It’s A Time For Giving, And Taking Advantage

, , , , , | Friendly | June 6, 2018

(I am doing some grocery and Christmas shopping with my daughter when a woman comes up to me, asking if I can help her buy some things for her two small children so they can have a good Christmas. We are on a budget, and I don’t have any spare cash on me, so I tell her to meet me at the checkout counter and I will pay for thirty dollars’ worth. She thanks me, grabs a cart, and goes on her way. When I get to the checkout counter I see her, and she has a full cart filled with stuff! I look at her in horror.)

Me: “Ma’am, I only said I could pay for thirty dollars’ worth; there’s at least three hundred dollars’ worth in your cart.”

(She looks at me and then picks out five items.)

Me: “How much will that total?”

Woman: “About a hundred dollars.”

Me: “I’m sorry; I can only afford thirty.”

(She grumbled and got rid of two of the items, and the remaining three were about thirty-two dollars. I paid for them, but was annoyed to see that the three items were some Christmas lights, a kitchen knife set, and a lighted Santa decoration for the windows. I originally agreed to thirty dollars because she said she wanted her kids to have a merry Christmas, and I thought she was going to pick stuff for them, but apparently not!)

Dummies For Oprah

, , , | Right | June 6, 2018

(I am stocking shelves and overhear this conversation.)

Customer: “Hi, I’m looking for a book on massage.”

Coworker #1: “Yes, ma’am. Is there a particular title or author you were looking for?”

Customer: “I saw the author on Oprah. I don’t remember the title or the author’s name but the author had blonde hair. Do you have the book?”

Coworker #1: “…”

Coworker #2: “We have Massage for Dummies.”

(I had to hold my breath so I wouldn’t laugh as the customer, oblivious, talked on and on about how she didn’t like those dummies books. She never did understand why no one could tell her which book she wanted.)

Unfiltered Story #113068

, , , | | Unfiltered | May 28, 2018

This is a small store; most people come in to pick up a couple quick items, and will often be in the door and at the checkout all in less than a minute. I had just come up to the register where three customers had lined up all at once: a white girl (WG), a black woman (BW), and an older white woman (WW) in order.

The black woman was looking like she thought I was doing something wrong by not being behind the counter and ready to go already, although as most customers don’t seem to realize (as they yell “Helloo” at the top of their lungs without even giving me a second to get to them) I am required to leave the register to straighten anytime no one is in line.

I proceed to help the white girl, and scan a bottle of wine first, which brings up the age prompt, although I don’t get further than that.

WG: Oh I couldn’t find any melatonin I guess you guys don’t carry it?

ME: Yes, we do. It is with the vitamins and supplements *gesturing towards
corner where they are located*

WG: Oh really…*looks hesitant, then runs off suddenly*

ME: *Glancing at the next customer* Um.. well.

I start to scan the next next item, but stop. I realize I can actually take the next person since I never entered a birth date for the wine,

BW: *Indignant look* Um…

ME: *Motioning her forward* I can just take you while she does that.

BW: That’s right. I’m not waiting!

Wanting to explain why I might have waited so she wouldn’t think I just didn’t care –

ME: Oh well it’s just that if I had scanned an item in I would have had to wait
then.

BW: Um, no you would have voided it.

(All of this while I’m ringing her up, of course)

ME: Well, I can’t actually void items.

BW: (she gives me a dirty look) Why, you need a manager?

ME: Yes, someone with a key would have to come up.

BW: (looking nastily at me) YEAH. And then they would have VOIDED it!

She doesn’t seem to realize that calling up the MOD would have taken longer than just waiting for WG to retrieve an item most likely. I don’t say anything.

BW: I also need a pack of *** cigarettes *suddenly looking right into my eyes* and I don’t want you to disagree with me again (in a very challenging tone).

ME: (I’m very taken aback) Oh….I…I’m sorry if you are upse-

BW: *Cutting me off* Don’t even try to talk back! I’m going to talk to a manager
about you, how you talk to customers! I know C*** personally, known her for
years! I’m gonna call her up.

ME: *Knowing I should have just gone silent as I’m talking* Well, C*** hasn’t
worked here for years, she’s the manager of another store now.
The transaction is completed by this point.

