I work in the photography department of a tourist attraction. We take guests’ pictures on a green screen and then offer them for sale at the exit. A woman opts for our full package which includes the soft copies of the image sent to an email address.

The whole transaction is done on a screen in front of the customer which includes the till and emailing system. I switch from the till tab to the emailing tab.

Me:

“If you type your email address in here we will send all the pictures to your email address, too.”

Customer:

*Frowning* “You want me to put my email in there? Everyone’s email addresses are just up on the screen there. I don’t want mine on there.”

I am confused for a moment until I realise she is talking about the till screen which I just exited. For some reason, under all the cashiers’ names to log in to our till are our email addresses. It is an unnecessary feature but no one who works there is really bothered that a customer may glance at our email addresses as we always close the tab pretty quickly after putting transactions through.

Me:

“Oh, don’t worry, madam; those are employee email addresses to identify our accounts. Customer email addresses will not display on the screen.”

Customer:

“Well, that’s an awful system! You should change that!”

She really emphasises the “you” as if she expects me to change the system of a multinational company’s computing system. 

Me:

“Uh, okay, well, if you do want your digital copies, just type your email here.”

The customer turns around and glares at the family waiting behind her to view their pictures.

Customer:

“What, with all these people watching?!”

Trying not to sigh audibly or roll my eyes, I pick the screen up and turn it towards the wall. She enters her email and leaves without a thank-you.

Next Customer:

“I really didn’t care what her email address was.”

To be honest, her concerns weren’t outrageous, but the way she went about voicing them was weirdly disproportionate to the situation!

It’s the late 1980s. The reception area where I work mainly deals with incoming and outgoing mail and business clients. While I’m on my own, a well-dressed gentleman walks in and addresses me in an American accent.

Visitor:
“Good afternoon. I’m here to see Mr. [Senior Partner].”

Me:
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir, but the Partners’ Entrance is just across the way, over there. If you speak to the receptionists there they’ll be able to get Mr. [Senior Partner] for you.”

Visitor:
*Losing it* “G**D*** IT! I have flown all the way from San Francisco for an important meeting, and all you can do is tell me I’m in the wrong place! WHAT IS THE PROBLEM WITH THIS G**D*** COUNTRY?!” *Storms out*

I am left there, thinking to myself:

Me:
“I don’t know what the country’s problem is, but I know what yours is. Seriously, you just flew five and a half thousand miles and you’re complaining about walking another ten yards?”

My first job out of school was at a local bakery. One of the tasks I was expected to do during the day was to take the flat pack cake boxes and assemble them, making it easier to pack cakes for customers during the busy periods. My manager was horribly nitpicky about things and one of her pet peeves was that there weren’t enough boxes.

One day, I came into work and she had me fill out and sign a “formal warning notice” to say I hadn’t assembled enough boxes — I was literally one box short of what she wanted. Likewise, my colleague got the same “warning.” Being the 17-year-old I was, and feeling like a smarta***, I spent my whole Saturday assembling every single box we had.

The manager liked to have around 30 and I assembled around 3,000. They were literally stacked everywhere — on the counters, filling the shelves, and on the floor. I even built an archway leading into the back of the store. The next day, the store owner demanded to see me because of the ridiculous state of his store; he actually called me in on my day off.

And that was how I got my second formal warning. After I explained the situation to the owner, he did agree to speak to the manager about how a warning over a single missing box was excessive.

(I’ve recently been hired by this coffee chain. I’m in my second week of training and have been a little stressed out today during an afternoon rush.)

Coworker: “We need to make a latte to drink in!”

(I grab a used milk jug and press it onto the rinser to wash it. Unfortunately, I rush a little and don’t cover the nozzle with the jug. I feel water spray over my hand and look around to see where else it landed. I notice that a male customer is stood nearby with splashes of milky water over his suit shirt, looking around in a daze. My jaw hangs open as he looks at me, realising what I’ve done.)

Me: *flustered* “Oh, my God, sir, I am so sorry! I should have been more careful!”

Customer: *laughs* “It’s okay. Stop hiding behind your milk jug! These things happen; I was just worried I’d lactated for a moment there!”

(I couldn’t stop cringing at how clumsy I’d been, but he made me laugh with the absurdity. I made sure to put extra effort into trying to pour a beautiful heart with the foam as thanks, as that was one of the things I’d been practicing most that day! It definitely took away some of my stress to know there are nice customers out there.)

I work as a bartender in a busy bar and restaurant. The bar is set up two-sided; one side has all the beer and lager taps with the liquors as well as fountain drinks. The other is strictly fountain drinks as it is meant as a quick station for servers to get refills for people.

I get an order from the restaurant for about ten people, all fountain drinks but different because two of the party are diabetic. I start on the drinks, getting glasses and filling them with ice, generally doing them two at a time and placing them on a tray.

I am the only one working on the bar itself.

Every time I get another glass, I notice that my drinks order has gone. One by one, every soda on the tray has vanished.

The man who has ordered has his back turned and is in conversation, but none of his party have their drinks.

I start the process again, and with each new glass, the same thing happens.

Frustrated, I move my tray, collect all the glasses, and do all the drinks at once.

As I am moving across the bar to deliver what seems to be the most difficult order I have ever filled, one of the new servers stops me and tries to pluck a soda from my tray.

I give her a “WTF” face and she brazenly states that it is my job to pour her drinks and that her table needs the sodas.

It turns out that she has been stealing my drinks orders whilst my back was turned, with no regard for preference — diet, zero-calorie, etc. — and giving them to her tables.

I finish serving my now angry customer, apologise, and then have to explain to the waitress that she actually has to tell me what her tables are drinking so I can pour them, not just steal drinks from other customers.

I show her the fountain station on the other side of the bar, even though I personally watched her being trained on this.

She is soon let go when she is found doing the same thing on other shifts, too lazy to get her own drinks for customers or to write orders down.

That evening, I filled 25 glasses for an original order of ten. The definition of madness is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.