Those Free Hot Wings Really Add Up!

, , , , , | Working | September 27, 2020

My boyfriend and I order fried chicken one night, but after it arrives, we realise that our order is missing two hot wings, so I call up to see if they can be delivered or refunded. I tell the customer service rep we’re missing food, thinking it will be a simple conversation. Nope. Note that I am FTM transgender, so my voice sounds “female” while my name is definitely male.

Rep: “Could I get the order number, please?”

After fumbling for a minute to find it on the ridiculously long receipt…

Me: “Sorry for the wait; the number is [number].”

Rep: “Okay, could I get the full name on the account, please?”

Me: “That would be [Male Name] [Last Name].”

Rep: “And the address, please?”

Me: “The billing address or the delivery address?”

Rep: “Yes.”

Me: “…”

After about thirty seconds of awkward silence:

Rep: “The delivery address, please.”

Me: “Sure, that’s [address].”

Rep: “And could I get your phone number, please?”

I start reeling off a number only to realise it’s my mother’s number. It’s about nine pm after a busy day, so I guess I had a brain fart.

Me: “Wait, no, sorry. That’s my mum’s number. My number is—”

I get halfway through before the rep interrupts me.

Rep: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t proceed with this call because you’ve failed the security questions. Are you sure this is your account? Could you give me the account holder’s name again, please?”

I’m annoyed at myself, flustered because I messed up my own number, and confused as to why a fried chicken chain has security questions. My full name includes three very masculine middle names chosen for me by my mother when I legally changed it.

Me: “I am the account holder. My full name is [Full Name]. That’s my name; this is my account.”

Rep: “Oh… Okay, and what was the item missing from your order, ma’am?”

Me: “Two hot wings.”

I ask my boyfriend quietly if he really wants the hot wings, to which he replies the negative. I decide to give the rep another chance before giving up. My mistake.

Rep: “Well, actually, you didn’t order any hot wings, and they aren’t on your receipt so you weren’t charged for them.”

Me: “I’m looking at the online receipt and the paper receipt that was stapled to our order, and both of them say, ‘1x two extra hot wings for £1.29.’”

Rep: “Oh… Well, I can’t give you a refund because—”

Me: *Interrupting* “You know what? I’m just going to do this online if that’s okay.”

Rep: “Yes, I was just about to suggest that you do it online.”

Me: “Great, thank you.”

I hung up without a goodbye, the closest thing to rude my English upbringing allows me to do.

I then went onto the app, found the online customer service option, and got my money refunded in roughly forty-five seconds. I get that the rep had a script to follow, but seriously, who tries to defraud a restaurant for £1.29?

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Like Getting Water From A Stone

, , , , | Healthy | September 25, 2020

I’m getting blood drawn — I think it ends up being six vials? — and I start to feel woozy.

Me: “Umm… I’m kind of dizzy.”

Lab Tech: “Oh, do you want some water?”

I nod and immediately regret it.

Me: “Yes, please.”

She gets up and disappears into some back room, and I close my eyes, trying to get my head to stop spinning. After about ten minutes, the nausea wins and I throw up all over the floor.

Lab Tech: *Coming back in* “Are you all right?”

Me: *Weakly* “I’m so sorry. I threw up.”

Lab Tech: *Waving a hand* “Don’t worry. It happens all the time.”

I look at her expectantly but she’s empty-handed.

Lab Tech: “Oh, right. The thing is, we don’t actually have any water. Whoops!”

Related:
Like Getting Blood From A Stone

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There’s A Lot To Unpackage Here

, , , , | Working | September 24, 2020

I recently ordered some new cages for my rats as we had an accidental pregnancy and we need bigger cages to separate males and females. The order was delayed due to the health crisis but I received a notification they had finally been sent.

I’ve been tracking the item and it’s due for delivery, so we keep a watch for the driver, but he doesn’t arrive or we don’t see him the day he is due so we just assume it was delayed.

