Married to the job.


The trouble with customer service in this day and age is that customers want service, like, all the time.

I mean, I don’t have it nearly as badly as the poor folks who work retail during the Christmas/Holiday season, but this year, for the first time in quite a while, I have to work on the evening of Christmas Eve.

Why? Because the only Jewish manager has worked it 97 times in a row (approximately) and has asked for the night off (for her non-Jewish boyfriend’s family’s holiday dinner) and our other two weekend managers are of French-Canadian extraction and do their big family gatherings (aka RĂ©vellons) on Christmas Eve. And, really, I guess those trumps having Chinese food with my brothers, which is at least postponable until after work. I hope. Waiting for email confirmations on that. How Christmassy.

(Seriously, anyone else kind of longing for a Hollywood-y 1950s Christmas season of fancy parties, fabulous dresses, unattainable levels of domestic perfection, and plenty of tranqs?)

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