(It is a busy day where I work. I have endured a rude boss and a few rude customers. Finally, I am able to go out into the lobby to stock and clean it. While I am cleaning by the soda machines and condiment bar, a little boy of around five years old sees me crying to myself. Once they grab their orders, the boy and the older lady with him walk by me while I continue stocking the condiment bar. I feel a tap on my shoulder.)

Older Lady: “Are you okay, miss?”

Me: *thinking I’m not okay but if I say anything I’ll get in trouble* “I’m great, and I’m doing okay… Why?”

Older Lady: “My grandson said, ‘Grandma, I think that lady is crying; is she okay?’”

Me: *heart melts and I smile finally* “Please tell him that I’m fine, ma’am, and I appreciate his kind thoughts.”

Older Lady: *sees straight through me* “I hope your day gets better, miss.”

(I get more customers and deal with their orders, or stock behind counter. I finally get a chance to finish the lobby, and when I go back to the condiment bar she walks up to me.)

Older Lady: “My grandson felt really bad, and demanded we get you this from his allowance.” *gives me a super cute plushie giraffe keychain*

Me: “Oh, thank you, but I can’t.”

Older Lady: “He told me to make sure the nice lady up front got this from him.”

Me: *smiling* “Tell your wonderful grandson, ‘Thank you very much!’ He made my day a little sweeter!”

Older Lady: “I will. Thank you, miss; you’re doing a good job up there.”

(I work at a rather successful insurance company. A gaudy, middle-aged woman walks in. We go through all the information needed smoothly until…)

Me: “Okay, that just about does it. I just need you to answer one more question.”

Client: “Okay.”

Me: “What date were you born?”

Client: “October 7, 1973.”

Me: “Okay.” *murmuring as I write it down* “October 7, 1973.”

Client: “Oh, I think you must have misheard me. I said January 19, 1969.”

Me: “Oh, my mistake.”

(We go through everything again to make sure I didn’t make any mistakes. Lo and behold, when we get to the birth date, more trouble arises.)

Me: “And your birth date is January 19, 1969. Is that correct?”

Client: *getting aggravated* “You need to listen more carefully! I said May 23, 1972!”

Me: *getting suspicious* “Hey, [Coworker], can you come over here real quick?”

Coworker: “Uh, yeah, sure.”

Me: “And Miss [Client], what did you say your birthday was?”

Client: “September 1, 1965!”

Me: “Uh-huh, and [Coworker], what did I put down last?”

Coworker: “May 23, 1972.”

Client: “I never said that! He must have misheard me!”

Me: “[Coworker], do you think I misheard her? I mean, May 23, 1972 does sound a lot like September 1, 1965.”

Coworker: *catching on* “Yeah, you’re absolutely right, [My Name]. I’ll just go get security down here and see if they think the same thing.”

(Upon hearing this, the lady turned bright red, and turned around to run. She tripped and fell, along with her purse, to the ground. The purse burst open to reveal 20+ credit cards. She got up to run, but found herself face to face with a security guard. Turned out she was an identity thief, and was simply trying to remember the birth date of the person she was impersonating.)

I went in for an outpatient procedure to have a uterine ablation. They were getting me ready for the procedure, and had already given me the stuff to make me sleepy. I asked if I could use the bathroom first. I started to get sleepy and asked again to use the bathroom.

“You’re all done. We just finished the surgery.”

It was the weirdest feeling! I literally blinked and it was over!

(I work as a customer service rep for a pretty popular dry cleaning company. I get a lot of wealthier customers at my store, and they tend to come in waves. We have a drive-thru with a sliding glass door, and a walk-in counter. I am, luckily, with my manager and her lead, which means three of our store’s four employees are there. This day, a lady has driven in and is trying to pick up clothes she never actually dropped off. All three of us are looking for any clothes that could be hers mixed in with other orders. There’s a line forming behind her, but no one’s walked in yet. An older, snobby lady behind her speaks up.)

Lady #2: *rolls her window down* “EXCUSE ME!”

Me: *runs out our front door to help her* “Hi! I—”

Lady #2: “What the h*** is taking so d*** long?!”

Me: “I’m so sorry, ma’am; we’re just having a few snags with this customer. I can he—”

Lady #2: “MY NAME IS [LADY #2], AND I DEMAND THAT YOU SERVE ME NOW!”

Me: *managing not to flinch* “Of course! Just a pickup, then?”

Lady #2: “Yes! Four pairs of pants!”

Me: “Right away!” *runs in and rings her up, coming out with her total*

Lady #2: “I’m giving you exact change so you don’t waste my time trying to figure it out!” *takes three minutes trying to count it out, shoving it roughly into my hands, grumbling loudly*

Me: “Thank you!” *runs back into the store and gets her pants, hanging them up*

Lady #2: “Doesn’t this b**** realize she’s holding me up?!”

Me: *does the bad thing and tries to reason with her* “Well, we do end to get backed up with the window; that’s why we have the walk-in counter. It’s also a lot cooler than sitting in a hot car!” *smile*

Lady #2: “EXCUSE ME?! THAT IS WHAT THIS WINDOW IS FOR: PEOPLE IN A HURRY!”

Me: “I’m very sorry, ma’am, I hope your day is better.”

Lady #2: “Yeah? I HOPE YOURS ISN’T! IT’S CALLED CUSTOMER SERVICE! I AM REPORTING YOU TO YOUR BOSS!” *begins to speed away, nearly running over my foot* “THEY SHOULDN’T HAVE HIRED YOU, ANYWAY, YOU FAT, B****Y [LESBIAN SLUR]!”

(My hair is very short, and my mother has yelled at me for getting it cut “like a butch,” and I’m overweight. Normally, I’m very thick-skinned, but this is just getting to me.)

Next Customer: *pulls up* “Well, that was bracing! You okay, sweetheart?”

Me: *nods shakily*

Next Customer: “Well, I think you’re doing great! You’ve always been so nice to me and my wife! That lady was an idiot not to see how beautiful you are, too!”

Me: *trying so hard to keep the tears back* “Thank you, sir. How can I help you?”

Next Customer: “Just dropping off, and don’t worry about the wait. If I was in a hurry, I’d have walked in! Take care now!” *drives off much more carefully*

(Luckily, I had finished my shift. I clocked out and went to my car, and cried for a solid five minutes. The lady never reported me, and when she returned a week later, she apparently didn’t even recognize me, though she complained a bit about “that fat lesbian” that treated her poorly on her last visit. I informed her that it was me, and she got really pale and sped away.)

(My mom has notoriously small veins, which I have inherited. This happens while I’m getting my blood drawn. My dad is there with me.)

Nurse: *seems to be having trouble finding a vein, tries looking in many different places* “Okay, I think we’re going to end up taking from your hand rather than your arm, because that might be the only place that it will work.”

Dad: “[My Name], do you have really small veins like Mom?”

Nurse: “No, she doesn’t have any veins at all!”