(A coworker and I are working the registers during an early afternoon shift at our store. We are both busy ringing out customers at our respective registers, when an elderly gentleman, looking highly confused, approaches my coworker with two younger girls. Keep in mind that I am currently handing my customer her change for the transaction and her receipt, and my coworker is scanning items for her customer. There is also a sign above the registers that says “Check Out Here.” This is all in plain view of the elderly man.)

Elderly Customer: “Is this a register?”

Younger Girls: “YES, IT IS A REGISTER!”

Elderly Customer: “Are you sure?”

Coworker: “Yes, sir, this is a register. Either I or [My Name] could help ring you out in one moment.”

Elderly Customer: “But are you sure? All you are doing is folding clothes. Can you ring me out here?”

Coworker: “Yes, sir, I can ring you out now.”

Elderly Customer: “But you can ring me out here?”

Coworker: *clearly getting annoyed* “Yes, I am free to help ring you out right HERE.”

Elderly Customer: “Okay, but this is really a register? You looked busy folding those clothes, I assumed you were putting them away. I’m so happy you can accommodate me and ring me out here. It would be too hard finding the actual registers!”

(All the while, one of our supervisors overhears the conversation and walks over to me.)

Supervisor: *whispers* “Because clearly the area marked ‘Check Out Here’ is not a register! We should have told him these were the dressing rooms!”

(I work in a bath and body store that’s very well-known for being extremely environmentally friendly and super ethical. Because of this, customers are always trying to “catch” us doing or selling something that goes against our company values. One day a middle-aged woman comes in and the following happens:)

Me: “Hey there! How’s it—”

Customer: “How dare you call yourselves all-natural., I mean look at all of these awful ingredients!”

Me: “Well, we actually don’t claim to be completely—”

Customer: “I mean, I can’t even pronounce half of these disgusting chemicals! You should be ashamed!”

Me: “Which ingredients exactly are you refer—”

Customer: “Look at this garbage! Sodium bicarbonate?! Do you even know what that is? It probably burns your skin off!”

Me: “It’s baking soda.”

(The woman freezes at that point, clearly unsure of how to proceed, but obviously not quite ready to let it go.)

Customer: “Well… and look at this!” *picks up one of our packing peanuts, which are not Styrofoam but in fact food grade* “How long do you think these will sit in the landfill for?”

Me: “About thirty seconds.”

Customer: “You’re clearly completely uneducated.”

Me: “They’re made of corn.”

Customer: “I highly doubt that. I can’t believe a company that claims to be so environmentally—”

(She trails off as I grab a handful of packing peanuts and dunk them in a bowl of water sitting on the display table next to me. The peanuts melt into mush and I pull my hand back out covered in orange goo.)

Customer: “Well, you just have an answer for everything, don’t you?!”

(She stormed out of the store and in her haste almost took out an entire display table.)

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(I am on my way to use the restroom. The path takes me through our clothing department, where two women are looking through the racks. As I draw closer, one of them turns and shouts.)

Customer: “Jesus Christ! FINALLY, a person!”

Me: *startled* “Hello! How may I help you today?”

Customer: “I HAVE MS AND JUST POOPED MY PANTS!”

(Her tone was not that of someone in panic because she’d just had an accident, but more of pure, unbridled rage that I somehow hadn’t correctly guessed what was happening on my own.)

Customer: “OH, MY F****** GOD, DID YOU NOT HEAR ME? ARE YOU JUST GOING TO STAND THERE STARING AT ME? I HAVE MS AND JUST POOPED IN MY PANTS!”

Me: *completely unsure of what she wanted me to do about it* “I’m sorry, ma’am, there’s a restroom right over here where you can clean—”

Customer: “YOU’RE SO INCOMPETENT! I NEED NEW CLOTHES RIGHT NOW!”

Me: “Ma’am, what size do you wear? I can get you a change of clothes while you use the restr—”

Customer: “OH, MY GOD, ARE YOU JOKING? I HAVE A MESS IN MY PANTS AND YOU—” *shakes her head and flails her hands in the air like I’m the dumbest person she has ever encountered*

(Meanwhile her companion quietly wanders away, unwilling to calm her down or help with the situation.)

Me: “Ma’am, I’m just trying to help you.”

Customer: “F****** FINE! GET ME SOME SHORTS!”

(I go to the nearest rack of shorts and grab a pair that I guess are close to her size.)

Customer: “ARE YOU F****** KIDDING ME? SERIOUSLY? I WOULDN’T BE CAUGHT DEAD IN THOSE!”

(She rolled her eyes, turned, and trailing obscenities stormed out the door while shaking her head and waving her arms around. Apparently one should be concerned with fashion first, regardless of the situation.)

(I’ve just finished checking out a customer with the same first name as me. As I have a ridiculously common first name, this is a normal occurrence. I am named after the main character my mother’s favorite book growing up.)

Me: *as the customer leaves* “My mother’s favorite book couldn’t have been Little Women, or something.”

(My boss, who happens to be walking by, chuckles.)

Me: “I guess it could be worse. Her favorite book could’ve been Jane Eyre.”

Boss: “It’s could’ve been War and Peace.”

Me: “There’s a female main character in War and Peace?”

(I have worked for the same company for over five years, having transferred when I moved for university. Now that university is almost over I have found a full-time job that I start next month. My manager is aware that I am leaving, but I have not yet handed in my notice.)

Manager: “Hey, could you work 12-5 on Wednesday?”

Me: “Sorry, I can’t I have a lot of work to be doing before my course finishes.”

Manager: “Okay, I’ll sort something else out. [Coworker], you’re already in that day but you could probably do a longer shift?”

Coworker: “Yeah, if you can’t get anything else.”

(Fast forward to Wednesday and I’m at home working on my final film for hand-in next week when my phone rings at 12:05 pm. My manager is currently off.)

Supervisor: “Hey, [My Name], where are you?”

Me: “What do you mean? I’m at home doing uni work.”

Supervisor: “Well, you were meant to start work at 12.”

Me: “No, I wasn’t.”

Supervisor: “It’s on the rota, that you signed to confirm you know your working hours.”

(Deciding it’ll be easier to go in and speak to them as I live around the corner.)

Me: “Hold on, I’ll come in.”

(As I get into work I go to the staff room to look at the rota. Indeed, I have been put in for this shift, but after I had signed my working hours and told my manager I couldn’t do it. The addition is in my manager’s handwriting. My coworker is in the staff room sorting delivery.)

Coworker: “Hey, what you doing here? I thought you said you couldn’t come in?”

(And that’s the story about how my manager got my notice a week earlier than planned.)