Fuck Farm Fresh

Fuck Farm Fresh in its ruby red puckered asshole.

For the past few summers, I have had a number of part-time jobs. I usually have one main job that either makes most of my money or takes up most of my time (i.e., my camp counseling job for the past five or six summers or my internship this summer) and then a part-time job to supplement my income. I would like to think of it as a cherry on top, however most of these cherries have turned out to be dingleberries. Dingleberries do not go well with ice cream.

I know you are probably asking "Don't all summer jobs suck in some way?" and "What do you expect?" and "What is a dingleberry?" Let me start by saying that I can think of each job I have had and pinpoint exactly what made it blow: my job at the Virginia Beach Amphitheater = back-breaking work + low pay + upper level management douche bags = fuck you guys, I'm out of here; my job as a concierge at the Cavalier Hotel = easy work, but having to stand like a fucking royal guard for hours + a lot of supervisors and superiors who take pleasure in treating lower level employees like shit + the most butt-kissing this side of "The Art of Ass to Mouth: Volume 5" (yes, that is a real movie title) = you may sucketh my balls as I bid you adieu. These experiences would have probably led me to believe that all summer jobs are awful, if it weren't for my job as a camp counselor. That job was fun (hard work, but still fun); I liked most, if not all, of my co-workers and superiors; and it paid well. So, to answer your question, I do think there are good summer jobs out there, and furthermore a dingleberry is a small piece of shit. Without getting into too much anatomical detail, it can be really annoying.

That brings me to today. I've been working at Farm Fresh for a few weeks now, and I have been patiently waiting for that hallmark moment that finally pushes me over the edge into "you know what? fuck this job" territory. I feel that the moment has arrived: I always forget when my shift is because we are not given schedules and there is no consistency in shifts whatsoever. I'll have a shift that's listed as 'Wednesday night from 3:47:36 PM to 1300 hours military time.' Usually, I call in, and someone can easily tell me. This morning I called in and spoke with someone named Carole. Carole put me on hold to talk to someone named Pam. I was on hold for a good five minutes before Carole picked back up and said "Thank you for calling Farm Fresh. How may I help you?" For some reason, like an Alzheimer's patient I repeated my exact request. She then stated "I couldn't get through to Pam. Hang on a second." Allow me to now paint a picture of the workplace for you all: The customer service desk, where Carole was standing, is located at the front of the store and is approximately ten yards to the left of the clipboard that holds the schedules for Farm Fresh employees. I don't know who Pam is, or why she is necessary for this interaction to take place. Maybe Pam is the person who is designated to carry Carole over to and back from the clipboard. Maybe it's a firemen's carry situation, and Pam is the missing link in this chain that would otherwise successfully fling Carole to and fro the clipboard. These were the thoughts running through my mind as I waited for about ten minutes before, by the beard of Zeus, Pam picked up the phone. I explained to this mystery lady that I was trying to figure out when my shift starts. Well, I guess Pam was not the solution to my problems as she put me back on hold, which is good because my second question was going to be "Hey, is there any way I could listen to some more shitty oldies? I don't get enough of a fill during my shifts." Another five minutes or so rolls by, and I finally hear someone (and it very well could have been Carole) pick up the phone and say "Thank you for calling Farm Fresh. How may I help you?" My brain wanted my voice to let loose with a high-pitched scream that would shatter the ear drum of the person I was talking to (I imagine it would result in a Bat-Boy-esque facial expression), but I said to my brain 'No, brain. I'm going to handle this in a civilized manner.' Word-for-word, I stated, "I'm not going to keep doing this. All I wanted to know was when my shift started, and I have been put on hold for 15 or 20 minutes. So, I'll just get to work when I get to work," and I hung up. I was so mad that I couldn't even take a nap.

In all honesty, if that was the end of it, I would not have even made a blog entry about it. About an hour later, I had cooled off, thanks to a little bit of video games, when the phone rings. It's my boss (or one of my bosses, I guess), Nancy, and she starts off by saying "I understand that you called earlier asking about your shift, and you got a little impatient." This time, my brain wanted me to make a noise that would cause the listener to lose control of his/her bowels, thus filling his/her pants with human waste. I again explained to my brain that it was uncivilized and, furthermore, physically impossible to do so. I told Nancy that it was true that I called, however I was in and out of being put on hold for about 20 minutes. Nancy proceeded to do that wonderful thing when people talk to their employees like they are autistic. She goes, "Well, we are always busy here; you do know that we are always busy here, don't you Phil?" I wanted to say "First of all, I'm a fully functioning adult. You don't have to talk to me like I'm Corky from 'Life Goes On.' Secondly, bull shit that Farm Fresh is really busy on a Tuesday morning, or any weekday morning for that matter. People are at work weekday mornings. If we were busy on weekday mornings, why do you always need me to work afternoons and nights?" Instead of saying that, I simply said 'yes' and allowed to her to continue to feel like she is the greaser of the well-oiled machine that is the Farm Fresh on Great Neck Road. She explained to me that it is my responsibility to come to work and write down my shifts. Every job at which I have worked has provided a listing of shifts for its employees. I'm sorry if I don't keep loose-leaf paper with me at all times like Nathanial Bowditch, completing the chart of logarithms so that people may safely sail the seven seas (I knew reading "Carry on, Mr. Bowditch" in the seventh grade would help me someday, but who knew it would come in the form of an obscure reference in a lengthy blog entry). Oh, and my shift starts at 4:30. That's all I wanted to know in the first place. (But man, would it have been awesome if she was calling to fire me. It would almost be worth it to get fired from being a bagger.)

Earlier my dad called home, and I told him about what happened. I would have argued that the lesson to be learned is that anything can be turned into a whining yet hilarious (and in this case, laugh-out-loud funny) blog entry, but he made a better point: when I get out on my own, don't treat people I work with in that way. I will utilize this lesson when I start my career as a bagger at the Farm Fresh on Laskin Road. I can't wait.