This happened about thirty years ago when our children were toddlers. My husband was an E5 in the Air Force and I was a stay-at-home mom, so money was tight, to say the least. My mother-in-law was coming to visit for the first time since my father-in-law had passed, and we wanted her to have a nice time, so we squeezed the budget relentlessly for months to have some extra funds while she was here.

[Mother-In-Law]’s lifelong friend was a snowbird with a winter place in Port Richey about an hour away, and we invited her to dinner so the “girls” could catch up. Dinner went well, and as beverages were enjoyed, [Friend] crashed on our couch. 

The next morning over breakfast, we made plans to visit Coquina Beach to search for shark teeth. This sounded great to [Friend], and she decided to join us. We covered all expenses, including lunch at a nice restaurant on the pier. By the time we got home, cleaned up, and enjoyed the stew I had left in the crock-pot, we were tired, and [Friend] crashed on our couch.

The next morning over breakfast, we were making plans to go to the Dali Museum in Saint Petersburg. This sounded wonderful to [Friend] so she accompanied us. We covered entry fees and lunch at a nice restaurant.

Rinse and repeat for nine days. [Friend] never offered to buy groceries or pick up a tab. We had worked hard to be prepared for one extra person; having two was devastating our budget. 

On the morning of the ninth day, I asked [Friend] if she thought she would be here for dinner as the roast I had planned was not adequate. [Friend] was furious and offended that I would say such a thing to my mother-in-law’s oldest friend. She stormed out. 

She never spoke to me again.

Customer: “My fabric is cut unevenly!”

I check it and she’s right. Then, I look at the sales receipt and find that she’s bought it as a “remnant”, which is the last piece of fabric on a bolt. That end piece has been cut by the factory and remnants are sold “as is” because they are deeply discounted (to like a dollar). I explain this to the customer, but I also say:

Me: “I have another bolt of the fabric. I can exchange the remnant for a fresh-cut piece?”

Customer: “What is this bait and switch? Are you trying to cover up your fraud?! And what about the cost of the gas I used to bring me back to the store?!”

Customers are lining up. I reach into my purse and hand the customer a dollar.

Me: “Here’s the refund, ma’am.”

The customers in line laughed. With the fact that she was making all this fuss over a dollar suddenly made public, she silently grabbed the dollar and slunk away.

In high school, my band went on a summer trip from our home in Colorado to Calgary, Alberta. At the time, traveler’s cheques were the ideal way to carry large amounts of money on vacation.

Since we’d all bought our traveler’s cheques in Colorado, they were in US funds. Whenever we had to cash in one of our cheques in Canada, the businesses would convert the US dollars to Canadian dollars and then give us the change in Canadian cash. Additionally, if someone had US cash, the businesses would take it and give change in Canadian money. However, they understandably weren’t able to conduct the whole transaction in US currency. They were directed to drop all US cash in a safe, and their managers would take care of getting it exchanged en masse on a weekly basis.

On our way back, we stopped for fast food while we were still in Canada. I only had one traveler’s cheque for money; I’d spent all the Canadian cash I’d accrued over our trip. So, for a $2 hamburger, I got $20-plus in change after cashing in my $20 traveler’s check. “Oh, well,” I thought. “I guess I’ll just have souvenir money.”

Once we crossed the border back into the US (Montana specifically), our buses pulled into a convenience store within sight of the border station. I went in to buy snacks and tried to pay with Canadian cash just as I’d used US cash in Canada.

Clerk: *Looking at me snottily* “We don’t accept that here!”

I guess being an ugly American doesn’t just apply to Americans abroad.

I work in a furniture store. A customer comes up to me.

Customer: “Can I be served by someone who doesn’t earn minimum wage, please?”

Me: “Uh… Well, I am happy to say that everyone working at [Furniture Store] earns above minimum wage, ma’am. How can I help you?”

Customer: “Then I’d like to be served by the sales associate who earns the most.”

Me: “I… don’t think we’re aware of each other’s salaries, ma’am, but I can bring you to our most experienced sales associate? They’ve been here the longest, and they’re a manager.”

