Melissa Dylan's Blog

Posted by Melissa Dylan

It’s that time of year again—the holidays, where the rich enjoy lavish parties and spectacular gifts, and the poor work three jobs and loathe the birth of Christ.

I say this because I have recently transitioned. For most of my life I was one of the wage-earning service-industry workers, for whom the holidays meant extra hours and exhaustion. There was never proper time to purchase gifts for my own family and friends and Christmas Day was either spent working (ho ho ho!) or sleeping until 2 in the afternoon in an overworked stupor. Literally the best sleep I ever had was Christmas day 2001, after I spent the season temping for a bank and performing as a holiday Caroler in those Dickinson costumes that are adorable to you, but heavy and uncomfortable for me. I slept 14 solid hours, then woke up and demanded steak, a craving I’d had since spending my nights circling the tables at an upscale prime rib restaurant singing Silent Night for the millionth time. I would salivate over the lavish meals consumed by fancily-costumed rich families, with neither the time nor money to indulge myself.

The time was profitable—that January I was able to purchase an electric piano, a new car, and a trip to Vegas, and I did finally get my prime rib—but I can’t help but feel as if I short-changed myself for years over a few extra bucks. There is a magic to the holidays that I missed while pursuing the almighty dollar. I wasn’t able to travel home to be with my family for nine years straight. Christmas Trees and egg nog were annoying traditions that I participated in reluctantly—I would have much rather been sleeping in my rare moments off, than tramping through a vacant lot off Sepulveda Boulevard, choosing the least-brown evergreen. The holiday I had so loved as a child became at worst a burden, and at best a day on which I could finally sleep in.

Still, at the time I had little choice in the matter. If there was extra money to be earned, I would have been hard-pressed to give it up. The new car was a necessity, as my old car was in the shop more often than not. The trip to Vegas was the consolation prize for not being home for the holidays, and my family met me there to exchange gifts. The piano was an extravagance, but one that musically-minded individuals will understand entirely; being without a piano for two years was like being without a limb. None of these things would have been possible if not for the extra hours, and the extra hours would not have been possible without Christmas. Yet Christmas was something I had to forfeit in order to obtain these precious treasures in my life. The rich do not know this dilemma: Christmas? Or a car? They get both.

Therefore, Christmas became a thing to loathe, and I became Scrooge himself, bah humbah-ing at children who requested Silent Night again, because who really likes that song anyway?

But I realize now that I never hated Christmas. I hated the idea that I was missing Christmas, as I learned because of the very fact that I’ve had nothing but time on my hands this holiday season. Being out of work is a state I’m not used to, and as a result I’ve thrown myself into holiday preparations, writing out 40 holiday cards with elaborate messages by hand, creating cranberry-themed dishes from scratch, and going to great lengths to select the perfect gift for loved ones. My tree has been up since the weekend after Thanksgiving, and every morning it makes me smile. And though I still won’t be home for Christmas, I feel the warmth of the holiday season returning.

Even Silent Night makes me smile.

It’s unfortunate, really, that the holidays have become a season for the relatively wealthy, and I don’t just mean in terms of gift exchanges. What I lacked those bitter Christmases weren’t elaborate gifts under my tree—it was the gift of time to celebrate a holiday that should be for everyone. Instead, it exploits the labor class, those to whom extra hours or a second job mean the difference between public transportation and a reliable vehicle.

So please keep that in mind this holiday. When you go out to eat, be kind and patient to the servers who are pulling double-shifts because half the staff has gone on vacation. If you hit the movies on Christmas Day, thank the teenager who is missing dinner at home so he can save for college.

And God bless us, every one.

Posted by Melissa Dylan

I had to leave another job.

Wait! Hear me out.

I’m pregnant.

What does this have to do with my job? Good question. Because there’s no reason someone who is only 3 months pregnant should have to leave a job, right? Aren’t pregnant women serene? And glowy?

I’m not that lucky. While most women get to sail through pregnancy (some risking being punched in the face by me when they describe it as “the best time of [their] live[s]!”) I get to have one of those pregnancies you only hear about. The one where I’m so sick I can barely move most of the time. The one where food, smells, images of small children, and thoughts of several more weeks of this send me hurtling to the toilet every twenty minutes. The one that’s resulted in me in the emergency room not once, but twice.