BW: OH, you’re still talking huh? Who’s the manager, what’s her name then?

ME: *Starting to feel anger* The manager’s name is S***.

BW: Yeah S***! That’s who I meant. We’re friends, I’ve known her for 20 yrs.

I’m gonna have to call her up and have a talk with her about you.

ME: *Losing my temper, facing away so she won’t see my furious look*
You can do whatever you want.

My voice was shaking in anger by then, and my hands.

BW: You STILL talking back! Yeah, I’m gonna tell S*** all about you. You might
not even have a job when I get through!

ME: *Turning back around* (she’s already halfway out the door) YEAH right!

I rang up the WG and WW who had just appeared again. Turns out WW had gone off to help WG who was looking in the medicines, not vitamins despite my pointing her in a clearly different direction. It took several more customers before my anger and my nerves had calmed down.

What happened to me? My manager came by later on (it was her day off) to shop and mentioned getting a complaint about me through facebook. She just laughed about it.

If The Sexism Glove Fits…

, , , , | | Right | May 24, 2018

(I work in a popular toy store. We are having a rather busy evening, and I am walking back to my section after assisting someone. I see a customer looking around as though trying to find something, so I offer to help. I’m a male.)

Me: “Did you need help with something?”

Customer: “Yes, I need to find a baseball glove for my son.”

Me: “Oh, it’s right this way.”

(I begin to usher the customer to the sporting section, and I see my female coworker walking towards us with a baseball glove.)

Coworker: “Here you are, ma’am. We only carry this type of baseball glove.”

Me: *to the customer* “Oh, you already had someone assisting you? Why didn’t you say so?”

Coworker: “Well, you’re a guy. I figured you would know where they are.”

Me: “I assure you that all of the workers here are capable enough to find a simple baseball glove.”

Feels Like It Took Eight Hours To Get There

, , , , , | Working | May 14, 2018

(I work in a big-name hotel that’s on one of the lower tiers of the corporation. Lately, we’ve been getting a lot of new employees to prepare for the busy season, including a few new housekeepers. One of them is a middle-aged woman. It is her first day, and she has to do the impossible: clock out.)

Me: “Okay, enter the last four of your SSN into this keypad.”

Coworker: *slowly thumbs in the numbers, then waits*

Me: “Okay, then hit the login button.”

(The button is very large, and it is the only button on the screen that isn’t a number. Finally, she does so. The screen shows the time, her time sheet, and four buttons, two of which are “clock in” and “clock out.”)

Me: “Now hit, ‘clock out.’”

Coworker: “It should say 1645.”

(It is 4:45 pm, and the clock shows this. The screen times out, logging her out.)

Me: “It’s 4:45. You have to log in again.”

Coworker: *slowly does so, then waits*

Me: “Now hit, ‘clock out.’”

Coworker: *turns to me* “But I didn’t clock in this morning.”

Me: *pointing to the time sheet* “Actually, it says you clocked in at 8:30 am.”

Coworker: “No, I didn’t clock in this morning.”

Me: “No, you did.”

(The screen times out. She, again, has to log in. I walk her through it for the third time. Once logged in, she stares at the screen, lost.)

Me: *getting irritated* “Now hit, ‘clock out.’” The one below, ‘clock in.’”

(Finally, miraculously, she hits the button. Far too hard. It doesn’t take. She stares at it. The screen times out. I walk her through this three more times until I finally flick the button for her.)

Me: “There. It says you clocked in at 8:30 and clocked out just now, at 4:49.”

Coworker: “So, how many hours is that?”

(By this time, we’re surrounded by three other employees waiting to use the time clock. I count every hour on my fingers aloud, slowly, directly in front of my coworker’s face.)

Me: “That’s eight hours.”

Coworker: “Oh, awesome!” *lifts her hand for a high five*

Me: *confounded, I oblige, lightly tapping her palm* “Yeah…”

(I’m still not sure why the woman seemed to be amazed to have worked a full shift, as if she was shocked she lasted that long. I very much doubt she has ever worked eight consecutive hours in her life.)

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