Friday, July 30, 2004

Most of my peers, both gainfully employed and otherwise, do not believe my "job" at the parent's store constitutes real work. I have supported and even perpetuated this notion over the years and for that I am very sorry. Most people whom I am acquainted with do not have tough or demanding jobs, in fact other than the inevitable mental anguish that comes from working for the man, they have a very easy time of it. Now, I must admit that there is something to be said for working forty hours a week consistently, something which, as of yet, I have been unable to do. But, I truly wonder if any of my friends, or really any sane person, could perform my duties here at Park Place Antiques. The first issue is that I work for my mom & dad, or as I affectionately refer to them "Hitler & Mussolini." My mother, a.k.a. the Fuehrer, is, by all accounts, the cruelest being in the universe. To be fair I will limit this discussion to her treatment of me at work, as not even your darkest nightmares could entertain her treatment of Bob at home.

The Fuehrer

Mom likes to mock my job related ineptitude, in particular my ignorance of the antique world. She routinely points out this failing to any and all peoples who come through the shop doors. Honestly, this isn't such a major issue and it is one I could learn to deal with however, it gets much worse. After initially portraying Bob as a complete and utter moron, mom begins to build momentum of the ridicule-bob-kind. Keep in mind that she is generally speaking to perfect strangers while reading the following. Mother then likes to point out my relationship inadequacies, how I am single and forevermore shall remain so, and hint that I am of the homosexual persuasion.

After completely humiliating me, she questions the customers about their own children and whether or not they attended college. They usually respond about how wonderful their children are doing, or had done in college. Usually, mom gives them an evil grin and begins the tale of woe that was my collegiate career. She explains how I went to an expensive, well esteemed Liberals Arts institution. A place that afforded limitless opportunities to its students. Of course her no good, worthless son did not take advantage of this once in a lifetime chance, instead he spent four years drinking, breaking University fixtures and nearly failing out of school. He refused to go to class and at one point claimed that I suffered from a severe mental illness, in order to prevent academic related expulsion. I can't refute most of her argument, since it is in fact true. However, I would like to point out that I only drank for approximately two years of college, and spent the other two years laying in bed. And, honestly anyone who has spent any considerable amount of time with my mother can attest to her mental illness, and while that might not constitute a medical diagnosis, it is good enough for me. Anyway, I don't want to spend too much time discussing my mother's hate for her eldest son, so now I will share the story of Dad and how he thinks I am his bitch at work.

Il Duce

I love my father very much. But, I pity him even more. He has to put up with my mother, Issy, and me. Such a fate is proof positive that the Devil exists and enjoys torturing mankind. However, I must admit that a great deal of father's pain is of the self inflicted kind. He allows, or enables as all you pop psychology guru's like to say, Mother, myself, and Issy to act like total spoiled brats and treat him less like a man and more like an ATM. But, don't mourn the everyday hell that is dad's life because he still manages to get his shots in, at least towards Bob, while at work.

Dad believes that he is the absolute authority on any and all issues relating to work. Occasionally, I do come up with an innovative way to make more money or simply a means to reduce overhead cost. Everyone of those ideas is shot down quicker then a US spy plane flying over China. Of course he is the owner, and subsequently the boss so his word is law. I can deal with that, or at least I can pretend to do so. But, he doesn't stop there, dad then takes it to the next level and ridicules my brilliant ideas in front of his cronies.

It would be different if these men were captains of industry, self-made millionaires, or even adequate businessmen, but these men are nothing more than old deprecate retirees who never succeeded in any personal venture, and try leech off of dad's modest success. In other words he is unjustly calling me out in front of a group of dim-witted jackals who enjoy seeing someone, such as myself, with unlimited potential being knocked down a peg or two. As a wise friend once told me "Fuck that shit."

I am willing to suffer untold humiliations at the hands of marginally attractive women, my mother, and the little brother but Bob draws the line at this action. So, usually I verbally berate my father, in front of those same slack jawed rejects, concerning his poor business skills or simple lack of formal education. This results in shouting, expletives being tossed around (which my Dad never uses, except in reference to me or people of color) and finally my mother rushing in and stating "You are going to kill your dad, Bob. What are you going to do then?" My response, which is never changes and I must admit is not terribly creative, is "The real question what would your lard laden ass do without him to care of you?" The argument goes downhill from there.
Father dearest also has a bad habit of rescinding his authority when it comes to issues he is not comfortable with. Anytime an employee needs disciplined, a return phone must be made, or any issue involving Ebay, he states that I am the boss and need to take initiative and solve the problem. In other words my official job title is "Store Bitch" unless it involves serious problems or concerns, where upon I become the Store Manager.

As you can tell Dad isn't quite as bad as Mom but he is far from easy to work with or for. Of the two I would give him my non-cancerous kidney, while Mom well she would have to make do with the other one.

The purpose of today's' rant was to demonstrate that I do have a job, one that is extremely difficult and frankly, you probably couldn't handle it. The best thing for me would be to leave and start anew at a non-family run business, to leave the comfortable embrace of working in this hell hole, and instead start my long sojourn on the corporate ladder. What fun would that be? I might be the Jews to my parents Nazi Germany, but I don't think Bob would have it any other way. There heinous oppression has molded Bob into the man he is today. You may argue that isn't saying much, and I woud say "To Shut the Fuck up and die."

Have a nice weekend,

Go to Hell