(I’ve always had a weight problem. I have a history of diabetes type 1 and 2 in the family and I often flirt between normal and pre-diabetic. As a result, I try to keep my weight down, but it isn’t easy, particularly belly weight which is the worst for diabetics. I take up running, and at first, I lose a lot of weight. Then, I rebound and my weight is higher than ever. I’m still running and mixing in different exercises to try to regain control. I often run through a local park. The neighborhood is rather diverse, but there is a large population of people of a particular nationality that wear traditional garb. The men congregate at the benches, and one day they flag me down.)

Man #1: “We noticed that you are out here a lot.”

Me: “Yeah, I’m trying to lose some weight.”

Man #1: “You are overweight.”

Me: *laughs nervously*

(I jog away, chalking it up to cultural differences. But yeah, that’s why I’m out here! I’m out there again on a different day, and I run into a different guy at the same park. He is on a bike and he stops me.)

Man #2: “You are always out here!”

Me: “Yeah.”

Man #2: “How far?”

Me: “Oh, three or four miles today.”

Man #2: *nods like that’s good* “How old are you?”

(Odd question, but okay.)

Me: “Thirty-three.”

Man #2: “You have babies?”

Me: “Nope, just a cat.”

Man #2: “No husband?”

Me: *starting to wonder* “No?”

Man #2: *nods again and pedals away*

(I think this is weird, and now I’m wondering if I’m being set up. This last encounter happens at the same park but on a different day with a different guy.)

Man #3: “You losing weight?”

Me: “A little bit, but not as much as I’d like to.”

Man #3: “You need to lose more.”

(Maybe I should stop running through the park.)

(I’m at a home improvement store to return some paint after deciding the color didn’t look right. I get in line behind an older man with a cart full of paint. He has four one-gallon cans and one quart can. I have no idea why he is in the return line, as colored paint is non-returnable. The clerk calls for the next person and it is his turn. He tells the clerk that one of the one-gallon cans is empty and only there as a color match — odd because you really only need the lid. She begins to ring up his items for sale when he tells her he’s a veteran.)

Clerk: “Okay, I’ll need your service photo ID.”

Customer: *starts fumbling through his wallet* “I don’t have it with me. But I have…”

(He empties his wallet of all kinds of cards onto the return desk, none of which are the requested ID.)

Clerk: “I’m sorry, sir, but I have to have the photo ID. It is our policy so I can apply the discount.”

Customer: “I have this card, this card, this card…”

Clerk: “Sir, it has to be their photo ID.”

Customer: *still pushing other cards at her*

Clerk: “Sir, if you want me to apply the 5% discount, I have to see your service card with a photo ID.”

Customer: *now getting agitated, begins to make exaggerated gestures to the regular checkouts on the other end of the store* “Well, they applied it last time and I didn’t have it.”

Clerk: “Whoever it was shouldn’t have.”

Customer: “Ma’am, I’m a veteran. I served my country. I did my time. Why would I lie about my service? I served my country.”

(This sounds like a scam. I want to say, “Why would you lie about being a veteran? Oh, I don’t know… maybe for a 5% discount?”)

Clerk: “I can’t apply the discount without the ID.”

Customer: *goes into a full, loud rant and throws his credit card at her, accepting that he’ll have to pay the full price* “This is disgraceful! Disgraceful. I’m going to call in a complaint. I will.”

Clerk: “Certainly, sir. Please sign here.”

Customer: “Disgraceful. I’m going to complain about you!”

Clerk: “Okay, sir.” *directs her attention to the line that has grown behind me* “Next.”

(I state my transaction while he is leaving. Once he’s gone:)

Me: “Did you want me to put a call in to counter his complaint?”

Clerk: *laughs* “No, it’s all right.”

(I did, anyway. It was probably an empty threat, but I didn’t want her to get in trouble for upholding policy.)

(I’m a manager at a new pizza franchise in town. On a busy afternoon, we’re sending out every delivery driver we have and trying to call more of them in to handle the workload. During the rush, an employee tells me that a customer on the phone has demanded to speak to a manager.)

Me: “Hello, sorry for the wait. What seems to be the trouble?”

