08 July 2009

I see. It's one of those weeks.

Man, if it ain't one thing, it's a-motherfuckin'-nother. Since Saturday, I've been praying my car doesn't decide it's been stolen and lock itself up again before I can get it down to the dealership on Friday. Every time I get in, I say, "Please start," and hold my breath when I turn the key. When she starts up, I say, "Thank you baby. You're a good girl."

Come on. I can't be the only person who has ever talked to (pleaded with, cajoled, scolded) her car, right? Right?

Wondering whether or not your car is going to start every time you climb into it is fairly stressful. But there is a resolution on the horizon. An expensive resolution, but a resolution nonetheless. So, I've got the other half of this pantload of money I have to spend on the horizon and I'm thinking I'll be able to squeak by on my next paycheck. I did have to bail out of girls' weekend -- squeaking by means little to no fun in the coming weeks.

Then we get an e-mail today from the corporate office. They're moving payroll to our parent company next week. This means we're going from bimonthly paychecks to biweekly paychecks.

Now, this isn't a huge deal, except for one little thing: We won't get a paycheck for three weeks. No check on the 31st. The next check is August 7. That's well after the 1st, when my rent is due. It's even after the 5th, which is the last day to get the rent paid before incurring a late fee.

But never fear, the e-mail includes the following sage advice:

It is imperative that you review your personal cash flow situation. You may need to make adjustments with your personal budgeting to accommodate the change in the pay schedule.

Hey thanks, corporate office, for fucking up my entire financial life. And for giving me an Entire Week! to review my personal cash flow situation. Even my coworkers with two family incomes are going to have to adjust shit because you set things up to come out of your account at certain times, based on when you get paid.

Mother.

Fucker.

Sometimes I feel like I just can't fucking catch a break. Thank fucking Christ I can drown my sorrows in cheap-ass Trader Joe's wine. Just the thing to take the edge off after outdoor yoga. Maybe, just maybe, I'll sleep tonight. Eventually.

4 comments:

Emily said...

I used to talk to my car in high school whenever I had to merge onto the freeway, just begging it to get up to a reasonable speed.

Jess said...

That sounds like my sister's Ford Tempo. I had to drive it in Minneapolis a few times and I was always begging the Tan Turd to let me merge without being smashed.

Rachel said...

Trader Joe's wine is the ultimate cure for shitty co-workers, shitty life, shitty car, shitty boyfriends boxers that his ex-girlfriend bought him. Cheers!

Jess said...

I feel there's a story here that needs to be told.