I’m a teenager working at a grocery store. One day, I was working the cash register, and this old lady in an electric scooter came to my line.

Customer: “I want my refrigerated stuff separate from my freezer stuff, in plastic and then in paper bags.”

The sacker and I were trying our best to keep them separated, but then…

Customer: “Put that bag with the chemicals (cleaners and stuff) in the refrigerated stuff bag!”

After all of that, she gave me an old receipt with a bottle of vitamins that was purchased a month before.

Customer: “I want to return this; I got the wrong kind.”

I called my supervisor, and he took it and walked over to the manager. I could tell that she was angry. He was able to process the return, thankfully, saving me and the sacker from being yelled at.

Then, the woman tried to pay with a check. At my store, we accept checks, but a valid ID must be present so we can copy down the numbers.

Me: “Can I see your ID, please?”

Customer: “I lost it, but I have the numbers and such already written down on the check.”

Me: “I can’t process a check without your ID, for verification purposes.”

She then began digging in her purse for it. Five minutes passed, and she thankfully found it, so I was able to complete the transaction. I handed her the receipt and told her to have a good day, and she didn’t even say anything. Luckily, the customers behind her were understanding and weren’t upset because of the wait.

I work as a cashier at a bookstore while in college. A customer comes up to me to check out. He’s on his cell phone as I am scanning his purchases.

Customer: “Hang on. I’m being checked out by a delectable young woman.”

Me: “Wow, I love being compared to a food item!”

Customer: “It’s rude to listen to people’s conversations.”

Unfortunately, I did not have a witty response to that. That was probably for the best, since I needed the job.

When I was in my early twenties, I used to be a waitress at a very popular casual fine dining restaurant. They only hired young women who could fit into a size two pencil skirt. This is only relevant because we had to deal with a lot of flirty guys and jealous, petty women.

A group of six were sat in my section: five forty-year-old men and one very rude woman.

Right away, the guys were fun. We were all joking around, and they were having fun, but the woman was going out of her way to try to treat me like a slave. I continued to act 100% unfazed and bring her everything with a smile. She kept getting more and more rude, hoping to faze me or get a reaction. I’m pretty confident and refused to let her get to me or buy into her game.

Well, until…

The entire table ordered the exact same entrée: a medium-rare striploin. The food arrived, they all tried it, and I could see smiles all around. I walked over to ask how everything tasted and all the guys were very complimentary until the woman cut them off and shrieked:

Woman: “EXCUSE ME, BUT THIS STEAK TASTES LIKE A**!”

I responded in the sweetest, calmest voice, as big and innocent as I could make my eyes:

Me: “I don’t know what a** tastes like, but I’ll take your word for it.”

Her table erupted into laughter and the woman lost it; she went into a full-on meltdown. Of course, she asked for the manager, and it was awkward explaining what had happened, but it was worth it.

My dad witnessed this incident in the late 1960s. He had gone to see a neighbour (rural area, so about a mile away) to get some peaches for my mum to can. Ben, the neighbour, was an old guy who had a small peach orchard and grew the best peaches ever. It was a bit of a hobby, and like many small orchardists (for my parents it was cherries and pears) he sold the fruit at the roadside. Dad had loaded up the peaches and was just talking with Ben when a car pulled up. Big city folks.

The car was a white Caddy convertible with Washington, US plates. This took place in Canada, so they were obviously not from around here. The couple, in their fifties, were a stereotype. The woman had blonde beehive hair, snazzy sunglasses, tight capri pants, and a tiny poodle. The man had socks and sandals, plaid shorts, a patterned shirt, a weird hat, and some attitude. He told Ben he wanted a box of peaches and demanded to know the price.

Ben was an old guy who knew a thing or two — about peaches and about people. Though a funny man to his friends, he had the ability to be stone-faced when needed (think Buster Keaton). He told the man that each thirty-pound box was (some price I don’t know, but it was probably a couple of bucks or so back then). The box was handed over and money changed hands. If that was it, then there would be no story, but…

Mr. Big City suddenly accused Ben of selling him less than the agreed-upon thirty pounds. Ben, who knew d***ed well what a thirty-pound box felt like, quietly disagreed. Big City insisted, so Ben hauled out a scale, zeroed it with an empty box, and transferred all the peaches into it to get an accurate weight. It was more than thirty pounds.

Dad said it was magical as Ben looked the tourist in the eye, and with a laconic, deadpan delivery, held his hand out, palm up, and said, “You owe me fifteen cents.” And the hand remained out until the guy fished for change and paid before quietly slinking back to his car.

I work customer calls for a retail company that has both physical and online shopping.

One day, I get a call from a lady who explains to me that she ordered a rabbit planter online that is “bad quality,” and she would like us to replace it.

Me: “I can help with that. May I have the order number?”

Customer: “I don’t have that.”

Me: “Okay, no problem. What email was it ordered under?”

Customer: “[Email #1]. You know, this planter was shown outside in photos online. I would have expected it to hold up better!”

Me: “I’m sorry about that! Hmm, I don’t see anything under that email. Is there a different one we can try?”

Customer: “Maybe [email #2]? Honestly, you people are ripping customers off with this shoddy craftsmanship.”

Me: “I’m sorry, I don’t see that one, either. What was the shipping address?”

We go through a few more points, with her ripping on the planter between every comment. I finally find her account, and something on it makes me pause.

Me: “I’ve found your order. I’m sorry, ma’am, but what did you say was wrong with the planter?”

Customer: “The paint is chipping off it! It’s advertised as being for outdoors, but it’s chipped!”

Me: “I see. I’m sorry, ma’am, but it looks like you ordered this planter in 2018; it is three years old at this point.”

Customer: “So, can you send me a replacement?”

Me: “I’m sorry, but our window for returns and replacements is sixty days.”

Customer: “So, are you saying you can’t do anything for me?”

Me: “I’m sorry, but no.”

Customer: “Well, I’ll have you know you’ve just lost a customer!”

And she hung up. To be honest, I don’t think losing a customer whose last order was three years ago is going to be much of a concern.

This story is part of our crazy-online-shoppers roundup!

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