(An online order to pick up in store comes in. My manager goes to check it. Traffic is slow at the moment. I am 4’11” tall.)
Manager: *sighs* “That’s a heavy piece of furniture; I’m going to need help to get it to the loading bay door.”
Me: “I can give you a hand if you like.”
Manager: “Thanks, but I need something higher.”
(Later, I’m replacing a large basket on the top shelf of one of our displays.)
Me: “[Manager], help! I’m not high enough!”
(I am in a novelty store, looking for a cheap vibrator as a gag gift. I’m in my 50s and the clerk is probably about 20. The clerk comes up with a smirk on her face, obviously expecting me to be embarrassed.)
Clerk: *said in the most condescending voice possible* “Can I explain anything to you? I know someone your age might not understand these.”
(Now I don’t have a lot of f***s to give. I stopped worrying about what people think years ago. I start picking up vibrators and explaining to her the pros and cons of each one. Loudly. She is turning redder and redder as several boys her age stop to watch.)
Me: “But I don’t buy my vibrators here. I go to [Store #1] or [Store #2]. These are cheap pieces of crap, but I want it as a gag gift. But I know people your age may not understand all of this. Can I explain anything else to you, honey?”
(I bet she doesn’t try to embarrass middle-aged people anymore.)
This story is part of our celebration of Not Always Right publishing over 100,000 stories!
This story is included in the roundup of Not Always Working stories to toast this achievement!
(I’m a Canadian immigrant working for an American company, and one of my jobs includes copy editing and writing for various projects. One of the things I playfully gripe about is my boss’s insistence that I use the Americanized English, for example, “color” instead of “colour”, across projects for consistency. It’s sometimes a struggle for me, because after ten years in the US, I still instinctively use British English spelling while typing and have to manually correct myself for work. He calls to check in since I work remotely, and I’m editing a batch of text while listening to a randomized playlist. We joke around with each other a lot.)
Boss: “Now, don’t forget. None of this extra ‘U’ nonsense.”
Me: “You’re so mean. I won’t stand for this.”
Boss: “Oh, I think you will. Don’t forget to kill the extra British ‘L’ in ’fuelled,’ there.”
Me: “This oppressive American regime isn’t going to last, you know.”
Boss: “Whatever. Just do it.”
Me: “I want it on record that this is detrimental to my emotional well-being. This makes me very sad.”
(Right on cue, my playlist randomly switches over to one of the saddest, most depressing songs known to man: Gary Jules’ “Mad World”.)
Me: “There, you see?! Even the soundtrack to my life is sad because of you.”
Boss: “You’re ridiculous.”
Me: “Everything’s gone all rainy and black and white, [Boss]. The ennui, [Boss]!”
Boss: “I’m hanging up.”
(I work at a “natural” personal care products manufacturer. There is no dress code, aside from just not showing up in your pajamas. I normally don’t wear make up, as it irritates my skin. I come into work wearing a little iridescent eyeliner and mascara that I purchased on a whim. My boss, a man in his 70s, comes in and sits down to go over something. I notice he stops responding and is just staring at me.)
Me: “Is something wrong?”
Boss: “What is that on your face?”
Me: “Uh… make up?”
Boss: “[My Name], you look like a fish! It’s awful!”
Me: *dumbstruck*
Boss: *turns to female coworker* “Doesn’t she look like a fish?!”
(My coworker, who wears more makeup than I do, turns.)
Coworker #1: “What? No. She’s looks beautiful.”
Boss: “Well, I think it looks awful.”
Coworker #2: “No, she looks fine.”
Me: *holding back tears of embarrassment* “I… I was just trying something new. I guess it didn’t work.”
Boss: “I should say so. We only like NATURAL women here.”
(I went to the bathroom to wash off my makeup. Later that month, [Coworker #1] dyed her hair from honey blonde to platinum, and [Boss] refused to look at or speak to her all day, even going so far as to hold up folders to block her from his vision as he mouthed, “Oh, my God!” to the rest of us.)
(I am female, married, and have two bank accounts: one jointly with my husband, and one just in my own name. The phone rings and I answer.)
Bank Employee: “Hi, could I speak to Mr. [Name], please?”
Me: “Can I ask who this is and what it’s about?”
Bank Employee: “I’m from your bank, and I would like to discuss your account and perhaps saving him some money.”
Me: “It’s a joint account, and I’m his wife, so you can talk to me.”
Bank Employee: “I’d prefer to speak to Mr. [Name]. We’ve noticed that some of your standing orders would benefit from having their dates changed.
(He then names several standing orders, including three which go from my own personal account, NOT our joint one!)
Me: “Sorry, but did you say standing orders [#1, #2, and #3]?”
Bank Employee: “Yes, that’s right.”
Me: “You do realise they’re on my account? Would you have included them if my husband had answered the phone?”
Bank Employee: “Yes, certainly. It would be much more efficient if they all came from the one account instead.”
Me: “…”
(Hopefully, after I’d had a word with the manager, this employee will come to realise the consequences of being willing to discuss private, confidential account details with someone who isn’t the account holder. This bank also consistently asks to speak with my husband, even though he has nothing to do with the finances and doesn’t even have a debit card!)
