(My mom has anxiety issues when it comes to things going according to plan, and she loses perspective on the feelings of others and becomes incredibly inflexible. I am 21. I moved out over three years ago, but I rejoin my family for a Christmas trip to visit family in Oregon. I am experiencing increasing mobility issues that I later find out to be a minor form of Muscular Dystrophy, so I have started walking with a cane sometimes and I am not able to run very well by this time. After our visit and celebration are over, we go to the airport to catch our flight back to California. It is late Christmas day, so the airport is not that crowded, but my mom is rushing us with great urgency through the airport despite the fact that we have several hours until our flight.)

Mom: “Come on, come on. Walk faster. We have to hurry up!”

Me: “Seriously? Our flight doesn’t leave until 5:50. Let’s stop and have lunch; all the good restaurants are outside the security gate.”

Mom: “No, no, no! We have to go now! It takes hours to get through the x-ray line.”

Me: “No, it doesn’t! With Dad’s metal plate and my cane, we get priority screening; we’ll be done in five minutes.”

(This is very true, and it never takes me very long to get through airport lines because of my disability. We had an easy time leaving California despite the huge crowds of holiday travelers. It’s also true that every time my parents fly out together, they don’t have to wait in the line because of the plate in my dad’s leg.)

Mom: *sees me lagging behind the three of them and gets more anxious* “Walk faster! Why are you slowing down?”

Me: “I’m walking with a cane and you’re surprised that I’m not fast?”

(What isn’t a surprise is how fast we get through the security screening. That does not seem to put her at ease, though. She continues urging us to move at a near-running pace with me hobbling as fast as I can while trying not to trip and fall. We don’t get a chance to rest until we reach our gate.)

Me: *looks at watch* “Whew! We made it with only four hours and thirty-seven minutes to spare. We would never have made it without you keeping us organized, Mom. Woo-hoo!”

Related:
The Mother Of All Anxieties

(I work as a receptionist in the first floor of city hall.)

Me: “Hello, how may I help you?”

Customer: “I want to renew my passport.”

Me: “Okay, no problem. Do you have the application and is it filled out in black ink?”

Customer: “Yes.”

Me: “Do you have your old passport?”

Customer: “Yes.”

Me: “Do you have checks or money orders?”

(The customer starts to doubt himself and pulls everything out while saying “yes, yes yes, I have everything.” He places all the documents in front of me and starts looking through his stuff. As he is flipping, I notice his documents in blue ink.)

Me: *reaching for his application* “Can I look at your application, I want to make sure it’s in black ink and not blue.”

(I check it.)

Me: “Sir, you are going to have to do it again because it’s in blue ink, and is supposed to be black.”

Customer: “Where does it say that?”

Me: *I point to the top of the page* “Right there.”

(The customer mumbles and shakes his head.)

Me: “Do you want and pen and a clipboard?”

Customer: *with attitude* “Not unless you want me to do it in front of you.”

Me: *handing him a pen and clipboard* “Here you go.”

Customer: *takes pen and gives me back the clipboard* “I don’t need that.” *he starts to fill out the application in front of me, while annoyingly starts making weird huffing noises*

Me: “Hi, [Regular]! Are you finding things okay?”

Regular: “No! Where is that bread I like? You’re always moving things around. I’m an old lady. I shouldn’t have to look for things. You people should do more to help the elderly.”

Me: “I would be happy to help you look. Remind me which bread you like?”

Regular: “You know which one. It’s the one with the man on it!”

(I look at the bread section and see two different brands with a man on the package. I pick one and ask her of this is the one.)

Regular: “No! I hate that man! Don’t even show him to me!”

(It is a cartoon-like drawing of a happy baker. The other brand also has a drawing of a baker.)

Me: “Wow, I’m sorry. The only other bread we have with a man on the package is this other one. Is this the bread you were looking for?”

Regular: “No! I hate that man, too! They are all criminals who don’t know about bread!”

Me: “Okay. Well, these are the only two kinds of bread we carry that have men on the package.”

Regular: *angrily* “I know you. I know your type. You Greeks are always trying to rip me off. You look me in the eye when you are lying to me!”

(Yup. You got me, lady. I am the one who hides bread with cartoon drawings of bakers on the package from old ladies. Busted!)

(We have a regular who comes into our thrift store once every couple of weeks to look at our wares, make lots of loud noises about the things she wants, and then react, loudly, in horror at the prices. She has been caught switching tags in the past. Why she has not been banned yet is unknown. As such, she is not exactly beloved within our store.)

Customer: “Oh, I like that item. And that one. And that one. Please take that out of the case so I can look at it. That’s awesome; I really want that. Wait, it’s $70?!”