Customer: “I suppose that’s fine. I need someone who cares.”

Me: “Ma’am, we all care when it comes to serving our customers.”

Customer: “The more someone gets paid, the more they care. I need to be served by someone who cares.”

I decide not to press the issue, and I bring her to the floor manager. They spend some time going through some sofa options, and as luck would have it, we have the one she wants in stock in our warehouse. I tell her this.

Customer: “That’s fine. I have my pickup, so just get them to load it in that. I’ll pull around.”

Me: “Of course, ma’am. And you’ll be happy to know that our warehouse workers also all earn above minimum wage as a company policy.”

Customer: “Oh, I don’t care about the warehouse people. They can be underpaid illegal immigrants for all I care; all they need to do is load my car.” 

Well… so much for caring.

My husband and I went to a chain restaurant for dinner tonight. As the hostess took us to a table, we passed a server.

Hostess: *To the server* “This will be your last table for the night.”

Server: *Looking frustrated* “I thought I was done. I don’t want another table.”

Hostess: “Just this one.”

Server: “Okay, fine.”

The hostess took us to our table as the server went off in another direction. My husband and I looked at each other, feeling awkward, but as we arrived at the table and took in the scene across the aisle from it, we immediately understood the server’s reluctance.

Across from us, several tables had been pushed together, and spread across them was the aftermath of a baby shower. None of the customers from this party were still there, but based on the number of chairs crowded around the tables and the (high) number of empty margarita and martini glasses left behind, we guessed they’d had fifteen to twenty people there. They’d definitely had children with them, too, as evidenced by the abandoned plastic-lidded cups and the smashed, picked-apart cupcakes.

And these people freakin’ WRECKED this poor server’s section. The floor under and around their tables was covered in junk — food, napkins, a couple of stand-up happy hour menus, decorations, cupcake wrappers, etc. This restaurant doesn’t serve cupcakes, so they must’ve brought their own. Frosting was everywhere.

They also brought their own decorations, some of which got left behind. Their “IT’S A BOY” banner was still strung up between two pillars. They had also decorated with these little styrofoam balls (from pea-sized to slightly smaller than ping-pong balls) painted blue with silver glitter. These things were EVERYWHERE. They were sprinkled across all of their tables, all over the floor for several feet in every direction — my husband even spotted one in my booth seat as we were leaving.

The place was clearly understaffed — particularly for a mess of this magnitude. Two or three servers besides our own kept popping into the section to spend a few minutes making a dent in the mess and then disappearing again to attend to their own guests.

To our own server’s credit, despite her reluctance to take on another table, she was incredibly kind and professional with us, and our meal was great. She was an older woman, and we got the feeling she’d been doing this kind of work for a long time.

At one point, another server came in to start her shift, and she was talking with our server as they approached our section.

Arriving Server: “After all of this, they tipped you five dollars?!“

Our Server: “Yep!”

My friends, I cannot remember the last time I was so livid on behalf of another person. I live in a country where tipping is customary, and for those unfamiliar, in full-service restaurants, you are generally expected to tip a percentage of your bill. That percentage is debated, but the baseline tip is somewhere between 15% and 20%, usually. My husband and I had one appetizer, two entrees, and two non-alcoholic drinks. Our total was $63. Even if all the baby shower group had actually bought was drinks (at happy-hour prices, mind you) to go with their cupcakes, there’s no way five bucks was anywhere near an acceptable tip — even if they’d cleaned up after themselves, and even if they hadn’t been a large party taking up tables in our server’s section for longer than your average table turnover.

I just don’t understand how someone can have that audacity. We’ve been home for a couple of hours and I’m still SO MAD at those people. I hope the next time each one of them puts on a fresh pair of socks, they step in something wet and either ice cold or suspiciously warm.

I checked with some friends later who’d worked for the same chain, and they don’t have automatic gratuity added for large parties. We did leave a $50 tip to hopefully offset some of the frustration of our server’s rough shift.