I was having office hours today when the department secretary stuck her head in the door.
“You haven’t responded to your invitation to the diversity awards,” she said.
“I never got an invitation to the diversity awards,” I said.
“It’s in your mailbox.”
“I have a mailbox?” Kidding. I learned I had a mailbox about six months ago, maybe longer. I hadn’t checked it since. So I found it — it’s in an office I never visit — and pulled out the invitation to the diversity awards. Also, one to the department Christmas party and something from the president informing us of the rich menu of learning experiences available on campus. I reached all the way back, just to make sure I hadn’t missed anything.
And pulled out something that looked like the paychecks I used to receive before I signed up for direct deposit. Surely it was some sort of tax document. Dammit, already filed, I thought, ripping off the zip tabs on the ends, wondering if I’d have to file an amended return.
Unfolded it. It was a check. Made out to me. For several hundred dollars. Dated April 27, 2011. I have no idea why I was paid by check when it was supposed to be coming electronically. Don’t know why I didn’t notice I was short, except that adjuncts are paid through the term and when the term stops, the money stops, and this was likely the last one of the term. I probably thought it just stopped early.
I could go on at great length explaining my budgeting process to you, but it would only serve to make me sound even stupider. As it was, the two or three people I had to explain this to by way of getting it voided and repaid looked at me like I’m some silly rich twit who didn’t even know she was short an entire paycheck a whole year previous.
“I’m not rich!” I told them. “I’m just dumb.”
In three to five days, I will have a brand-new check. In four to six days, I predict a bill will arrive for precisely that amount.
One of my longer-term resolutions this year is to get certain financial ducks in a row. So if you owe me any money, please send a check now. Or just order lots of Amazon through the Kickback Lounge.
The WSJ had a story Thursday about how high schools are dealing with the prom-dress problem, i.e., enforcing the dress code necessitated by the new prom dresses.
“New prom dresses?” you ask. “How new can they be?”
How about this new, to use an extreme example, but not all that unusual, evidently. The story says that the trend toward cut-down-to-there, slit-up-to-here, tight/plunging/see-through dresses is coming out of Hollywood, driven by “Dancing With the Stars,” the Real Housewives and J-Lo, mainly. I urge you to take a walk through the Promgirl online catalog, and marvel — at the models, all of whom look like Kardashians on the far side of 30; at the cutouts; at the boob jobs; at the…whatever this is. Do any of the girls whose mothers permit them to walk outside the house dressed like this have any sense of propriety? Or are they all raising their girls to be sold into white slavery? I tell Kate if she wants to dress like this, I will teach her to say, in Russian, “My name is Olga, and I cost two hundred dollars.”
Best line from the story:
Southmoore High’s guidelines say male students must keep their shirts on all night. “We don’t care that you work out,” the guide states.
OK, then! Got any bloggage? Yes, and a wide variety of it.
From New York magazine, President John Tyler, born in 1790, our 10th president, has a living grandson. Yes, grandson:
Both my grandfather — the president — and my father, were married twice. And they had children by their first wives. And their first wives died, and they married again and had more children. And my father was 75 when I was born, his father was 63 when he was born. John Tyler had fifteen children — eight by his first wife, seven by his second wife — so it does get very confusing.
A T-shirt company in town sells a wide variety of shirts promoting various parts of the Metro — one emblazoned Taylortucky, for a downriver community; another showing a sombrero-wearing cactus for Mexicantown. But it wasn’t until it released one for Dearborn that featured the city’s name in Arabic letters that the shit hit the fan. Maybe that’s too strong. It was more like a vile fart in front of an air conditioner. I still want one.
There’s a second Mad Style post today! T-Lo, the gift that keeps on blogging.
A good weekend, all. Sorry I’ve been so uninspired, of late. It’s been a killer week.