(I didn’t price the item, but I do know enough about the way we handle prices to know that getting it for that price is an absolute steal.)

Customer: “You know, I just came from the doctor’s, and we got a test done, and I might have cancer.”

Me: “Yikes. That’s a bummer.”

(While cancer is serious business, the timing of her mentioning this is suspicious. She wants a thing. Thing is expensive. Now she might have cancer. Hmm…)

Customer: “They’re going to do some more tests to confirm it, but I need to do something nice for myself to keep from flipping out about it, and my family’s not being supportive right now so I’m shopping for myself only, and they don’t deserve anything tonight.”

Me: “Okay.”

Customer: “Are you sure there’s no wiggle room on that item? Because I really like it, but I don’t know. It’s not awesome enough to pay that much for it.”

Me: “Sorry, but that’s the price we’re selling it for. We don’t further lower prices on things until they’ve been sitting around for over 30 days.”

Customer: “Are you sure you can’t discount it to like, $20? Even though I might have cancer?”

Me: “Unfortunately, that doesn’t change the answer, ma’am.”

Customer: “My God, you are so heartless!”

Me: *fed up with her tactics and going full-on sarcastic* “That’s right, ma’am! I totally am! I’m a raging monster!”

(My supervisor and coworker are just around the corner, and they’re making muffled choking noises.)

Customer: “I totally believe it! You won’t even discount for somebody who may be dying of cancer!”

Me: “Ma’am, our thrift store exists to give money to [Local Charity]. Even if I was allowed to discount someone else’s department, it would be taking money from [Charity Focus]. Maybe you should just save the $50 difference for the treatment of your possible cancer.”

(I have been making announcements that the store is preparing to close for the night at the 30-, 15-, 10-, and 5-minute marks. Finally, I announce that we are fully closed and to please bring all purchases to the front. The woman is the only one left. She putters around for five more minutes before coming up to the registers. She tries to haggle on multiple items, says, “I know that!” when we tell her repeatedly that we do not haggle, and then tries to haggle some more. My supervisor finally tells her to make her choices, pay, and leave, as we are closed and she needs to get out. She tries to give my supervisor the puppy eyes and says:)

Customer: “Look, I really want that item, but not at that price. If you can discount it to what I’m offering, I can make a huge profit on it in my online business.”

(Bingo. That’s why she wants the discount. She is willing to cheat a charity to make personal profit.)

Customer: *continuing* “Then, I would have lots of money for my cancer treatment.”

(She was refused again, and she finally walked outside, huffing and puffing and complaining loudly about how heartless we were. Naturally, she left a pile of stuff for us to clean up. The item? The very next day, someone saw it and paid the money without batting an eye. As for the woman? She came in a few weeks later, the picture of perfect health, and never mentioned cancer again.)

This story is part of our Hagglers roundup.

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(I am sixteen and working a summer job as a hostess at a local high-end restaurant. It’s a busy evening and I’m helping one of the waitresses carry food out to a table. My arms are full and one of the plates has a ramekin of sauce on the edge. As I’m walking through the restaurant, the sauce slips off the edge of the plate and lands on the floor. I’m not immediately concerned since it is at least five feet away from the nearest table. I deliver the food and walk back to clean up the sauce when a lady in her 30s sitting with her son and about eight of her friends begins to scream at me.)

Customer: “YOU GOT SAUCE ALL OVER ME!”

(A very small amount of the sauce splattered onto her shirt when it fell, even though it was a good distance away.)

Me: “Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am! It was an accide–”

(She rips open her purse.)

Customer: “Is there any in my purse?! It’s all over the chair and table! I’m never going to be able to get this out of my shirt!”

(I’m apologizing profusely and offer to help her clean up, but she storms off to the bathroom and comes back a couple of minutes later.)

Customer: “I was right! My shirt is ruined! Thanks a lot!”

(She then storms out of the restaurant, leaving her son and her friends alone, only to come back fifteen minutes later in an entirely new outfit, right down to her hat. I have to go on break to calm down because I am very upset and crying at this point. Later…)

Manager: “Hey, [My Name]! Come here!”

Me: “What’s up?”

Manager: “That lady who came in here earlier and yelled at you for getting sauce on her demanded that the restaurant buy her an entire new outfit.”

Me: “Really?”

Manager: “Yeah. I talked to her and she said that all she wanted was an apology.”

Me: “The first thing I said was, ‘I’m sorry.’”

Manager: “Oh. Well, all right, then.”

(I haven’t seen the woman, her son, or any of her friends since.)