I am shopping at a home improvement store that is chronically understaffed. I need a few more of a certain item than what is stocked on the shelf, but there are more in the “backstock” on the upper shelves. One of the store’s rolling ladders is standing right there, and there’s not an orange apron in sight, so I just scamper right up and help myself.

As I am descending with my prize, SHE appears, haircut and all.

Customer: *In an angry, condescending tone* “Excuse me, can I get some help?”

Me: *Politely* “Oh, I don’t work here.”

Customer: “Yes, you do. I just saw you up on that ladder!”

Me: “Yeah, just getting what I need for myself. You’ll need to find a store employee to help you. Good luck with that.”

Customer: “I demand that you help me!”

I am feeling a little childish and have some old retail trauma to work out.

Me: “Don’t wanna!”

I stomp my widdle foot like a toddler, because two can play this game.

Customer: “What?! Are you refusing to help me?”

Me: “Yup! Because I don’t work here, so I don’t gotta! And anyway, you didn’t say please!”

Customer: “Well, you’re rude!”

Me: “Yeah, and mean, and ugly, too!”

Customer: “I— Wait, what?”

Me: “Also, I’m lazy and have questionable hygiene, unpopular political views, and weak moral fiber, and I don’t love Jesus!”

Customer: *Splutters and wibbles a bit* “Well, I never!”

Me: “Well, maybe you shoulda!”

And away I strutted, leaving her there with her chin on her chest.

Related:
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 43
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 42
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 41
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 40
I Don’t Work Here, Does Not Work Here, Part 39

We are visiting a large and beautiful bookstore.

Clerk: “Can I help you?”

Me: “I seem to have lost my wife.”

Clerk: “Hmm.” *Looks around* “Are you fussy?”

We were travelling as a family in our car, listening to the radio, and the song “Take My Breath Away” by Berlin came on. I was perhaps seven years old at the time, and since English is not my first language, I didn’t understand all the words, but I liked singing along anyway. That, of course, meant I would often get some words wrong.

Me: “Take my bread awaaaay!”

My sister snatched my sandwich from me and we all laughed.

I recently started a new job in a highly technical field. Since I’m one of the very few women in my new department, and I’m also on the younger side compared to most of the other employees, I make a bit of an extra effort to dress a little more professionally and formally, as I find this (unfortunately) does make a difference in people taking me seriously.

Today, I’m wearing a very modest and work-appropriate dress that happens to be red. My manager’s manager approaches me before a meeting, and I’m a little worried about why; since he’s always very busy, I wasn’t expecting to speak with him today.

Big Boss: “I have never, in all my time working here…”

I’m getting really worried now!

Big Boss: “…seen anyone in our department wearing a dress! Let alone one with so much color! It’s great!”

Me: “Oh, um, thank you?”

Big Boss: “Yeah! Thanks for helping me realize we should really liven things up around here! I can’t believe I’ve never seen anyone on our team wearing a dress before.”

Me: “Well, dresses can be really comfortable… Maybe you should try it sometime?”

He chuckled and wandered off.

It was a strange conversation, but at least I wasn’t in trouble, and I learned that the big boss actually has a good sense of humor! He was actually a great person to work for, and we got along well ever since that day.

My parents divorced when I was eleven and my younger brother was only six. After a few years, my mom was in another relationship, and a year later, they were moving in together in another state. This meant my younger brother and I had to move.

I was pissed about moving. I had moved four other times before and each one sucked — always leaving my friends behind and starting over. This time was different since I was going to be starting high school in a new state and city. I wasn’t happy about any of this and was in a pretty foul mood.

My step-dad had already moved to the new house and he’d been there for about a week. My mom had things to finish with her work before she could move, so we stayed behind for a week. However, that dreadful day of moving finally showed up.

After seeing the moving crew load up the last few things and securing our stuff in the shipping truck, my mom got my younger brother and me into the car and we started our trip. Before we left, Mom decided to stop and get breakfast at a big nationwide restaurant chain.

The three of us walked in and got seated.

Mom: “Things won’t be so bad. You shouldn’t walk around with that sourpuss look on your face.”

My brother didn’t seem as fazed about the whole moving thing as I was, and he thought it was funny that Mom said “sourpuss,” so he started laughing.

The waitress came over and asked for our drinks to get things started. Mom ordered a coffee, I asked for a large orange juice, and my brother got milk.

The waitress brought us our drinks and took our order, and I started to drink my orange juice. As I was trying to occupy my time and take my mind off the fact we were mere moments away from driving away from all my friends and going to a new state, I was playing with the empty straw wrapper, just kind of folding it and making different shapes.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a fly buzz past me. It was buzzing around us at our table, and when it got close to anyone we just kind of waved our hands to shoo it away. My brother took an interest in the fly and started trying to catch it, but he was failing horribly.

As I looked up and reached for my glass of orange juice, the fly literally dropped dead in mid-flight and fell into my glass.

I looked at my brother and blurted out:

Me: “Your breath killed the fly and it landed in my OJ!”

Brother: “I didn’t do that! Mom!”

My mom laughed at my comment and waved the waitress over.

Waitress: “What can I help you with?”

Me: “There’s a dead fly in my orange juice.”

Waitress: “Oh, my God! I’m so sorry! I didn’t even see it there when I brought it out. I’m so sorry!”

We could see the panic on her face as she kept apologizing. My mom was still laughing.

Brother: “I didn’t breathe on it! It wasn’t me that killed it!”

The waitress got kind of a confused look on her face as she was trying to process what exactly my brother was talking about.

Me: “No, there wasn’t a fly in there when you brought it out. The fly literally dropped dead and landed in my drink. You didn’t bring it out with a dead fly.”

Waitress: “Oh, thank God. I felt so awful thinking I had done that. I’ll go dump this and bring you a new glass of juice.”

This happened almost thirty years ago, but every now and then, my younger brother brings up the fact that his breath didn’t kill that fly that dropped dead in my orange juice.