I’m twenty-three, and I’m currently a production assistant (PA) for a TV show. This means that I do everything asked of me, and a lot of times, that means grocery shopping for the office.

I’m an office PA, so I dress a tiny bit nicer than if I was running around on set. Today’s outfit is a collared button-down, jeans, an old Star Wars pullover sweater because it is chilly, and a lanyard with my lot badge around my neck. My boss sends me to a grocery store and hands me a list of hyper-specific salads, wraps, and other goodies for the office staff to eat.

Boss: “The salads with later expiration dates are way in the back; make sure you grab those.”

Like a good PA, I nod and dash out to my car to head to [Grocery Store].

Once in the store, I pop in my earbuds to listen to a podcast while shopping and start hunting for these hyper-specific items. I have a list in my hand, I am crouched down, and I am sticking my arm way back under the shelves to grab the salads with the further-out expiration dates when a nice lady approaches me and asks if I work there.

Me: “No, sorry.”

Lady #1: *Politely* “Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure, but it kind of looked like you were stocking and moving things around.”

Me: “No worries!”

She heads on her way.

A couple of seconds later, as I’m loading Extremely Specific Salads with Extremely Specific Dates on them into my cart, an older confused gentleman approaches and asks if I know where some greens are.

Me: “No, sorry. I don’t work here.”

Gentleman: “Oh, I thought you just helped her.”

The nice lady is still nearby and jumps to help both of us.

Lady #1: “Nope! I asked him if he worked here; he doesn’t.”

The gentleman looks like he doesn’t believe me and looks at my cart.

Me: “I’m a PA on a nearby studio lot, and I’m just shopping for work.”

He seems to finally understand, but then he turns to the nice lady to ask her if she knows where his greens are.

I laugh and continue on my way, earbuds in my ears, when I hear over the din of my podcast:

Lady #2: “HEY! YOU! EXCUSE ME!”

I look up from my shopping list.

Lady #2: “Where’re the eggrolls?”

No “hello,” no “do you work here?” Nothing. Just pure entitlement.

Me: “I don’t work here.”

Lady #2: “Yes, you do! I just saw you help those people.”

Me: “Nope, they also asked if I work here, and I told them no.”

Lady #2: “You look like you work here. Where’re the eggrolls?”

She is blocking my cart at this point.

Me: “I don’t work here, so I don’t know. Sorry.”

I don’t know if this woman doesn’t believe me, isn’t listening, or just straight-up wants to waste my and her time, but she once again asks me about her gosh dang eggrolls, and the “I don’t know” exchange repeats.

Finally, she starts getting mad. I think she is going to ask for my manager, but instead, she literally STOMPS her foot.

Lady #2: “Why do you look like you work here if you don’t work here?! You’re wearing a badge!”

I want to ask, “What about a ‘Star Wars’ hoodie, ‘Critical Role’ lanyard, and a WORK BADGE FOR THE TV STUDIO DOWN THE STREET scream, ‘I work at [Grocery Store]?’” but I don’t. I am too dumbfounded.

Me: “I’m a PA… I am working… but not here.”

Finally, an employee comes down the aisle and she sets her sights on him.

Lady #2: “DO YOU WORK HERE?”

…she asks the guy wearing a [Grocery Store] tee shirt, pushing a backroom stock cart of boxes, and wearing a name tag. He nods and the lady once again points at me.

Lady #2: “You shouldn’t let people in here who look like they work here if they don’t work here!”

This poor employee and I shared the pained, dead-inside look of two people who have to work with the public. I hope my look came across as apologetic as I felt, but I used this chance to escape and finish up my shopping as quickly as I could.

In my line of work, I’m no stranger to very dumb questions and being yelled at, but entitled jerks like this make me want to tuck tail and run.

I missed a few items off the shopping list and will probably be sent back to [Grocery Store] before this work day is done, but I’ll be sure to Not Look Like I Work There for any future visits.

[Lady #2], wherever you are, I hope you never found your eggrolls.

About twenty or so years ago, my sister had just finished high school. Before deciding on uni or whatever, she took a year off to do what is known as a gap year. She was traveling around the UK, doing various temping jobs, when she landed herself a gig doing security for a celebrity golf tournament in an old university city called Saint Andrews.

She was a poor backpacker, and she had discovered that many of the local supermarkets would mark down a lot of their fresh foods near closing.