Customer: “MY PIZZA HAD SAUSAGE ON IT!”

Me: “Oh? Can I get your name so I can pull up the order?”

Customer: “It’s [Customer]. We didn’t order sausage; we’re vegan!”

Me: *pulling up the info* “Oh, no! That’s terrible. Let me just see what you ordered, and if you like, I can have a new pizza out to you shortly. Our policy states that you’d just need to hand over the erroneous pizza when the delivery driver gets there.”

Customer: “Well, we ate the whole thing! How am I supposed to return it now?!”

Me: “You ate the…”

(I’m wondering why they’d have eaten an entire large pizza if it was topped with meat that they couldn’t have, when I see the woman’s order in our system. She had specifically asked for sausage as a topping.)

Me: “Well, ma’am, our system indicates that you ordered sausage as one of your toppings. Is it possible the cashier misheard your order?”

Customer: “No… I ordered sausage.”

Me: “I see. Well, ma’am, if you ordered sausage, and ate the whole pizza, I’m afraid I can’t refund your money or give you a free pizza. I can make a note that you’re to get 10% off your next order, if you like, but unfortunately that’s the most I can do.”

Customer: “What?! But it was meat! We can’t have meat!”

Me: “I understand that, but you ordered the sausage AND ate the whole pizza.”

Customer: “Because we were hungry!”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but there isn’t anything more I can do for you. You’re welcome to speak to the business owner, though. He’ll be here [Date and Time] if you’d like to file a complaint.”

Customer: “FINE!” *disconnects*

(The boss ended up giving the customer a $5 off coupon instead of the 10% off option I offered, but that’s it. I’m still not sure what the customer expected when she ordered a mushroom and sausage pizza…)

(Many of the associates in my store have learned that it’s easier to clip our walkie-talkies to our back pockets instead of a front pocket or our belts. It prevents us from constantly whacking the walkies with our arms, hitting it against displays, and so on. One day, a customer sees my walkie clipped onto my back pocket. I’m an overweight female.)

Customer: *insultingly* “I’m surprised your radio doesn’t break when you sit on it.”

Me: “HA! I wish I had the chance to sit down around here! I’ve been here for six hours now and haven’t had a chance to sit down once.”

(In a store with too few employees, we were always SO busy that many of us are forced to skip breaks and only take the barest of lunches on every shift. Ignoring the way this man is commenting on my weight AND has to have been looking at my butt while I work, I try to be civil.)

Me: “And when I do finally get a break, I take this thing off.”

Customer: “Oh.”

(His wife smacked him on the arm, and they paid for their copies and left without another word. I hope she gave him a talking to when they were on their way home!)

(It’s the back-to-school season at the office supply store where I work. I’m working in the print shop when I see a customer come in and spend a few minutes looking at our display of three-ring binders on a table by the entrance. The binders are offered in trendy colors and patterns, and occasionally have popular memes or emojis on them, so I assume the customer is trying to decide which one she wants. Then, one by one, she takes the binders off the little wooden display stand that’s keeping them from falling over, picks up the display itself, and brings it to my counter.)

Customer: “I want to buy this.”

Me: “Unfortunately, ma’am, we don’t sell those here in the store. They’re part of our display.”

Customer: “Well, sell me this one and buy another!”

Me: “Ma’am, even if I had the ability to arbitrarily key something into my register to sell this to you, I can’t just get another one. These are shipped to the store from our corporate office and sometimes take longer than six weeks to reach us due to back-ordering.”

Customer: “But it was on your table! That means it’s a product and you have to sell it to me!”

Me: “Again, ma’am, I can’t sell that item to you. If you’d like, I can take you over to our desk accessories aisle and see if there’s something similar that will work for you?”

Customer: “NO! I don’t see what’s so difficult about selling this to me!”

Me: “I’d sell it to you if I could, ma’am, but it’s not for sale, and I don’t have a way to process a transaction for it through the register. And I’d get into trouble or fired for taking your cash without a legitimate sale.”

(The customer shoved the item across the counter and stormed off to do the rest of her shopping, and I had to go and reset the entire display table. Thanks, lady!)