(Every morning I come in and bake a batch of bread for the whole day. Since this is more bread than our display holds, the excess gets put on racks behind the counter out of customer sight. One of our more popular breads gets bought up so there is only one left when this particular customer walks up, and before we have had time to add more.)

Customer: “Yeah, I want this bread sliced!”

(My coworker reaches for the bread.)

Customer: “NO! I don’t want that old bread. I want new bread. You got any fresh bread?”

Coworker: “They were all made this morning.” *grabs bread off the other racks and slices it* “Here you are.”

Customer: “NO! There aren’t enough seeds on this bread! I want seeds like that bread!” *points to the “old” bread on the counter*

Me: “Excuse me, ma’am? They are from the same batch, so if you want that one—”

Customer: *glaring at me* “I AM THE CUSTOMER! I AM GOING TO PICK THE ONE I WANT!”

Me: “Yes, I was just letting you know that I made them all this morning, so if you want one that has the same amount of seeds as that one….”

Customer: “I AM GOING TO CHOOOOOSE THE BREAD I WANT. I AM THE CUSTOMER. YOU LET THE CUSTOMER PICK WHAT THEY WANT.”

Me: “Okay, I was just trying to let you know that.”

Customer: “Hmm, I bet you were. I GET WHAT I WANT!”

(At this point I was done and walked away so she could “get what she wanted.”)

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(A guy walks into our outlet store carrying a bottle of wine.)

Customer: “I want to return this bottle.”

(He takes it out of the brown bag and I see it has already been opened and some wine has been removed.)

Me: “That’s fine. Do you have your receipt?”

Customer: “Yes, here it is.”

Me: “Can I ask why you are returning it?”

Customer: “I didn’t realize it had alcohol in it.”

(I walk into a grocery store. At the front end of the store is a display of watermelons, and I put one in my cart. A while later, I’m in the back of the store when another customer notices.)

Woman: “Oh! I didn’t see watermelons in the produce section.”

Me: “No, they were at front, in a display near the self checkouts.”

Woman: “I’m not sure where you mean.”

Me: “I’m headed that way. I can show you, if you’d like?”

(I lead her there and gesture to the watermelons before turning to go check out. She shoots me a dirty look.)

Woman: “Ahem! You’re welcome!”

Me: “I’m sorry, what?”

Woman: “You didn’t say, ‘Thank you’!”

Me: “I helped you. Shouldn’t you be thanking me?”

Woman: “No, because… I… I mean… Young people have no manners!”

(She snatched up a watermelon and stormed off with it.)

(I have a coworker that was hired a year after I was, but she is twice my age. That makes a difference with some people more than experience with the actual job. She also has a tendency to never admit when she is wrong, constantly chats with customers — by “chats” I mean she talks with them for over an hour while other people do her job for her — and simply believes she’s always right. It is a very busy day, and I am constantly helping out at the register, ringing up customers, answering questions, or helping to bag items, all in the interest of getting people checked out as quickly as possible. Some of our items are so small that we can’t put a barcode on them. When that is the case, we usually print a barcode either on a sheet of paper by the register, or on the counter at the register so we can quickly scan it and go on our way. I notice that my coworker is looking at the paper for something to scan.)

Me: “Hey, [Coworker], what are you looking for?”

(She doesn’t say anything, and she is hard of hearing, so I think maybe she doesn’t hear me.)

Me: “What are you looking for? I might know where it is.”

Coworker: *glares at me* “I know what I’m doing! I don’t need your help! You don’t need to hover; you’re making me flustered.”

(While she is yelling, I glance over at the customer and see what they have; it is a simple ID holder that you can fix to a lanyard. I know where that barcode is on the counter, and I also know it’s not on the sheet she’s holding.)

Me: “[Coworker]…”

(But she’s not done.)

Coworker: “I’ve worked here 30 hours a week for the past three years; I know how to find things. I worked at the 50%-off sale for eight hours. I know what I’m doing.”

(At that massive sale a year ago, I worked the exact same number of hours she did. Anyway, [Coworker] scans a barcode on the sheet of paper, but it’s obviously the wrong one, as she’s ringing up the item as $7 when it’s really 50 cents.)

Coworker: “That’s wrong.”

Me: *points down to the correct barcode* “Because that’s the right one.”

Coworker: “I’ve never seen that! How long has that been there?”

Me: “Only about five years, but hey, you said you’ve been here three years; clearly you know everything.”

(We didn’t speak the rest of the day, and I didn’t help her out at the register at all. I figured if she was so determined to yell at me for help then she could just drown on her own.)

(Growing up, my mom was a Tiger Mom: always demanding me to excel in schoolwork, and berating me if I got a low score. I am in elementary school, and we have to take a test. This test isn’t graded, but it shows which job will suit you best according to your personality. I am surprised by the results, and go home dreading what my mom will say. I know that I have to tell her; if I lie, my punishment will be greater.)

Mom: “And how was school? Did you take any tests?”

Me: “Yes.”

Mom: “What score did you get?”

Me: “It wasn’t scored; it just shows me which job I should get.”

Mom: “Oh, interesting. So, what did you get?”

Me: *mumbles* “A plumber.”

(Mom nearly fainted! After Dad caught her and she recovered, she said no child of hers would ever clean pipes for a living. She kept saying how disappointed she was in me, and how she didn’t suffer hardships to come to the USA to have her children work in dirty jobs. She then berated me for weeks after about my results. Dad talked to her, and she told me that her mom was also a Tiger Mom, and that she would always push her to do her best, and that’s why she did it, too. But that stops with me!)