(I’m browsing at a boutique that carries a bunch of brands that are popular with models and influencers. I’m a big fan of one these brands that creates stunning clothes, but they’re fairly pricey so I rarely buy, and only when they’re on sale. Still, I treasure the items I do get, like the dress I am actually wearing today to the boutique. It was part of their collection two years ago, so it’s not sold at the store anymore. While I’m looking at a couple of dresses, I feel a hand grab me from behind. I whip around and see a statuesque woman staring at my dress.)

Me: “Excuse me?”

Woman: “That’s the [dress] dress! I wanted to get that, but it’s been sold out everywhere for ages. I’m so happy I finally found it.”

Me: “I don’t think they sell this here anymore. I’m sorry.”

Woman: “What do you mean? This looks like my size.”

Me: “What?”

Woman: “I’m an influencer, see? I need to have clothes that are both sexy and pretty. This dress is perfect!”

Me: “I don’t know what to tell you. You should ask a salesperson to help you.”

Woman: “I don’t need someone else to help me. This is what I want; it’d be perfect for my new Instagram post. I want to try on this dress now!”

Me: *incredulous at this point* “This is my dress. Now, please leave me alone.”

(I try to leave, but she’s blocking my way and I’m essentially backed up against the rack.)

Woman: *screeching now* “Why won’t you give me the dress?! Call your manager now!”

Me: “I don’t work here, and this is my dress. Now, get out of the way.”

Woman: “YOU HAVE TO GIVE ME THE DRESS! I’VE BEEN LOOKING FOR IT! I’LL GET YOU FIRED, B****!”

(Having had enough of this, I try to push past her. She yanks at my dress as I’m leaving.)

Me: “GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME!”

Woman: “THIS IS MINE! A girl like you doesn’t deserve a dress this beautiful! I’ll do it justice!”

(I’m just panicking completely. I’m very close to tears and this woman just won’t let go of me.)

Me: “GET AWAY FROM ME!”

(She kept grabbing the dress and I tried to push her away. Suddenly, I heard a loud rip. She’d ripped off a sleeve, causing the front of the dress to fall down, essentially exposing my chest to an entire store full of people. I grabbed the front and burst into tears. I sat on the ground sobbing and I saw a store employee wrangle the woman away, while another came over to put a large wrap around me. The employee comforted me while we waited for the police. The woman was arrested when the police came, and she still kept screaming at me. I did press charges, but it didn’t really do much. She eventually got some community service for what she did, while I was left with the ruins of my favorite dress and the memory of being completely manhandled with my breasts on display for everyone to see.)

(I work at a non-profit rehab for teens as a counselor. During their lunch, a new resident is having a heated argument with other staff over her dietary restrictions.)

Teen: “I can’t eat this; it has cheese. I’m vegan.”

Staff: “We’re trying to accommodate. The cooks have been made aware and are working on fixing you something else.”

Teen: “You shouldn’t be eating this stuff. Do you know how badly dairy and meat harms your body? You guys are all disgusting.”

Me: *screaming internally* “You shouldn’t lecture anyone when you smoke meth!”

I work in a pretty gigantic grocery store. It’s self-service, like 99.9% of all grocery stores. We are also, sadly, located in a very wealthy area.

A woman walks up to the service desk where I work — lucky me — hands me a gigantic list of groceries, and says, “I need these.”

I’m a bit shocked, but I collect myself and hand her list back along with a pre-printed store directory, and tell her that the directory will help her find things. 

She says, “No, I need you to get these for me. I’m in a hurry.”

I try to kindly explain that we are a self-service grocery store and that we don’t have a shopping service and that, furthermore, it would probably take me longer to do her shopping because I wouldn’t know specifically what she wants.

She refuses to accept this and soon my service desk manager is involved, trying to tell her that we can’t do her shopping for her.

She continues to make a big deal about it and insists that we call the front end manager — above the service desk manager. So, our front end manager comes up. She listens to the woman spin a sob story about how her mother is in the hospital, before asking to see the list.

The list is as lazy and generic as anyone can expect. Instead of specific items and brands, she has such things listed as “spaghetti sauce,” “bread,” and, “snacks.” 

We’re now about a half-hour into this lady’s stay in our store.

The manager scans the list, and then turns to me and speaks in a clear, commanding tone, “[My Name], we pride ourselves on customer service here.” Then, her voice drops to a whisper, and she says, “Therefore, in the spirit of customer service, get the best of everything on this list.”

I am normally completely against giving in to the customer, but I catch the front end manager’s drift and decide that I’ll gladly make an exception!

I begin to shop, selecting the most expensive items offered in each category. So, instead of cheaper, store-brand spaghetti sauce, simple white sandwich bread, and store-brand potato chips, I select two jars of very expensive, imported pasta sauce, a loaf of fresh-baked, organic, whole-wheat bread, and gourmet cookies. I fill the entire cart in this manner.

Oh, yeah, and I go really slow — about an hour and a half of shopping. It is a long list after all, and I am making sure to get her the best of everything!

