Friday, November 02, 2012

where's my goddamn money?

Somebody screwed the pooch, because I got paid exactly zero dollars after having done 36 hours' proofreading work this past pay period. I looked at my direct deposit tonight, saw that it was several fucking hundred dollars short of where it should have been, and got extremely pissed off. We're supposed to log our proofreading hours via a special website that tracks our activity; a week before our actual payday, we click on "Export Timesheet" to generate an MS Excel file, then shotgun-email that file to three different addressees, one of which is our company's accounting office. Now, I sent my time sheet in punctually, so I was expecting to be credited with 36 hours' proofing time in addition to 44 hours' in-class work. Didn't happen.

Furious doesn't begin to describe how I feel right now.

This has immediate consequences for my car. As things now stand, I don't have the money to put the car in the shop: most of my meager pay will go toward rent, my ISP, and my monthly insurance premium, leaving me with very little money to survive the next two weeks.* So unless I can get the remaining pay expedited to me in the next 24 to 48 hours (I've sent an email to one of our higher-ups in the hopes of immediate action), I'm basically going to have wait another two goddamn weeks before I'm in a position to put my car in the shop.

It goes without saying that driving around in a damaged car for another two weeks is a risky endeavor. Although the car seems drivable, there's that pebble in the wheel rim to consider, along with that worrisome vibration that may or may not be tire-related. I made sure, in my email to the Big Boss, to highlight the danger of delaying my car's repair. We'll see whether he takes the hint.

Now that I'm this pissed off, there's another reason not to attend that staff Christmas party.

*And that's how things typically go, anyway: I normally barely scrape by from paycheck to paycheck, given my debt load; it's only when I earn extra cash through proofing that I have a bit of breathing room. When that cash fails to arrive, I'm sunk.



  1. That sucks moose balls, dude.

    Maybe you should attend the Christmas party and bring a few cocktails of your own... you know, of the Molotov variety.

  2. My rage has died down somewhat since I wrote this post, but my trust in the company has been shaken.



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