HAIRSHIRT
Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery
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HAIRSHIRT Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery |
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Thursday, August 02, 2007The Root of All Whining
So not only have I given up my precious, precious two-month summer hiatus to teach unenthusiastic kids remedial math skills, it now appears I may have been doing it free.
Okay, not really. At this point, all I know is that, after weeks of uncertainty and kvetching over when the hell we were going to get paid for hauling our asses to the Bronx four days a week when we should be home sleeping (or drunk (or drunkenly sleeping)) everyone else I've talked to received their checks in the mail yesterday. They were all very happy. The pricks. Myself, I was pouty. "Mo-o-om! How come he gets a check and I don't? God! It's so unfair!" No real alarm bells went off. I just told myself, "Hey, these things happen. It's a bureaucracy and sometimes you might be waiting an extra day." I figured my check would be waiting in my mailbox when I got home. Except that it wasn't. Which is when I started getting pissed. Stormed up the stairs. I slammed the door. I threw the mail which had dared not include my check down on the coffee table. I yelled at the dog for dropping his slobber-filled stuffed moose on my be-flip-flopped foot. Fortunately, the Dept. of Ed. website provided me with all sorts of contact phone numbers so I could get in touch with someone who might be able to answer my pimp-like question, "Where's my fuckin' money?" Unfortunately, the folks at the D.O.E. don't feel the need to actually answer these numbers. The best I could do was leave a couple of messages and send a plaintive e-mail. Now, I know--rationally, I know--that my check is out there someplace and it'll turn up eventually. It's just apparently going to be something of a hassle. We still have my regular salary and my wife's salary, plus what I make donating plasma every Tuesday night in the PlasmaVan outside the shelter. It's just that, when you expect to be getting some money, and everybody else is getting theirs, you find a little panic seeping in. "Are you trying to screw me? I'll show you who you're screwing with! I'll rip your fucking balls off, saute them in truffle oil and fucking feed them to you, jackass!" Summer school blows.
Comments:
My principal fucked up and didn't get my payment form (and several other people's as well) signed in time. So I'll be getting two checks next time. Whatever.
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