REMINDER: Not Having To Work On Thanksgiving Is A Privilege

Every year, I see all of these posts on Facebook and other social media sites going around about companies choosing to not be open on Thanksgiving, so that employees can be with their families. There’s also the loud, ALL CAPS proclamations that only hideous and awful people would work or shop on the holiday.

I wrote about this several years ago, in fact it was the only time I was Freshly Pressed on WordPress’s coveted homepage. I guess I didn’t get my point across to you guys, though, because still many of you are continuing, I see along your own blogs, Facebooks, and Twitter feeds, to look down upon people that work on holidays, and shame those that shop on Thanksgiving.

To be clear: if you don’t want to shop on Thanksgiving, I don’t care. And if you are fortunate enough to not have to work on Thanksgiving…well cheers! Good for you!

But this is one of those times that the famous quote comes into play: privilege is thinking something is not a problem, because it does not affect you personally.

So let’s try this one again.

Not having to work on Thanksgiving is a privilege. I’m sure if your house catches on fire because you don’t know how the fuck to use your oven properly, you’ll appreciate the fire fighters and ambulance workers that – wait for it – work on Thanksgiving, instead of spend time with their families.

Let’s say you suffer some burns and have to go to the hospital. Certainly the employees there are terrible people for choosing to work on the holiday, instead of being with family as well.

There are a host of professions in which holidays are like any other day: non-negotiable. And before you all get back on your high horse and start in about how retail employees, specifically, should receive the day off to spend that time with their families, consider a few things:

  1. Many retail employees don’t make shit for pay any other day of the year, so need the overtime pay. When I was in college, paying my way through, I volunteered to work every holiday so that I could have some extra cash for books. I still got off in time for my family to plan their dinner around my schedule. It can be done.
  2. Many retail employees work in jobs where they don’t make shit for pay AND they don’t get holiday pay or PTO for that day off. That one day to “spend with their families” is literally the difference between making the rent, and being evicted.
  3. Many people have other family members who work in the positions I mentioned or are in the military, or have recently had a falling out with family or recently had a tragic death …there are a ton of reasons why someone would choose to go work to take their mind off an otherwise depressing situation. It’s the holiday season, and that isn’t always a positive thing for people (check post-holiday suicide rates if you don’t believe me). We should all be comfortable doing what we have to do to get through it.

And for the people that shop on Thanksgiving…that go out and wait for the deals. Sure, some of them are just materialistic pieces of trash who want cheap, new TVs.

But there are some in there, too, that have to get those deals, or Christmas for their kids doesn’t happen. Like at all.

Not having to working or shop on Thanksgiving is a privilege. Those of you in either, or both, of those positions should be grateful (hey…you could post about it on your Facebook grateful status).

So I Now Realize How Annoying I Was When I Worked…

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I’m a Stay At Home Mom, but that doesn’t mean I’ve been sitting on my ass, eating bon bons and shit since my high school graduation.

In fact, it is arguable that in the few years I did work, I worked harder than a lot of people do in their entire careers. I mean there are a lot of really lazy people out there.

But I’m not here to defend how hard I worked then, or how much harder I actually work now in spite of the whole bon bon joke up above. I’m talking about how annoying I was when I worked, which I now realize to the fullest degree.

Where to begin? I suppose, at the beginning.

Article One:

Yes, I did used to work.

In fact, full time for some of it.

The very first job I ever had was as a Burger Bitch at Burger King. That Burger King no longer exists, actually. Nonetheless, in the late 90s I worked there after school and on weekends.

The craziest thing happened when I worked there, well at least it was crazy to me – a young and relatively naive 16 year old. When it was Christmastime, I had to go to visit my mom in Seattle, so I took two weeks off work and left, completely unaware that I would return to find that everyone who worked there had been fired in this completely idiotic, marijuana-induced Christmas Eve internal theft scandal. Not me, though – remember I was in Seattle. But despite not being there to participate in the stupidest drug-induced burger-related crime ever, no one there as the replacements even knew that I worked there. So they gave me a couple hours a week (assuming I would be stealing like all the rest had) until I decided to find work elsewhere.

So I went to Wendy’s. While at Wendy’s I was awarded Employee of the Month. Probably one of my few award-winning accomplishments in my lifetime. I still have the plaque, and yes I am aware that this isn’t saying much.

Also, that Wendy’s doesn’t exist anymore either.

