so for the about the twelfth time since December of 2004, I got into the passenger seat last night and was greeted by a beaming boy who suggested we eat “someplace nicer” when I said “Pasta Petite!!”
Seth has announced a pay increase so many times that I can now recognize his “Raise Face.”
How much was it? I asked.
This time it was about a quarter of my salary. Damn farmers.
Although I’m totally pleased for Family Financial Security, I’m simultaneously bitter about my old man’s wages, benefits, iPods, Blackberries, Laptops, Cars, Champagne and Chocolates Rooms, etc.
“You should get into non-profits, where the real money is,” he said.
That announcement paired with a recent two-hour meeting with my city’s HR rep sent me further into a shame spiral. “You guys are getting screwed,” she says. I don’t think I had ever heard an HR department head urge unionization. Oops.
I know my husband’s raise is hardly grounds for bitching, but seriously. Why can’t I have a piece of that sweet, sweet pie? I love pie. Wait. I”m sorry. Please forgive me. I momentarily forgot what profession I chose to pursue. Sour grapes pie, it is. Plus I’m a girl, so you can just box up three-quarters of it. I’ll eat it over a late-night rerun of Starting Over.
Too bad I pretty much love my job. Community journalism is as important as teaching, even if it does pay half of what a part-time parks maintenance employee rakes in during a summer. As national newspapers crumble around us, the local papers will survive. Endorsements in local city council races will continue. The classifieds will prosper.
I’ve heard the public golf course market is pretty hot, too.
I am sooo fired.
Anyway, it’s fun to complain about how little we make. And the schedule is flexible enough to allow for an afternoon pedicure or a trip to the bookstore or the dentist, regardless of whether or not we can afford to go there.
But who am I to complain with a SugerFarm Daddy at my side? Granted, we’re not rich, by any means, but two meager starting salaries paired together make for one comfortable couple. Plus, I’m pretty sure it’s a hellava lot more than the single-income salary my parents used to raise two bratty little Washington Court House girls, which makes me appreciate their sacrifices all the more.
(Don’t worry mom, I’m sure that last braces and/or clarinet payment is scheduled any day now.)
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