I answer a phone call from a customer who has ordered a computer online and wants an update on when it will arrive.

Me: “Did you have your order number so I can look it up?”

Customer: “I don’t have that at the moment, but the order is under [Customer].”

Our system tends to crash when searching by name only, as it then searches through every order ever placed, so when we do that, we try to narrow down the search by the date, as well, to prevent the crash.

Me: “Okay, I can try looking it up that way. I’ll just also need to know when you placed the order.”

Customer: “Just a moment while I check my account… I ordered it on September 7th.”

The current date is August 15th.

Me: “That was September 7th?”

Customer: “Yes, September 7th.”

Me: “Of last year?”

Customer: “No, this year.”

Me: “It’s still August; we aren’t in September yet. Do you mean August 7th?”

Customer: “Let me double-check… Oh, I see. I ordered it on August 23rd.”

Me: “That’s next week; it’s only August 15th today.”

Customer: “Oh, then I don’t know when I ordered it.”

Back in the 1990s, I was a programmer between jobs, and I saw a six-month software contract with a public hospital in the town of Napier, New Zealand. It was being advertised in Australia, so the deal included flights and a house, and because of the short-term nature, the salary was a decent bump above what I could expect to make in six months in a local, permanent role.

I’d have to leave my partner and cats behind, but it would be an adventure, and Napier is a beautiful town that I was excited to know. And my partner’s work was flexible; he could fly across — four hours plus internal transport — and we could enjoy some tourism on weekends, and he could explore during the week or at the end of my contract.

I started dealing with an agent, and everything was very professional. We did a phone interview, and they decided they wanted me. The agent then told me the employer wanted to deal with me directly, via email. I thanked the agent and waited for an email to arrive from my (potential) new boss. That’s when things started falling apart.

First, the salary, originally offered in Australian dollars, was now mysteriously in New Zealand dollars, representing a pay cut of 20%. Still, adventure and all — and still more than the going rate locally. Then, the house turned into a room at a boarding house for nurses and new doctors; it was clear [Potential Boss] expected me to find rental accommodation and pay for it myself. Still, I figured I’d look at the contract and see if I could still do this without losing money. I asked him to send me the contract.

Potential Boss: “Let’s sort that when you get here.”

Well, maybe it was worth the risk. I wouldn’t travel unless I had an open return ticket in my hand, and if I didn’t like the terms, I would just go for a week’s holiday in Hawke’s Bay and fly home on his dime.

Then, there was the final exchange of emails:

Me: “How do I get a plane ticket?”

Potential Boss: “Do you have a credit card?”

Yup, he expected me to pay for my own ticket to fly to him for a contract I hadn’t seen, let alone signed, and he certainly wouldn’t reimburse me for the flight before I signed. He had changed the terms multiple times when I had bargaining power. What might he do when I was thousands of kilometres from my home and out of pocket? 

I did not reply to that email. I called the original agent to tell him the whole bait-and-switch story and how I did not trust that person and had no desire to work with him. The agent thanked me and was very understanding.

I might add that I am a female, and though I have no reason to believe the job wasn’t real, it just seemed another reason not to throw myself at the mercy of a stranger who had not proved himself to be trustworthy in a country where I literally knew no one.

I just started my job at a grocery store. I’m nineteen and had a horrible home life growing up, so I tend to freeze up when people start yelling at me. It doesn’t help that I’m incredibly short and dainty-looking, so people think they can get away with it.

I’m serving a man who has been increasingly creepy the whole time. I don’t really know any of my coworkers yet, or I would signal someone for help. I just ignore him as best I can.

Me: “Your total is $123.45. Do you have a [Store Loyalty] card today?”

Creep: “That doesn’t sound like enough numbers for your phone number, sugar.”

Me: *Pauses* “Your total is $123.45. Is that cash or card?”

Creep: “I’m not leaving until I get that number, cutie.”