When I went to college I decided to get my shit together on the job front, so I went to a department store and got a job in Handbags and Hosery. But then they revealed about a month in that they weren’t going to work around my school schedule, so I quit. The department store was Robinson’s May, by the way. That entire company doesn’t exist anymore.

Are you seeing a theme here? It gets worse, and now that I’m typing this all out I am wondering if I am cursed.

After Robinson’s May I went to Longs and worked as a pharmacy technician for six years. I still know a fair amount of drug information, though am also out of the loop on newer drugs and insurance law changes and shit. And I also would never, not in a million years, go back to working in a pharmacy. I would force my family to live in a refrigerator box on the corner before going back to a pharmacy – it was that horrible.

A few years ago all the Longs stores were sold to CVS. So there’s that too.

My last job-job was in politics, after college. First I was a community organizer for the non-profit wing of the AFL-CIO. Then I was a contract community organizer for a partisan political action committee. After about a year the PAC had me do an underhanded smear campaign (against my better judgment) on a local candidate (of the same political party – i.e. one of their own) and I was done. I went back to school, left school, became a Stay At Home Mom and the rest is history.

That was the last “real” job I ever had, with the exception of working for a professor.

And if you are wondering if either of those political organizations exist anymore, the non-profit wing lost its funding a year after I left, and the ladies that founded the partisan political action committee liquidated it two years ago. I am definitely cursed.

Article Two:

When I actually worked for a living, instead of running our insane asylum, I was an extremely annoying person.

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I’m not saying that I am lacking the quality of annoying sonofabitch now. Not by any stretch of the imagination – I know I am a tough nut to crack, a bitter cup of tea, and whatever other cliche you could spew out that indicates I’m annoying as shit.

You get the point and no doubt are nodding your head in agreement.

Now this is going to be quite a stretch, but if you can bare with me for a second and use your maximum imagination powers, think of how unbelievably obnoxious I am now. And quadruple it. Then add ten, more parcels of annoying as balls and you still aren’t even close to how un-fucking-believably annoying I was when I worked.

You know why? Why I lost friends – like literally lost friends – and was excluded from family events because I was so fucking intolerable to be around?

Because I never shut the fuck up about my job.

When I was at Burger King, I told stories about the sauces for the chicken tenders and the episodes with the drive thru timer. When I was at Wendy’s, it was similar only added on were the tales about the times they made me dress up in the Wendy costume.

At the department store, it was constant bitching about how the management was over scheduling me and trying to get me to work when I was supposed to be in class. And about the girl that worked in Handbags with me who I later saw on an episode of Blind Date. I knew it was her, too, because she was always talking shit about Asians even though she, herself, was Asian; and she did it on the show as well.

Longs there were the neverending stories about the customers and the old men that hit on me while picking up their Viagra. There were the tales about insurance problems and how my boss was so seemingly helpless he couldn’t even schedule his employees without my help as well.

It was the worst when I worked in politics, because there weren’t just the stories about what I did at work, but what political bullshit horsecrap issue or candidate I was all fired up about at the time. Health care. Immigration. Gun rights. In-fucking-tolerable is what it was.

Now that I’m heading on to 32, more people I know are getting promotions. Or going back to work after being at-home moms for a while. Even a few are just graduating from college or graduate school. Don’t get me wrong: I am extremely, like over the moon, happy for these people. Their work opportunities are wonderful for their situations. It’s awesome.

I just wish sometimes people could have things to talk about other than work. Like post a Facebook status about what you did with your kids. Or at a family party, could we talk about something other than your innovative quality control systems? There is so much more in this world to talk about than work, and maybe it’s only when you don’t work that you realize that.

STFU Fridays: Dinner Next to A’holes

Kill me, faithful blog followers. Fucking kill me. Kill me by inserting some large stick up my asshole, weedling it up there as high as you can before turning and maneuvering it around, causing my internal organs to twist and bend until they get tied up; then take the stick out and leave me to wither away with my fucked up, knotted colon until excrement has no where to go but out my ears.

That would be better than the dinner next to the a’holes that I experienced today.

Let’s first pause to welcome all the newbies hanging around the ol’ B(itch)Log these days. My name is Heather. People call me a B(itch). Sometimes I swear a lot; sometimes I am really serious. This is supposed to be a mom blog, but I usually talk about anything that is either funny and/or annoying and/or about my miserable life and/or filled with stupidity (and possibly all of the above). In real life (if there is such a thing), I’m a homeschooling, stay at home mom and full time writer, who is really – and truly – the nicest person you will ever meet.

