a window between the dance room and the hallway outside where parents could sit and check in on their kids. My mom usually did that because the classes weren’t too long.
One day in class, I had to use the bathroom, so I asked the teacher for permission. She said I could not. Shortly after I clarified that I really did need to use the bathroom, but she still denied me. She wouldn’t let me take a short and non-disruptive trip out of class, but she did find it appropriate to let me sit and cry on the floor next to my classmates, as she directed me to do while the other kids were dancing.
Soon, my mom looked in the window and saw what was happening, and she was furious. She took me out of the dance room and then chewed out a superior at the dance studio, who was somehow on the side of the dance instructor.
I never went back to that awful dance studio, and soon after this ordeal, we found a better dance studio that let young children use the bathroom on time.
What was ridiculous about this whole experience was that I missed out on dancing much more by being told I could just sit on the floor and cry than if the teacher had just let me use the bathroom. I don’t remember this, but my mom tells me it took a lot of convincing for me to trust that my preschool teachers would actually let me use the bathroom, so apparently, this experience stuck with me.
I am a 911 call taker. If you don’t know, telemarketers randomly generate phone numbers, and they often accidentally call our emergency line.
Me: “911, what’s your emergency?”
Robot: “Hello, your car’s extended warranty is almost expired. Press one to talk to a representative.”
Me: “Oh, my God, guys, it’s gonna happen! I’m gonna talk to a real person!”
Coworker: “I’m excited for you. Go ahead!”
I press one.
Telemarketer: “Hello you’ve reach—”
Me: “911, what’s your emergency?”
Telemarketer: “Oh. there’s no emergency.”
Me: “Ma’am, you called 911. What’s the emergency?”
Telemarketer: “We don’t make calls, ma’am.”
Me: “This is abuse of emergency lines. We can track your location and send you a fine for this.”
The telemarketer hangs up.
Coworker: “Did you actually track the call?”
Me: “No, but she doesn’t know that.”
Bills larger than $100 haven’t been printed in the USA since 1969. I worked at a bank in the late 1990s and early 2000s. People continually asked for $500 and $1,000 bills to use as gifts. We would tell them we didn’t have any and there was no way to order them.
Customer: “Just because you can’t afford one, it doesn’t mean those bills don’t exist!”
Me: “Ma’am, the fact that they existed when you were my age doesn’t negate the fact that they stopped printing them before I was born.”
My girlfriend and I are planning a trip, so one day while at the mall, we decide to look at new luggage. We find a typical chain store selling such and walk in. We’re immediately jumped on by an over-eager saleswoman. We let her know that we’re just browsing, thanks. She backs off for a couple of minutes but soon comes back.
Every time one of us stops to look at a particular piece, she swoops in and starts listing off features or talking about all the sales that are on.
It gets so bad that it triggers my girlfriend’s anxiety and we have to leave. I can applaud the work ethic, the commitment to helping customers, and the knowledge, but back off and know when you’re not helping. It’s an easy way to lose sales, and I wish more retailers understood that.
