(A gentleman comes in and wanders around. He is muttering to himself about “junk junk junk,” or something to that effect. Finally, he approaches the counter and I meet him there.)

Customer: “I need to return this, please.”

Me: “For sure. Do you have a receipt?”

Customer: “Yeah, right here.”

(I begin processing his return.)

Me: “As per store policy, I will be able to give you $27 in store credit. Is there anything you’d like to purchase with it today?”

Customer: “Wait, what? I want cash.”

Me: “I’m terribly sorry, but store policy is that all returns are for store credit.”

Customer: “Nobody told me that.”

Me: “It’s on a big sign right here.” *points in front of register* “And on the wall by my head here, and on the bottom of the receipt.”

Customer: “Well, I didn’t know. I wish I’d known.”

Me: “We can put the money on your account if there’s nothing you’d like today, and you can use it any time to make a purchase.”

Customer: “Ugh, no. I don’t need any of this junk.”

Me: “Well… perhaps shopping for a gift for someone else, then?”

Customer: “I never give gifts.”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir. I’m not sure what else I can offer.”

Customer: “I just wish I had known. I’ll just take the credit.”

Me: “Very good, sir. Here’s your receipt. I’m sorry this item didn’t work out for you.”

Customer: “Whatever. You should tell people they can’t return anything when they buy your junk. Just a friendly piece of advice.”

Me: “I… Noted?”

(Our store is a home decor boutique in an extremely wealthy neighborhood, and tends to be very pricey. I definitely can’t afford any of the things we sell, even with my discount. But even some of the wealthier clients complain sometimes about the cost. A customer comes in wearing a fur coat that looks real, and carrying a Prada bag. She’s been taking photos with her latest-gen iPhone.)

Me: “Anything you have questions on? Are you looking for a gift, or to decorate a space?”

Customer: “No, thanks. I’m hosting a big dinner later so I’m just taking some pictures.”

Me: “Okay, well, let me know. I’m a deft hand at centerpieces and vignettes.”

Customer: “Oh, don’t bother. I’m just going to find them on Amazon later.”

(I get the impulse to save, but how rude can you be?)

(After dating a year and a half, my fiancé and I are planning our wedding, or rather I am. My husband mentions he wants to hire some of his friends who run a photography and DJ business. Other than that, he generally says, “Whatever you want, dear.” All my efforts to get him more involved with any other aspects come to naught. I ask him to contact his friend while I do all the other bits. As the wedding date comes closer, I realize he hasn’t contacted his friends; he’d expected me to do that, as well, since I was the one “planning everything.” I freak out a little because it is so close to the wedding and his friends are now booked up. I scramble to find replacements for the photographer and DJ. At this point my husband-to-be catches on to how stressful the planning has been, and the following conversation occurs.)

Fiancé: “You are really stressing out over this, aren’t you? You know you don’t have to do it all on your own.”

(I feel the ball of stress that has been sitting in my chest for the last few weeks loosening a little bit.)

Me: “Thank you, I—“

Fiancé: *continuing his thought* “Just ask my mom for whatever help you need!”

(So close, yet so spectacularly missing the point.)

(Amy Winehouse’s “Rehab” song is playing. A customer is in the store and starts singing and dancing along with the chorus.)

Customer: “I love this song! it’s so fun and catchy!”

Me: “It does have a sort of sass to it. Too bad about the subject, though.”

Customer: “Oh, I think we can all relate. Rebelling against social standards, right? Her parents trying to change her like that — ‘fix her up.;”

(Keep in mind, this is your average, upper-class, white lady, looking into buying a $2000 kitchen table. I pause, not sure what she’s getting at.)

Me: “Well, there is the thought that she might still be with us if she had gone.”

Customer: *stares at me* “It’s a metaphor.”

Me: “It’s… I’m pretty sure it’s not. Amy Winehouse died of a drug overdose.”

Customer: *continues to stare at me, horrified* “Well, if that’s true, nobody told me.”

(Then she left, looking really angry.)

(I work at a dollar store that works with a military charity during certain times of the year. This time it is for a Christmas collection.)

Me: *after ringing last item* “Would you like to purchase a toy to help military families, through [Charity]?”

Customer: “No! If those women couldn’t afford to have kids, they should have kept their legs closed!”

Me: “…”