My wife and I are “senior citizens”; in other words, we are OLD. My dear wife is a strong, independent, take-no-s***-from-anyone type of woman. I adore her for it! She keeps me in line, pushes me to be a better man, and is the reason behind my (modest) success in life. She is sarcastic, is wicked smart, can cuss like a sailor, and as she gets older, her filter is practically non-existent!

A few months ago, we decided to treat ourselves. We made reservations and went to a rather high-end restaurant. They had a maître de, sommeliers, highly trained waitstaff, etc. My wife, even though she is in her seventies, has very little grey hair and can pass for fifty-five. She was wearing a very pretty white, lacy blouse, very flattering black pants, and black flats. She looked GOOD!

When we arrived, there was no line surprisingly, and the maître de had apparently stepped away from the podium where he stands. We waited there; my wife was right next to the podium, and I had sat down at one of the benches provided by the entrance. Another couple came in. Without missing a beat, the man walked up to the podium and addressed my wife.

Man: “[Man’s Last Name] — we have reservations for two.”

Wife: “I’m sure someone will be with you shortly.”

The woman huffed a little.

Man: “Please seat us now!”

Wife: “I don’t work here; I’m waiting to be seated.”

Man: “Seat us now!”

Wife: “Right away. Walk this way.”

They followed my wife as she walked around the partition separating the entrance to the dining area, circled around to the other end, and led them back to the entrance. She pointed to the bench.

Wife: “SIT DOWN!”

The man looked like he was going to blow a gasket.

Wife: “I don’t work here, you moron. You wanted me to seat you, so sit the eff down!”

As the couple were sputtering, and before it could escalate future, the maître de arrived, we gave our name, and he led us away.

There was no yelling and no threats of police. We had a wonderful meal. The other couple was several tables away from us. We didn’t interact again with them, but they did shoot us dirty looks now and then.

Part of my job is recovering customers and auditing bodies to view and audit our facility. I arrange everything: the hotels, the certifications, the catering, etc. Over time, I’ve become the go-to guy to get the best rates and places to avoid, and I typically book catering for others.

The last few food deliveries have been pretty poor — reduced selection, sometimes late, and just not as good. I complain, but they brush me off, so I decide to use another supplier. As I’m the only person really booking food, they get no more business from the company. Their loss. It’s nothing personal, just business.

I get called into the purchasing manager’s office one afternoon. 

Purchasing Manager: “I keep getting calls and emails from the catering company. I keep telling them I have nothing to do with the orders, but they won’t have any of it.”

Me: “Yeah, I’ve changed suppliers.”

Purchasing Manager: “I know, and that’s fine. But they are going to call me in a minute. Can you join the call?”

Me: “Err, sure.”

The phone rings and the manager puts it on speaker.

Caterer: “Hi, this is [Caterer] from [Catering Company]. I wanted to talk to you about your lack of orders lately.”

Purchasing Manager: “Yes, well, as I mentioned, I don’t make the orders, but I have—”

Caterer: “We’ve been supplying [Company] for many years, and always to a very high level of quality and cost-effectiveness. I’m sure you, as purchasing manager, appreciate this, hmmm?”

Purchasing Manager: “That’s only part of it. I have [My Name] with me on the call; he organises—”

Caterer: “Well, I’m sure he has plenty to say, but let me ask you: are you still ordering food at the same frequency? Because we could work out a bit of a discount.”

Me: “We are, and we are very happy with the service we are receiving, thank you.”

Caterer: “if you don’t mind, I’m talking to the man in charge.”

Purchasing Manager: “And as I told you, he makes the decisions; I just sign it off. If he is happy with the catering decision, then that is fine with me.”

Caterer: “Can you take me off speaker for a moment?”

Purchasing Manager: “No, this affects [My Name] more than it affects anyone.”

Caterer: “All we want is a second chance.”

Me: “I gave you several chances, but you have been under-delivering for months. It’s very embarrassing.”

Caterer: “What are they quoting you? I bet we can beat it.”

Purchasing Manager: “This has never been about cost. This is about quality, and it’s clear you don’t have it. I think we’re done here?”

Me: “I was finished before we started.”

We kept on with the new company, who delivered as promised every time. The old company tried to contact the purchasing manager several times after that until he blocked their calls.

