The Way Things Are






Hereís what I said
2005-10-25, 11:24 a.m.

Hereís what I said:

ďI have this dream of going into the file room, and opening the file drawer and finding exactly whatever document Iím looking for. I get panicky when I desperately need something, and I canít find it. If there is something I can do to help you accomplish this, Iíll help you out. We generate so much paper every day. I know itís boring, but itís so important.Ē

Hereís what I meant:

ďStop stockpiling the loads of paperwork I give you in that stack behind your desk, and file it in the proper files so that I can find what I need, dammit.Ē

Is it improper for me to expect the administrative assistant to keep track of the files? To take my finished paperwork from me, and file it? It was part of the interview process. We talked about it. Itís in the job description. Her first day on the job, I showed her the file room and asked if she was up to the task, and she blanched and said ďThis wonít do. Iíd like to make it organized and pretty.Ē

Sheís been revamping our file room from day one, but has lately stopped doing that because sheís getting other assignment from Peaches and me. But I believe sheís needing a fire lit under her ass to get EVERYTHING done, as we say in these parts. All of us here, we do EVERYTHING we need to do. We work fast, er, quickly.

I feel a little silly, like my sister-in-lawís Love and Logic strategy for making my nephew civilized enough for human interaction. ďOh, now Iím sad. I am very, very sad.Ē

But Iíd rather do the passive-aggressive thing of being kind of wistful, rather than being the stern disciplinarian, ďYou are not keeping my shit filed properly. Do it.Ē Thatís just not me. Iíd rather express my disappointment in the situation, rather than disappointment in her specifically.


Iím gassy, Iím constipated, Iím bloated, my emotions have been hijacked by estrogen or whatever it is that spikes during PMS, and now Iím sad about not being able to find a specific document in the file. I sat on the floor in her office, put the big-ass stack of stockpiled paper in my lap, and leafed through it until I found what I needed. This is why I donít get emotionally attached to the staff. You never know what fresh hell awaits you each morning.

I have dragged all of the past-due IRS ďmisunderstandingsĒ (we file about 20 different tax returns on properties each year, and sometimes those are late, and sometimes the IRS is an asshole) to the front of my desk, and Iím just writing checks made out to ďUnited States TreasuryĒ. One after the other. It does no good to question, no good to point out that you DID TOO send it, and just maybe the IRS didnít file it in the proper file folder. Just write the check and get it off the desk.

In other financial news, since I donít get child support these days, DW and I have worked out a new financial strategy. I still give him my paycheck, he deposits it into our joint account, and he takes care of the bills and what not. That partís for the best Ė Iím a little more relaxed about that stuff than he is. What are they going to do if my Visa bill is 2 days late, take away my birthday? But I digress.

Hereís the new strategy: since I no longer have money being direct-deposited into my account by the Texas Attorney General, bless his heart, I now just tell DW how much money I need to pay bills to the school, the church, for field trips and Lil Guy-related whatnot, and he gives it to me! Isnít that great? I havenít asked a husband for money EVER in my entire life. Ever. I donít think this is the strategy that weíre going to stick with.

Sometimes itís hard to be a woman.

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