The next morning, my husband is heading to his car and notices something buried in the leaves in the rear garden. On further investigation, it’s the parcels, and the dog has destroyed them. He is a Great Dane puppy and, unfortunately, he likes to chew.

I call the courier company to register a complaint and find a solution, as one of the cages is missing several parts, including the screws.

Me: “I’d like to complain about a delivery that was thrown over my fence that my dogs have destroyed.”

Company: “Your item is due for delivery.”

Me: “No, I already got it, but it was destroyed, as it was put over the rear fence even though the gate has been padlocked.”

Company: “You have to call the seller, as it’s their fault they gave authority to leave it and didn’t mention dogs.”

Me: “But it’s authorized to be left in a safe place; the area it was left was the only locked area. We live in a pub. There are two entrances at the front: one which is covered and safe, and a driveway which leads to an enclosed rear gate.”

Company: “Not our problem; we had authority to leave it.”

This went on for around five minutes. The lady kept talking over me when I tried to explain that the garden was locked for a reason and the driver had to have thrown them over the fence, even though the boxes said they were fragile and there were three other places they could have been left. They could have even rung the bell, as we were home.

But this lady could not understand why it was a problem that my fragile parcels had been thrown over the locked fence and destroyed by my dogs. I eventually gave up and contacted the seller, who was lovely and organised replacement parts for the damaged items, but she herself could not understand why they decided to leave the packages in the only locked area of the building, and she was not looking forward to contacting them in regards to damage insurance.

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The Laziness Is Registering

, , , , | Right | September 19, 2020

The way our store is set up, the self-checkout lanes are closest to the door, then you have registers one through eleven, then a space for random displays, and then the aisles near the pharmacy that are for health and beauty products. Usually, only registers one through seven are open any given day, with the rest closed off unless we are super busy.

I am busy restocking one of the displays by register eleven. People often assume I’m a cashier when I work in this area and yell at me when I tell them otherwise, because apparently, any employee within fifty feet of a register is automatically a cashier, so I tense up when I see a young woman approach me. Thankfully, she walks past me. I don’t think much of it, since customers often use the space between the displays and the register as a cut-through to the pharmacy.

Customer: “Your self-checkout machine isn’t working!”

I look up and she is trying to scan her items at the register.

Me: “That’s not self-checkout.”

Customer: “Yes, it is.”

Me: “No, it’s not. That’s not even an open register.”

Customer: “I thought this store had self-checkout.”

Me: “We do. Down there, by the doors.”

I point to the giant signs that say “self-checkout” above each self-checkout register.

Customer: “I have to walk way down there?”

Me: “Yes.”

Customer: “Just check me out here.”

Me: “I can’t. There’s no till in the drawer.”

Customer: “I’ll use my card.”

Me: “No, I can’t check you out on this register. Registers one, two, three, five, and six look open right now, and self-checkout is just past register one. Any of the cashiers at those registers will be happy to check you out, but I cannot check you out at this register.”

Customer: “Well, you don’t have to be so rude about it.” *Huffs off*

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She Has Cast You Into The Role Of Helper

, , , , , | Right | September 18, 2020

A woman comes in who has been in an accident. She has trouble walking and her arm is in a cast, so she asks me to help her shop. It is quite slow at this time of the day, so this isn’t much of a problem.

I help her do the shopping, and she is being kind of grumpy and commanding me around the whole time, making me go from one aisle to the other and back again, etc. 

When the shopping is done, I help her check out and bag her stuff; that isn’t usually done by store staff in the Netherlands. She tells me to take her stuff out to her car, which isn’t a problem, but it makes me wonder how she was able to drive, seeing the physical state that she is in. 

We arrive at her car, which is parked right in front of our store — in the handicapped-spot without a permit, even though there are plenty of parking spaces open — and in the drivers’ seat is her fully able-bodied husband. 

It still puzzles me to this day why she would ask store staff to go shopping with her and snap at, instead of her husband.

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