We have here a fun, little theme for Fridays. Shut the Fuck Up Fridays is what I like to call them. While I swear and act crass a lot, STFU Fridays go above and beyond anything you’ve ever experienced before in the “foul-mouthed bitch” department. So welcome to my blog, and if you don’t like it … well, shut the fuck up (Fridays).

So back to the a’holes.

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We went out to dinner with my dad tonight. He’s the guy shoveling food down his throat in the red sweatshirt. As we were walking in I noticed that we were being sat down next to those people sitting behind him. See them? There were actually five: a husband and wife, their nappy-headed bitch of a kid, and the husband’s parents. The nappy-headed bitch of a kid is in 5th grade. Her mom is a stay at home, like me. Her dad is a minister. The grandparents do I don’t know the fuck what, but they are the biggest dicks on the planet.

How do I know all of this? Because the husband (the dad, the minister) was my boss when I worked in pharmacy all those eons ago.

I won’t go into all of the injustices that went on when I worked under his reign. Well, not too much of it. I will say that he was the store manager and a pompous asshole from day one. I will further say that after four years of working tirelessly, sacrificing a lot for the job, and even letting myself be bullied into working for free a few times, he cut my hours to below 20, effectively causing me to lose my health insurance a whole year before I was planning on transferring to four year college (from community college) full time. I will say all of that. I will also describe for you faithful blog followers the time that the rancid bitch wife came in and told me that “one phone call, and your ass is grass if you don’t get my pills for me now.” Or the time that dear old dad back there screamed at me that I was being idiotic about his insurance problem, and that he should have me fired.

Nice people. I will never forget the rejoice we all felt when the douchecanoe of a store manager announced that he would be leaving to pursue his calling to the ministry.

So we went in and I noticed them, but I don’t believe they recognized me. I hope they didn’t. My hair is a different color now than when I worked under him; and it has been quite a few years. I also envision that they were so self-absorbed in their own arrogant and pompous goings-on that they hardly noticed anyone else in the entire restaurant.

There were quite a few times that I wanted to stand up, punch that nasty bitch in her crotch, and spit in the face of the ol’ “fuck you and your health insurance, Heather” manager.

“I Was Smarter Than You In 5th Grade”

One thing that guy did when he was the boss man was always put people down. He would make stupid jokes, that no one thought were funny; and they were always at the expense of other people. I remember one time in the break room he started cracking jokes about how annoying the sound of my voice was to him. Funny because at least my voice sounds appropriate to my gender, unlike him – who sounds like a five year old girl with a plugged nose and an occasional puberty-induced crackle. Fuck face.

Well the two of them (husband and wife) were showing off the bastard kid’s quote-unquote talents to the grandparents, but at every step they took it as an opportunity to take her down a notch. When talking about the science fair, dad said “but no one cares about plants…” (her project was about plant something or other). When she was talking about her math journal, the cunt with the red nails said “when I was in 5th grade, I was smarter than you though because I had no problem with fractions.”

Shut the fuck up, cunt.

“Catholics Worship Priests Instead of God”

Now apparently that little 5th grader is more of a stupid fuck than I thought, though, because at some point in their loud ass fucking conversation (so loud that all of the waitstaff and bus boys that came over to talk to us – as regulars – mentioned that they were sorry we got stuck by those overbearing dicks), the four adults had to explain to her what a Catholic is.

Here was how the grand tee-ton (the one who told me that I was an idiot and that he could have me fired since his son was the all-powerful minimum wage store manager) laid it out: “you see, Catholics worship their priests instead of God.” Nappy-headed 5th grader I previously felt sorry for went on to respond “that’s stupid. Catholics are stupid. Catholics are stupid and bad.”

Sadly, that poor girl is going to turn out to be just like her nasty parents, and even worse grandparents. Catholics worship priests about as much as I enjoy cooking. She too needed to shut the fuck up.

By the time the meal was over, I was about ready to go home and rip up my pharmacy technician’s license. I renew it every year just as a fall back; you know, in case my husband gets laid off or I decide to finally stop tolerating his shit and send him packing. Why the fuck would I want to go back to that, though? Not that it would be the same manager – he’s clearly moved on to greener, more shit-filled, pastures; but that was really just a microcosm of the shit I had to deal with working in the pharmacy. At this point I wouldn’t tolerate it. I would be fired in about a day because every other thing out of my mouth would be, simply stated: oh, just shut the fuck up!