I’m at work in the shop my mother and I own, and I’m not in a great mood when the phone rings.

Me: “Thanks for calling [Flower Shop]. How can I help you?”

Customer: “Hello. I placed an order this morning, and my friend called to thank me for the flowers you sent. She loves them, but when she sent me a photo, I was not at all happy with what was sent.”

Me: “I’m so sorry about that. What was the issue? We will be happy to exchange them for you.”

Customer: “Oh, I don’t want them exchanged; [Friend] just loves them and I don’t want her to have to deal with that.”

While we are talking, I pull up the order. It is a designer’s choice “send anything” arrangement. There was no specific request for the color or type of flower.

Me: “What exactly was the problem with the flowers?”

Customer: “Well, I ordered a flower arrangement, and all that was delivered were flowers arranged in a vase.”

At a loss for what could be the issue, I hear the sarcastic voice that controls my brain taking over.

Me: “I don’t think I’m the right person to talk to. Let me grab my mom real quick. She took the order and is better suited to.”

I am working a few hours a week in the stock room for a bra company that sells some clothing and accessories. The supervisors and general manager are the embodiment of every stereotypical mean girl in high school movies, other than the fact that they are middle-aged women. I work in the back of the house unloading stock and have not had any issues up until this point, but their last victim walked out mid-shift a few days ago.

I’m in the stock room unloading boxes and putting security tags on items when my supervisor comes up to me.

Supervisor: “Why did you put the pajamas out on the floor like that?”

Me: “I’m not sure which pajamas you’re talking about. I didn’t have any come in today, just bras.”

Supervisor: “No, not today. On your last shift.”

Me: “The wrapped flannel sets?”

Supervisor: “No, the black silk ones.”

Me: “Are you sure that was me? I don’t remember putting out silk pajamas. The flannel ones came in on my last shift, and [Coworker] and I put them out on my last shift a few weeks ago, but I don’t remember any silk ones.”

Supervisor: “It was you. You’re the only one that makes these kinds of mistakes. Why won’t you just admit that you put them out wrong on Friday, so we can once again go over the floor plans?”

Me: “This past Friday? Like four days ago Friday?”

Supervisor: “Yes! Is this ringing a bell now?”

Me: “Well, if that’s the case, it was definitely not me. You called me off last week because we didn’t get much stock in, and before that, I was on vacation. Today is my first shift in over two weeks. I thought we were talking about my last shift before that.”

Supervisor: “Fine. If it wasn’t you like you claim, then who was it?”

Me: “I’m not sure. Like I said, I wasn’t here. You would need to find out who was here and ask them.”

Supervisor: “Why won’t you tell me who did it if it wasn’t you?”

Me: “Because I don’t know. Like I said, I have not been here in eighteen days. I don’t keep track of who is working and doing what when I’m not here.”

Supervisor: “Fine, be that way, but I am very disappointed in your lack of integrity by being unwilling to admit to your mistake or tell me who it was.” 

She walked out while I was left dumbfounded by the stupidity of the conversation.

I worked for another month to save for Christmas. During that time, three other employees quit because of the attitudes of the two supervisors.

About three months after I left, I ran into a former coworker who was still employed there. Apparently, the turnover rate for that store was so high that corporate started calling employees that had quit to find out why. They now have all new managers in that store.

My store has a very strict alcohol policy: no valid ID, no sale. It’s a relatively new policy, so when customers get annoyed, I tell them the truth: Rip van Winkle himself could be in my line and I’d still have to card him.

Enter these two. A husband and wife come through the self-checkout with a bunch of groceries and two kinds of beer.

Me: “Could I see your ID, please?”

Husband: “Sure.”

I take the ID and scan it on the self-checkout machine. It throws up an error message.

Me: “I’m sorry; it looks like it’s expired. Do you have any renewal paperwork with you?”

Husband: “No! When did it expire?”

Wife: “Honey, your birthday was yesterday.”

People will occasionally come in with voided IDs, but if they have the ID and renewal paperwork with them, I’ll usually let it slide and enter the birthdate manually. Since he clearly has no valid ID or the paperwork to prove he’s in limbo, I switch tactics.

Me: “Miss, do you have your ID?”

Wife: “Oh… I left it in the car.”

In the end, I had to confiscate their beer while the husband muttered about being fifty-two years old.

I’m a self-checkout attendant in a grocery store. I can’t tell you how often this happens.

Customer: *Flagging me down* “Ma’am? Miss?”

Me: “Hello! Do you need any help?”

Customer: “It said to take my card out and I’m ready to pay, but nothing’s happening!”

I reach towards the screen and hit the big, glowing, animated PAY button, and the machine immediately starts to process the payment.

Customer: “…”

Me: “Do you need any more help today?”

Customer: *Sheepish* “No, I’m okay. Thank you.”

Sometimes I’ll give a short spiel about how many people make that mistake and how the register and card reader don’t communicate until they hit the pay button to try to make them feel better, but sometimes I don’t have time. It’s always a little funny to see their mild embarrassment.

A local grocery store has been having trouble with cart thefts. They bought a new cart-lock system that automatically locks the tires of the carts if the carts get too far from the store.

They didn’t tell any of the customers, though. I was one of those customers.

You know how you can stand on the bottom platform of a cart and hold onto the handlebars while someone else pushes the cart?

My daughter was standing on the cart like that, and I was pushing it. We were inside the store, but the tires abruptly locked. My daughter was thrown into the basket, and I went a**e-over-tea-kettle face first into the basket myself.

Both of us were mostly fine! We did go to the doctor, and my daughter was unharmed, whereas I picked up a scratch on my cheek that needed three stitches.

The employees then told me about the locking wheel system. They didn’t know why, but at that part of the store, carts have been regularly and unexpectedly locking… and the way the system is set up, they don’t unlock easily. The employees have to bring them to a back room to unlock them.

They’re hoping my accident — and the resulting payout by the store’s insurance — will convince the owner to scrap the cart-locking program, because it’s apparently very inconvenient.