I bring it back up to the desk, where she is just standing there with a bored look on her face, getting in the way of other customers, because she refuses to budge. I give her the cart and tell her she can get in the lines and cash out. 

She scoffs at this and demands to be taken care of at the service desk. 

Normally, we can cash out short orders, but not big ones like this. We don’t have a moving belt and we only have a tiny bag stand. She complains until we finally give in and take her order. Because we are not properly equipped, it takes me about a half-hour to ring in her order.

If you’re keeping track, we’re at over two and a half hours for this lady who was supposedly in a hurry. By this point, I think she’s forgotten about her hurry, and is simply stubbornly sticking to being “right.”

Now, if this were my shopping, the same list would have cost maybe $150 dollars. But due to my… quality… shopping style, this cart of groceries comes to about $1,400.

She starts to argue with me but I cut her off and say, “Have a great day, ma’am. You’d better rush along to get to your mother in the hospital; I’m sure she really needs you now!”

The lady doesn’t seem to know what to say after that, so she just pays and leaves, albeit not very happily. We print up a second copy of the receipt and hang it in the break room on our “Hall of Fame” corkboard.

(I work for a film locations company. I get a call from a stage director.)

Me: “[Company], how can I help you?”

Director: “Yeah, I’m looking for an old house.”

Me: “Okay! Can you give me a few more specifics? Do you mean run down, or from a certain decade?”

Director: “I need a first-century house.”

Me: “Sorry, did you say first century?”

Director: “Yeah.”

Me: “So, like… a cave?”

Director: “Ugh, no! Umm, okay, have you ever seen Inglourious Basterds?”

Me: “Yes.”

Director: “You know the old house from the opening scene?”

Me: “Yes.”

Director: “I need a house like that.”

Me: “Okay. Now that I have a sense of what you need, I’m sorry to say that we don’t have any properties in our database that look like that. Our houses are more residential.”

Director: “Ugh, seriously? Well, I guess I’ll have to look elsewhere.”

Me: “I’m so sorry we couldn’t help you today, but for your future reference, Inglourious Basterds takes place in Nazi-occupied France in the 1940s, so you’re looking for a house from the 20th century.”

Director: “Thanks.” *hangs up*

(The opening shot, with the house in the background, literally states the setting year is 1941.)

(I start work as a temporary assistant for a non-profit; my main job is to help them prepare for a fundraiser that will be happening in the next week. Within my first day, it is clear that the main boss lady is a huge b****, and she has very clearly been bullying another of the employees. She more or less leaves me alone, other than a snide or frustrating comment here or there, but I’m pretty thick-skinned and I know it’s a temporary position, anyway, so I let most of them go. However, I’m starting to feel uncomfortable because a lot of employees, who I have never met, due to this being a temp job, keep coming to me to complain about the boss. None of this is a good sign, but I soldier on. The day of the fundraiser arrives. I ask them the whole day before if they want me to come help set up, but the boss lady keeps brushing me off. They’re literally walking to their cars when I ask for the final time if they want me to come. Then, this happens:)

Boss: “Oh, yeah, it would be good if you could come and help set up.”

Me: “Okay, cool! Can I have the address for the hotel to put in my GPS?”

Boss: “No, just get in my car.”

Me: “Um… I prefer to drive myself. That way I don’t have to bother you to drive me back to my car when I’ve exceeded my hours; I can just go. Can I have the address, please?”

Boss: *snottily* “Well, are you actually planning to show up?”

Me: “Yes, but I can’t if you won’t give me the address.”

Boss: “Just get in my car! It will be easier that way!”

Me: “No, I’m not getting in your car if you won’t even tell me where we’re going.”

Boss: *snottily, again* “You know, if you want to get paid, you actually have to work.”

Me: “I literally just need the address. I don’t know where the place is, and I prefer to drive myself.”

Boss: “I told you to get in my car!”

Me: “No.”

Boss: “Ugh, fine, you can stay here and enter the donations into [Program], then.”

(I have never heard of this program in my life, and it isn’t in the job description, either.) 

Me: “What’s [Program]?”

Boss: “Are you f****** kidding me? You don’t know [Program]? Fine! Go home, then! Just go home!”

(I’m a little upset at this point, but I turn around and start heading to my car to go home.)

Boss: “Where are you going?!”

(Finally, the boss’s daughter got out of her car and handed me a flyer with the address on it. That’s literally ALL I NEEDED. They drove off. I got in my car and considered actually going home since I really didn’t need to be treated like that, but then figured I needed the money so whatever, I’d help them set up and then go home. I helped them set up, and lo and behold, they were way too busy with the function when it was time for me to go to even say goodbye, so I doubt they would’ve bothered to drive me back to my car if I hadn’t driven myself. I would’ve just been trapped there. The next day, the lady who had been clearly bullied by the boss quit in a rage and stormed out. I called the temp agency and when I explained what happened they pulled me off the job immediately and told me they’d no longer send people there. Good riddance.)