2/24: Bank On Me Telling This Workplace Story
I love bosses. Especially the ones that don’t know what the fuck they are doing.
I have been at my current place of employment for more than two years. When I first started working, I was told that I had pretty much a flex schedule, meaning that as long as I put in 40 hours a week, eight hours a day, I was in the clear. Fair enough. Now this job is about 25-30 miles from my house, and I have to brave two Interstates in order to travel to and from my job. I soon found out that an 8:30 a.m.-5 p.m. shift was going to involve a shitload of traffic. I then asked if it would be OK if I came in earlier. I was told that would be fine. After testing out what traffic is like early in the morning, I settled on working a 6:30 a.m.–3 p.m.
Working this schedule is good because not only do I avoid the early morning jams, but also coming home isn’t nearly as bad as it would be if I was out on the road at 4:30 p.m. Well, even though I got my work shift OK’d by people much more powerful than me, and even though there are two other co-workers who work the same hours I do, and have had their schedule for years, everybody is shocked when they call my office at 3:05 p.m. and I don’t answer because I’m in the car heading home.
I have worked this shift for two years now. There is no surprise to when I come in and when I leave. Now it’s bad enough when my one idiot boss decides to give me assignments to do at 2:50 p.m., but every couple of months we have a bunch of meetings that are scheduled for out-of-town representatives. Every three months a bunch of people come in from out of state and spend the day in meetings with us. There’s one meeting that I have to attend, and it’s funny because for the first year I worked here I didn’t come to these meetings. The reason? Nobody told me I was part of the meeting. However, what’s funnier is that this one meeting that I have to attend is ALWAYS schedules for 2-3 p.m., and it is always at least an hour long. I’m also never told ahead of time when these meeting are scheduled. Normally I really wouldn’t care about being out of the loop, but the problem is that I carpool with the better half, so whenever these meetings come around she has to find another way to get home.
Well today was a fun day. When I found out this morning that my meeting was at 2:30 p.m. I called the better half and she made other arrangements to get home. I then sat at this 90-minute meeting and afterward did some work that was asked of me by some out-of-town reps. A workday that normally ends at 3 p.m. was extended three hours, which is fine for me because that means three hours of comp time.
This is why I like working for an hourly rate. Sure getting a salary may seem more ‘professional” but if you get paid by the hour, you have a much better opportunity to resist getting buttfucked by your employers on time worked. I strongly recommend to anyone employed in the white-collar world to not only keep a log of when you arrive and leave your job, but to also keep a journal of what you do while on the clock. I know already that when I submit my timecard on Monday I’m going to be questioned about the extra hours I’ll have written down. Hey dipshit, I leave at 3 p.m. The meeting ended at 4 p.m. and then I was asked to burn several CD-ROMS, make 400 copies of a double-sided brochure, send off several e-mails containing attachments, make a few phone calls and update several web pages. You think I did all that shit for free just because I normally go home at 3 p.m.? Kiss my ass. I learned my lesson six months into this job when I spent about a week out of state on work-related matters. I busted my ass for 16 hours a day, waking up at 6 a.m. each morning and working into to middle of the night. When I got back, I requested to use some of the time I “banked” to move into the house that was recently purchased by the better half and me. You would have thought I said I wanted to fuck my boss’s wife with the reactions I got.
“Oh, really. Now what makes you think you deserve those three days off?”
“Because I worked 14-16 hours/day for four days, and you said I could bank these hours.”
“Oh really now?”
You fucking asshole.
Ever since then, I’ve kept a journal of what I do and when I arrive and leave work. It’s funny now when they ask me about what they think is a discrepancy on my timecard and then I whip out several sheets of documented sheets explaining what I did during my time for that day. After a few incidents, they have pretty much left me alone, but even when you think you are in the clear, it’s still wise to keep your journal because you never know when they’re going to try and Jew you out of some work time.
I should have learned my lesson when I was a high school puke working at Burger King and got screwed at that place, but that’s another story for another time.
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