My family — mom, dad, and boyfriend — and I have been traveling and have just arrived in the smallish city we’re visiting. We’re hungry, but the plane was late and it’s nearly midnight, so the only options are fast food drive-thrus. We figure we’ll make the best of it and pull into a famous burger joint.

The line is pretty slow for as few cars as there are, but we figure that at this time of night, they’re short-staffed, and we wait as patiently as we can. Finally, [Worker #1] comes over the intercom to take our order. Her tone is a bit short, but again, we brush it off as the late hour and dealing with crappy entitled people all day. We pull around for our food — four sandwich meals, as we are four adults — and wait, and wait, and wait. Finally, the window opens to reveal a very tired-looking young man, [Worker #2].

Worker #2: *Slowly* “Uhh… did y’all order a [Children’s Meal]?”

Dad: “No, we—”

[Worker #1] appears at the window, glares at [Worker #2], and slams the window shut. She comes back a few minutes later with our order, practically shoving it out the window at us.

Dad: “Thanks, could we get some ketchup—”

[Worker #1] slams the window shut.

Boyfriend: “Okay… I guess not.”

The food is passed around, and we start to drive away.

Mom: “There are no fries with any of these orders!”

We glanced back at the drive-thru, decided we’d cut our losses as we were too tired to wait more and deal with Miss Priss at the window again, and drove to our hotel. It turned out there were fries in our order, or rather, a single fry… at the bottom of Mom’s drink cup.

One of the biggest sellers of our store is bags of salt for water softeners. We sell so much of it that we keep several pallets of the stuff right by the exit and always ask customers checking out if they need some. They sell like hotcakes.

One day, I find that we’re almost out of one of our types of salts. I call plumbing so they can bring up another pallet for us, but it turns out that all three of them back there are way too busy to do that. I figure they’ll get to it when they have time, but half an hour and an empty pallet later, I have customers asking for salt and not buying any when told that it’s all the way back in plumbing. My boss starts getting on my case over that, and I figure the only option I have is to go back there with a pallet jack and bring one up myself. Sounds easy, right?

It is not easy.

I push on it with all my might and slowly creep toward the registers at a sloth’s pace, a feat only made possible by the flat, smooth, polished concrete floor. As I’m making my way up toward the registers, I do some mental math for fun, adding up the weights of these bags of salt, and realize that I am pushing just over a literal ton of salt, as in a whole 2,000 pounds.

As I’m kicking myself for not trying to find someone else who’s forklift certified, I turn into the main aisle: a very wide aisle, four pallets wide in fact, that’s a straight shot to the front. I creep down my final stretch and along enters our “wonderful” customer: a lady that walks down the aisle directly toward me. She apparently doesn’t notice the literal ton of salt in front of her, and she stops about three feet in front of me and my burden.

Now, the obvious solution to this conundrum is to quickly side-step and go around me, right?

Ah, but ’tis far too great a task for our “valued customer”, and she instead resolves to stare directly into my eyes with a look that very clearly says, “You’re in my way.” I return a look that clearly says, “Try me, b****.”

We hold eye contact for what seems like forever but really is probably a minute and a half until she finally relents and slithers away with a scowl. In this entire interaction, neither of us ever said a word to one another, at least not out loud. I make my way up to the front with my quarry without further issue, and though I expect to get a complaint later, I never do.

Client: “We won’t pay you if you don’t submit the reports by midnight tomorrow.”

Me: “But you haven’t even given me the complete data sets yet! I only have six out of ten!”

Client: “We’ll give you the rest of them tomorrow, but we need to see your drafts time-stamped on March 31. Otherwise, you won’t get paid.”

After pulling a thirty-hour writing marathon, I sent six drafts off via email, with three minutes to spare before the midnight deadline.

Me: “Did you receive the drafts I sent to your email?”

Client: “Yeah, thanks. I’ve forwarded them to upper management.”

Me: “Right. So what about the rest of the data sets I asked for.”

Client: “Yeah, about that. We still haven’t received the data sets from the other project sites, so management is asking if they can send them by April 10th instead.”

Me: “…”

Client: “And we still need to discuss if we’re going to pay you for your time.”