(Usually I work alternate weekends to the store manager, but if either of us need time off we will swap shifts if we can.)

Manager: “[My Name], I need the Sunday off on my next weekend. Are you able to do it? I’ve been invited to a baby shower.”

(I check my calendar and see that I’ve got plans for that Saturday, but the plans I had for that Sunday can be done the following Sunday.)

Me: “Sure, I can do it.”

Manager: “Okay, that means you have Saturday off and work Sunday, but the next week I work your Sunday, so it evens out. Is that okay?”

Me: “Yes, that is fine.”

(A few days later, I notice that she’s got me working for the whole weekend.)

Me: “Why am I on for the Saturday?”

Manager: “Well, I figured seeing that you agreed to work the Sunday that you could work the Saturday, too.”

Me: “That wasn’t what we agreed to; we were swapping Sunday shifts only.”

Manager: “I need you to work on Saturday; I need to shop for a baby gift “

Me: “I have a family function on the Saturday.”

Manager: “Can’t you change it?”

Me: “It’s a wedding, and no, I can’t.”

(I get the day off, but on the weekend afterwards when I am supposed to work Saturday and have the Sunday off, she decides she will come in on the Saturday with me.)

Manager: “Seeing as I am in today, you can work tomorrow.”

Me: “What? I’ve made plans for tomorrow.”

Manager: “But tomorrow is your Sunday on; you can’t just make plans on your day on.”

Me: “I swapped shifts because you wanted the time off last week, remember?” *I go to look at the roster* “Hold on, you’ve got me working next Saturday, too.”

Manager: “I just wanted to make sure you had a day off and weren’t working every weekend.”

Me: “So, you gave me the Sunday off, on my weekend off, to make sure I had time off on the weekend? Which means I actually work four weekends in a row instead of the three I agreed to?”

(I made sure I get the Sunday and the Saturday off, but she made sure I knew that she was doing me a favour. I made my mind up that I would no longer swap weekend shifts with her.)

(I’m digging through the little-used corner cupboard in the kitchen. My mother comes in and watches for a moment, baffled.)

Mum: “What are you looking for?”

Me: “A plastic cup.”

Mum: “Why not just use one of the glass ones? The cupboard’s full of them.”

Me: “I want something that’s obviously enough not a drinking glass that no one will come along when I’m not paying attention and take a swig of my paint water.”

Mum: “Ah.”

(I have noticed that our store, which previously didn’t open on Boxing Day, has decided to open that day this year. My manager has scheduled me to work all day. She always does this for other public holidays and takes the day off herself. I don’t usually work on the day of the week that it happens to fall on.)

Me: “I’ve already made plans for Boxing Day, seeing as we normally don’t open and the fact that it’s not my normal rostered day.”

Manager: “It’s already been submitted.”

Me: “You do realise it’s not legal to force someone to work on Boxing Day?”

Manager: “Think of the money you’ll be getting.”

(My normal hourly rate more than doubles on public holidays. The next day I check the roster, and find that I’ve been removed from working that day.)

Me: “You’ve changed the roster.”

Manager: *not very happy* “Yeah, I had to; [National Manager] is forcing all managers to work to cut costs.”

(They are on fixed-wage. It didn’t help much, as sales only took in an extra $40 after covering wages for the day.)

This story is part of the Boxing Day roundup!

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Read the Boxing Day roundup!

(In the lead-up to Christmas, we have several Christmas themed cookies including a Santa and a tree.)

Customer: *points* “I want that red one!”

Me: “Oh, the Santa? Sure.”

Customer: “I call it the red one because I don’t celebrate Christmas, so I won’t say Santa.”

Me: “Uh, OK. That’ll be [price].”

Customer: “I just like the look of the red one. I won’t be calling it the Santa one because not everyone celebrates Christmas, you know.“

Me: “Well, here’s your red cookie. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

Customer: “Thanks. Maybe next year you can just call it the red one instead of Santa.”

(She leaves.)

Coworker: “For someone who doesn’t say Santa, she sure said it enough.”

My mother told me this story recently. My grandmother — an intractable, stubborn, and often vicious family matriarch if ever there was one — died not long ago and we were telling stories about her. This one made me laugh long and loud.

My grandmother was forever causing arguments with women in the family. She was determined to make sure that all the females in the family knew she was boss, end of story. The men, however, could do no wrong, especially my father, who was truly the apple of her eye.

My mother got into an argument with her. I had just been born — Mum and Dad’s first — and Mum was still getting used to me, and getting me into a routine of feeding and sleeping. Of course, my grandmother knew all there was to know about new babies and was forever butting in and driving Mum mad. One of her favourite tricks was to arrive at the house, with almost clairvoyant timing, just as Mum had got me to sleep, and insist on waking me up so she could spend time with me. Mum said that, had we lived far away from her so she only saw us occasionally, she wouldn’t have minded, but [Grandmother] lived just down the road and saw us every day. One day after it had taken Mum forever to get me to sleep, she absolutely forbade [Grandmother] from waking me, and the usual fight ensued.

Usually, Dad did what he and all the other male members of the family did when their wives, sisters, or daughters clashed with [Grandmother]: they did their ostrich trick and buried their heads in the sand. This time however, Dad came down on Mum’s side. He didn’t go to visit her, though he usually had morning tea with her every day, so she took to her bed with “back problems.”

When he still didn’t go to visit her, she let it be known that she was now paralysed. Still Dad stuck to his guns and stayed away. Finally, she was at death’s door and Dad didn’t give in. This went on for three days, and on the fourth day when [Grandmother] saw, from her bedroom window, Dad strolling down the road, this pain-wracked, paralysed, nearly dead woman leapt from her bed, ran down the driveway and screamed, “[Dad]! How dare you?! I am in agonising pain, I cannot move, and you ignore me! Ignore my suffering! What kind of son are you? Well, I’ll be dead in a day or so, and you and [Mum] will live with the knowledge that you caused it!”

My dad pointed out that she was standing on her own two feet, in her nightie, in the middle of the road. If she wanted this act of hers to really work, she would have to get back in bed and actually die. Then, he would feel sorry for her.

It sounds harsh, I know, but it had the desired effect. Once [Grandmother] realised that her interfering in our family wouldn’t be tolerated and that she would, in fact, be excluded, she stopped being quite so hard on Mum. The only shame is that the other men in the family didn’t take a leaf out of Dad’s book and stand up to her when their wives, sisters, and daughters were being bullied. She carried on being as tough on them as she always had been.