It’s pretty quiet in the store, and the other checkout operator has gone to find us a box of bags. The self-checkout attendant is too far away from me and is helping someone, so there’s really no one to call for help. I carefully hit my assist light button with my knee to not draw attention and keep repeating the man’s total. He is getting increasingly angry with me for not playing his game.

I have a manager on today that I have never worked with before, and my coworkers jokingly referred to her as The Enforcer this morning. I assumed it was because she is a bit of a hard-a** about her staff. Out of nowhere, this very tall woman appears at the end of my checkout with pink hair and a nose ring.

Manager: “Hi, [Definitely Not My Name]! I’m [Manager]. Nice to meet you!”

She says all this with the brightest smile on her face and in the sweetest voice I have ever heard coming from someone who looks like she could snap me in half with one hand. She turns to look down at my customer — she has a good inch or two on him — and her entire face drops and her eyes and voice turn to steel.

Manager: “Not my first time meeting you, though, is it, [Customer]? Do we need to have another chat?”

The creepy guy just puts his card into the reader and pays before scurrying out as quickly as he can. I am in awe.

The manager instantly switches back to her previous sweet manner.

Manager: “Sorry about that, boo. He is the absolute worst, but they won’t let me ban him. The good news is that he is petrified of me — enough that even if I’m not in the store, just ring your bell and ask them to get me as soon as he starts acting up. He usually cuts it out then. Also, I know your name is [My Real Name]; I just didn’t want him to know that. Anyway, how are you liking it here?”

I went on to find out that this woman was universally loved by almost everyone in the store for just being a ball of sunshine and laughter who was always willing to lend a hand. She also tolerated absolutely no abuse toward her staff whatsoever and would go toe to toe with the store manager for us any day of the week. She is EXACTLY who I want to be when I grow up.

This story is part of our Highest-Voted-Stories-Of-2023-(so far!) roundup!

Read the next Highest-Voted-Stories-Of-2023-(so far!) story!

Read the Highest-Voted-Stories-Of-2023-(so far!) roundup!

My mother told me that her mother believed that women’s abdominal muscles were not strong enough to support their organs, and foundation garments were a necessity. This was a self-fulfilling prophecy; she had eight children and always wore a girdle, so her core muscles would have atrophied, “proving” her belief was true. I imagine her back would ache just standing for a few minutes without foundations.

Forty years later, I am sitting with some friends at university. Several of my friends are doing post-graduate studies. One in particular is a qualified, working pharmacist, so she’s a woman of the world who has studied human anatomy.

Another friend arrives, so I make my excuses to the group, saying we are going to an exercise class together.

The pharmacist looks at me very seriously and gives me a stern warning.

Pharmacist: “Be careful doing core work. If your abs get too strong, they can crush your internal organs!”

It struck me at first as two vastly different beliefs, but later, I saw that they were two sides of the same coin; women’s bodies are unreliable and dangerous, and women’s instincts can’t be trusted but must rely on (male) science to be well.

I used to work as a supervisor in the customer service department of a supermarket in a well-off suburb in Melbourne. The store was on the corner of two streets, so our loading and delivery bay was on the side of the store, on the less busy street, rather than at the back of the store as is common.

We had many obnoxious, rich regular customers. The least favourite customer of the entire department was this guy.

Me: “Hi, [Customer], how can I help you today?”

Customer: “Close your d*** delivery door. It’s absolutely disgusting. Customers shouldn’t have to see that.”

Me: “Oh, sorry about that. We must be getting a delivery; I’m sure they will leave soon.”

Customer: “That’s unacceptable. I already said customers shouldn’t have to see that. That’s ridiculous. Customers should never see that. You shouldn’t ever open that door!”

Me: “The delivery bay door?”

Customer: “Obviously, the delivery bay door. I’ve already told you that.”

Me: “So, let me confirm. You would like for me to make them stop opening the delivery bay doors.”

Customer: “Finally!”

Me: “Okay, great, and how exactly do you propose that we get any products into the store to be able to sell them to you?”

Customer: “F*** off, smart-a**!” *Storms out of the store*

Related:
It’s All In The Delivery, Part 2
It’s All In The Delivery