After a particularly long shift, she was cutting it close to closing time at the local supermarket, so she was frantically rushing around trying to put together a decent meal from their specials. My carb-loving sister had a hankering for fresh pasta, but she couldn’t find it anywhere!

Luckily, out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement, and given that the store was nearly empty, she just assumed it was a worker coming to hurry her out.

As she turned, she blurted:

Sister: “I’m sorry, can you tell me where the cheap fresh pasta is?”

To her horror, it was not a worker.

It was Prince William.

His mates rounded the corner to enter the aisle just in time to hear the encounter and make it heartily awkward for my now mortified sister, who beat a hasty exit.

You may think it ends like this. Oh, no. To my sister’s embarrassment, it got worse.

The next day, she was on shift manning the VIP tent at work, and who should come along but Prince William and his entourage? There was no hope that they wouldn’t recognise her; her friend at the tent entrance made sure to radio her.

Friend: “Stupid [Supermarket] pasta chick! VIP incoming!”

Of course, on hearing that, they all knew her immediately! And so resulted another embarrassing moment for my sister — and a hilarious story for all of us!

I’m a sixty-five-year-old male with a full, white beard and a well-earned beer gut. Just after Thanksgiving, I am shopping at a fairly nice mall-anchoring department store. Now, to be fair to the woman in this story, I am wearing a bright red hoodie — but with old, nicely broken-in jeans and gray hiking boots. It is absolutely nothing like the business casual attire of the store employees — also nowhere near a full Santa suit. (I know; I’ve got one.)

I am browsing the kid’s clothing, trying to find something cute for one of my granddaughters, when I hear, “EXCUSE ME!” at a fairly high volume from somewhere behind me. Naturally, I ignore it, although I say a quick prayer for whatever luckless individual it is actually directed at.

Silly me. The next thing to break my shopping focus is a painfully forceful three-fingered blow to my shoulder, hard enough to make me take an extra half-step for balance.

I whip around to face my assailant, stepping back to open up space, my left hand coming up with fist clenched. This startles a squawk from this woman with an elementary-age-looking child in tow. She takes a half-step back and I relax a bit. We eye each other for a half-second or so in silence, and I recover first.

Me: “What is wrong with you? Why did you hit me?”

She is very contrite, mumbles an apology, and flees.

Just kidding!

Woman: *Screeching* “I did no such thing! And if you weren’t ignoring customers, I wouldn’t have had to!”

Me: “I don’t wo—”

Woman: “Now, take me to your village or whatever! My niece wants her picture with you!”

Me: “Wha…?”

I think my brain locked for a second trying to make sense of this nonsensical topic shift.

Woman: “You know, where you take pictures of kids!”

Me: “Lady, I’m not a photographer.”

I’m totally confused now.

Woman: “Of course not! The kids sit on you and get their picture taken! What kind of Santa are you?”

My brain gears finally start meshing and I remember the color of my sweatshirt.

Me: “Ma’am, I’m not Santa. I’m a shopper just like you.”

Puzzlement finally replaced entitled wrath on her face.

Woman: “Well, well… then you shouldn’t dress like one! You’re just a… a… tease!”

Me: *Shaking my head* “So, I shouldn’t wear jeans?”

The woman stalked away without another word.

I am a freelancer on a platform that connects freelancers with companies that need their services. I’ve always wanted to use this joke, and after an hour of aimless questions without any contract offered, I decided that this day had come.

Client: “I have a question. Can I use [Other Platform] for translating my dataset from English to Arabic?”

Me: “I guess so.”

Client: “How?”

Me: “Are you asking for a consultation or for advice? The difference is that a consultation is for money while advice is for free.”

Client: “Just advice.”

Me: “My advice: take a consultation.”

I work at a pizza place. It’s a super busy Saturday night, but we are holding our own. A delivery comes up, so I run it out.

I get to the woman’s house about twenty-five minutes after she ordered, and she is UPSET!

Customer: “I was quoted forty-five minutes for delivery!”

Me: “That’s the approximate window.”

Customer: “You’ve ruined my evening! I planned for forty-five minutes!”

She’s all mad at me, and she goes on and on. I’m standing in the rain and snow while she’s complaining. Finally, I cut her off.

Me: “Ma’am, if you’re unhappy, call the store and tell the general manager.”

Customer: “Fine. But I’m not about to tip you when you can’t control your service!”

And she slammed the door in my face.

Thanks, you old hag. Next time, I’ll forget to close the bag flap so you can have cold early pizza.