I’ve tried everything. No. Everything. People, even those who can’t have possibly been pregnant because they’re prepubescent or male, love to offer advice on how to get over this “morning sickness.” The most popular being: “try to eat small, frequent meals, and never let your stomach get empty.” That’s easier said than done when my stomach has involuntarily become a self-emptying mechanism equipped with a catapult. Yes, I’ve tried crackers. Yes, I’ve tried ginger. I wear Sea-bands at all times like I’m a throw-back to the 80s and I worship my prescription to Zofran.

But even after all of that, I’m utterly useless. I tried going into work for awhile, but I found that just parking and walking the few blocks to the building wore me out like I’d run an Ironman marathon. I’d sit at my desk trying to concentrate, but find myself focusing instead on not puking in the trash can. I fell asleep several times at my desk. I had to head to the bathroom to be sick about every twenty minutes.

My bosses at the place I’d been temping were extremely nice. Once I explained it was morning sickness, (and not a series of hangovers, as one boldly guessed) they offered me flex-time, part-time hours, anything I needed. Whee! Finally some nice bosses! And I liked that job, I really did. I’d been hoping to turn it into a permanent position. But I just couldn’t continue. I was losing weight rapidly, and hadn’t kept food down in days. The only thing that worked was bed rest. And it wasn’t fair to them to keep working when my productivity level was at an all-time low.

I know that a lot of women work in spite of all this. I’ve heard tales of stronger women than me—those who braved their way past butcher shops and fishmongers to spend 10 hours on their feet pulling out pig intestines. They puke in the nearest bucket, and just keep going. Frankly, I don’t know how they do it. Even staying home all day, I have to lie down after folding a load of laundry. If I stand up too fast I’m in danger of passing out (which led to emergency room visit #1, complete with stitches for my lovely cracked-open face). I’m lucky if I can eat half a peanut-butter sandwich and keep down a glass of water. (Emergency room visit #2: hyperemesis, aka dehydration.)

Even writing has become impossible. The act of concentrating too hard exhausts me in minutes, and nauseates me as well. It’s difficult to explain, particularly to editors, agents, and producers who are patiently awaiting rewrites and articles. Whimpering “I’m pregnant!” just doesn’t seem an effective enough excuse. Particularly since at 13-and-a-half weeks, I should be over this by now.

I hope to feel better soon, like everyone promises me, in the fabled “Second Trimester.” I imagine it a magical time where unicorns will give me rides to work and leprechauns will show me their pots of gold. Or, at the very least, I’ll be able to walk past a Subway Sandwiches without eliciting my gag reflex.

I can’t wait to get back to work. But for now, I gotta go lie down.

Posted by Melissa Dylan

Could you imagine trying to live on $206 a week? You shouldn’t have to, but unfortunately this is the reality for millions of working Americans who earn minimum wage.

Seven Days at Minimum Wage is a video blog featuring low-wage workers simply trying to get by.

Minimum wage has not been raised in ten years, yet the cost of living has skyrocketed. Republicans have consistently blocked legislation to raise minimum wage to a much-needed $7.25 an hour.

Please vote on Nov. 7th to raise minimum wage.

Posted by Melissa Dylan

Many co-workers and friends of mine are reluctant to call in sick to work. They feel as if they're bad employees, disloyal, or taking advantage of the system to call off.

While I admire their tenacity, I also fear for the employees who never take sick time. Unless you're one of those people who never gets sick (P.S. I hate you a little bit), there are circumstances were calling in sick are warranted.

Those circumstances are detailed this week in Calling in Sick.

Enjoy. And drink your orange juice.

Posted by Melissa Dylan

Things I don't miss about my old job: staff alignment, the part of the workday where the staff stood around and the managers told us how much we sucked. Occasionally, a waiter or waitress was signaled out as being exceptional, but it was never me. However, sales and tip totals would indicate that I was doing an above-average job, and customers seemed to like me. Why weren’t my bosses taking notice? I’ll tell you why: I failed to brag.

If you’re not getting the recognition you deserve at your job, maybe it’s time to take matters into your own hands. I tell you how in this week’s article: Praise at Work.