This weekend, employees were offered the chance to work ten hours’ overtime on Saturday, eight hours’ worth today, and four hours OT daily for the coming workweek. In other words, our tax-return inventory is up into six figures, and overtime will be there for the asking for several weeks.
(I actually worked only 4½ hours today, because overtime hours were available from 15:00 until 23:00, and I had to leave by 20:00 in order to catch the last northbound bus. Weekend hours have to be worked during particular time slots—06:00 to 23:00 on Saturdays and 15:00 to 23:00 on Sundays, because those are the hours when IT brings up the mainframe. Saturday I didn’t work at all, because I was answering pledge phones at the NPR station fund drive—which again went very well, $509,000 raised in 8½ days.)
It’d be far, far easier to work overtime, though, if I didn’t have to ride the bus for an hour each direction to get to work—and this state of affairs will continue to obtain until the car’s fixed, which is probably still two weeks away. By which time I expect the overtime will be running out, and the point will be moot.
Riding the bus to and from work is becoming a great trial. I have to get up at five in the morning so I can be at the bus stop (about three blocks away) at 5:30, to catch the 5:45 bus that then takes 45 minutes to get me to work. In the evening it takes a full sixty minutes to get home, and that’s if traffic isn’t backed up. If it is, seventy-five minutes is more like it—which means that if I work all the weekday overtime there is, I’d be getting home about eight in the evening, just in time to go to bed.
This is not a life. It’s merely an existence.
The [censored] from Siberia shows up at Greaseland. Fnord.
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