In PA, you cannot get an I-9 notarized. It’s a law. I explained this in September and all was well until two days ago when an HR assistant to an assistant to an unpaid intern from some college in Boston who can’t understand English got involved and suggested this morning that I drive around to banks all day to find one that would do it. My response? “If you would prefer that instead of doing my job today or tomorrow, I drive around to local banks to see if I can have it notarized, please let Rucha and Cindy know that HR is requiring this of me and that our project will be put off schedule while I attempt to do this, and know that it will likely be fruitless and you still will not have a notarized copy. I assume mileage for this escapade will be reimbursed?” Now they’ve
Dear Job That Sounded So Promising: No, I am not working this weekend. Yes, I realize that there are 174 emails in my inbox at this moment; I did look briefly this morning. My favorite one — I peeked at it — said, “I know you are probably busy doing family things and holiday stuff, but this is important…” When I said on Friday that I was both done, and done in, I meant it. No more 10 hours a day, 7 days a week. It’s thankless. I don’t even think you realize that I’m doing it, or worse, you expect it. I doubt I’ll even get a Christmas card from my boss let alone a gift or a holiday bonus, and there will be no boozy Christmas parties with bad holiday sweaters and frenemies seemingly like all is well for me because I’m remote. Some of us enjoy that.
“Dear Patty, Please excuse Daniel from Religion class FOREVER. The batshit nun whose constant focus on suffering, death, dying and the separation of children and parents in heaven has caused enough distress in my child that I will likely put a therapist’s kid through an Ivy League school trying to calm him down. Yeah, I know I sent him to Catholic school, and I know you can’t control the punitive penguin who spouts this crap, but he is done with being in her class. Capisce?” Okay, I prolly need to work on the verbiage a little.
In Daniel’s backpack, I find the the following note, “Happy Monday Families! Your child may have been exposed to lice…” And I want to write back, “Dear Patty, While there may be a handful of things that make a Monday happy (like putting the urchin on the bus in the morning and thinking a thought without interruption while sipping my coffee), lice is not among them…” Time to dig out the Fairy Tales shampoo and pretend I’m a mother gorilla looking for nits…
“Why do Mormons merry zombies?” My eyes fly open. He’s sitting on the floor next to my bed, and it’s 5:30AM. “No. What? What are you talking about? Why are you awake?” “Sister Sheila is a bride of Christ, right?” In my head: BBQ. Just BBQ. It’s gonna be one of THOSE mornings. In reality: “Yes, she told you that.” In my head: Darn you, Sheila, and your “I live with 50 Brides of Christ and you think your life is hard” comments! “Well, then Sister Kathleen is a bride who merried Jesus, too. And SisterNancyCoyle. And Sister Maryanne. And Sister Jo. And SisterTerrorants.” I sigh. “Terencia.” “Her. And if all of them merried Jesus they’re Mormons. Cause Mormons merry lots of people, right? So Jesus has lots of wifes. And since he’s dead in heaven, he’s a zombie. So the sisters are Mormons who merry zombies, right? Is Jesus
So far this morning, my secretary, aka “the suckretary” has battled a mortgage broker, had two fights with her OCD hubs over his bathroom “issues” and this mortgage thing, chatted with a coworker about how much she hates me and that I am back in the office, totally messed up arrangements for a conference next week and had a screaming match with her 21yo daughter, who has pulled out all of her eyelashes and eyebrows, about bathing. Because she has not washed in 9 days. Is there a novena for new jobs?
Daniel to server: “I’m goin’ commando. My mother forgot to pack my underwear. It’s thurfree days now.” I give him the Death Stare across the table, which he pretends not to see. 20 yo Server: “Well, that’s not good. You need underpants But I like your tattoos. They’re pretty cool. I love dragons. Are they REAL????” Daniel: “My mudder spends money on some stuff, like my tattoos. They ARE real. And ice cream and candy. She fed me ice cream all day today while she drank wine on the boat. This is my first real food since breakfast. But she said she wasn’t going to spend $17 on boxers so I have to go commando.” Server: “Well, I guess we all have our priorities” as she wanders off and returns with an entire BOWL of maraschino cherries for him (like they’re a fruit, with nutritional value). In my head: “Listen
Dear College That Had Me Spend 6.5 Hours Interviewing Today, You should have offered me, at the very least, a danish, if not a sammich, though I do appreciate the AA who “stole” me a bottle of water from another meeting at 1PM. I am not enthralled or impressed. Epic Fail. Sincerely, The Candidate Whose Salary Demands Have Just DOUBLED.— in West Windsor, NJ. West Windsor, New Jersey City · West Windsor, New Jersey
From the back seat: “Jesus is like the King of all Zombies.” Me: “Jesus is NOT a zombie.” Back Seat: “He got dead then undead. The undead are zombies.” Me: “Zombies eat brains. Jesus never ate anyone’s brains.” Back Seat: “Were you in that church? Jesus ate all their brains. They sing to statues. He’s been eating brains for millions of years. And those people were eating his brains, too, to make more zombies.” Me: “WHAT???” Back Seat: “That Body of Christ thing when everybody ate Jesus. Brains are parts of the bodies. They’re ALL zombies, Mom.” Me: ‘Aaahhrrggghhhaaa…” Back Seat: “Do NOT try to make me be a zombie churcher, too.” Me: “You’re going to school there.” *awesome realization that your kid knows more about zombies than God*
The Elf on the Shelf has bitten the dust. Having been threatened with death three days ago “I’m going to kill you, Elf, if you tell Santa” (in Daniel’s best Damien from the Omen voice), he was then thrown in a dark trash can so he couldn’t report what was going on back to the North Pole. Tonight, he ended up drowned, in a toilet, because “No one likes a tattletale elf, Mom.” I hope Santa brings me gift cards to Wine & Spirits…