One time in my teens, I thought I could sing a tune or two. Also, for better or worse, our family is quite wealthy.

Me: “I’m going to apply for America’s Got Talent.”

Mom: “You’ll never get on that show.”

Me: “Why? You said I have a good voice.”

Mom: “You do, but all the winners of that show have that sad backstory. Your life has been all fun and rainbows. You’d be boring.”

Me: “Ugh! You’re right. Why can’t you be like, an immigrant single mom who escaped with me as a baby from war, and worked hard so that I could live the American dream?”

Mom: “If you need to, tell them how when you were nine, your pony died, and you had to go through a whole season riding a loaner pony until your parents got you a new pony for your tenth birthday. Now that was some trauma.”

I chose wisely and did not apply.

Our manager is talking to a fellow waitstaff coworker:

Manager: “We need to talk about how you handle certain customers.”

Coworker: “I haven’t got any complaints, have I?”

Manager: “Well, no, but you know what I mean. You have to treat them with respect, even if they… uh… ask strange questions.”

Coworker: “Are you talking about when they asked me what kind of dressing comes on the Caesar salad? Because I was very polite.”

Manager: “Yes, but you told them it was ranch.”

A customer has asked me to look up something related to her customer account.

Me: “Sure, I can look that up for you. Do you have any photo ID?”

Customer: “No, why does it matter?”

Me: “Privacy. I can’t give out that info to just anyone.”

Customer: “This is my daughter, she’s seven.” *Points to the little girl beside her.* “She will tell you who I am.”

Me: “Yes, we take Driver’s Licenses, Passports, and the word of seven-year-old girls as forms of valid photo ID.”

What made it worse was that the woman HAD her ID on her, but she felt it was easier to go through whatever the h*** this was…

My manager walks over, suppressing a smile. We’ve known each other so long that our conversations are about 99% sarcasm at this point:

Manager: “Okay, so I just spoke to the ultra-religious woman who just walked out with her husband?”

Me: “The one wearing the cross you could see from space? The one that stares daggers at me every time she comes in?”

Manager: “That’s the one. She complained about you and your “low cut top”.”

He did the air quotes.

Me: “I’m wearing a simple V-neck t-shirt.”

Manager: “I know. She said you were trying to seduce her husband, and if she still sees you working here next week, she’ll never bring her husband in here ever again.”

Me: “Oh, gee. So I guess in order to create a safe shopping environment for the bored-looking sixty-year-old dude who is so bored every time he comes here, he sleeps on the display couch, you’re gonna have to let me go, right?”

Manager: “Yeah, sorry. Good luck out there. Might want to cover those ankles and wrists on the bus home. Might send some old husbands wild.”

I’m stacking beer. There are four stacks of beer beside me, each six feet high. A customer walks up to me:

Customer: “Do you sell beer?”

Me: “Nope. This beer is just to show what it would look like if we did sell beer, but we actually do not.”

Customer: “Ah, bummer.” *Leaves.*

Boss: *Walking over.* “You know, I was about to walk over here and give you a grilling for talking to a customer like that, but then he replied, and I figured either he’s trolling you, or he’s genuinely that stupid, and I no longer blame you for saying what you said. Maaaaaybe don’t do it again, though.”