Whack The Messenger
There's a pervasive and invasive creed in a workplace where there's a mix of, on one side, mothers, and on the other side, childless co-workers, that proclaims that the mothers merit a consecrated place at the head of the line of least resistance in all things work related.
Sheeit.
The rule on scheduling classes round heah is that the Moms without question get the fewest preps, are last in, first out, and are entitled to at least one "sick day" per week. It goes without saying that other Moms present aren't responsible for the picking up of the slack for the Mom who is out for the day. The UN Declaration on Human Rights doesn't include non-breeders in its list of folks entitled to its list of intrinsic freedoms and inherent dignities. And, no, tending to the care and maintenance of seven cats, all of whom have one or more types of anxiety or mood disorders, doesn't qualify me for some of those basic Mom perks.
This is why I volunteered to be on the scheduling committee.
For the past three weeks life has been terrifyingly busy. And sometimes, downright terrifying.
The university has a registration cut off date, followed by a late registration cut off date and then a neverending cut off date for students who don't mind whipping up imaginery grief by knocking off a grandparent every now and then if they need a good excuse for bending rules. Grandparents drop dead by the dozens throughout a semester here.
Ok. So it is possible in a society that promotes old timey polygamist unions to have in one's extended family dozens of grandparents--and when you factor in a preference for cousin on cousin marriages, it could be that they're telling the truth.
So here it is, week three and new faces continue to crop up each day--having, in theory, just come from a funeral. So the scheduling committee has had to meet nearly every day for the past three weeks as class sections expand then collapse or fold into one another as we try to accommodate this stream of late comers who come bopping into class weeks after the registration period, the late registration period, and the late, late registration periods have closed.
But do not even think about rescheduling a Mom.
As a result, the non-Moms must meet with a new group of students in different classes and sections every third day or so. I used to be one of those non-Moms whose schedule didn't gel until a few weeks before midterms.
That's why I joined the scheduling committee. I make my own schedule. That's one up in my favor. However, now I am responsible for bringing trials, tribulations and grave injustices into the lives of so many whose only sin it seems is that they forgot to beget.
So my cell phone has been switched off. My office door remains locked. I skipped out on the beginning-of-the-year pot luck welcome back dinner--too many cold shoulders and icy glares dished up with the falafels and humus.
Ah. You know. Fuggem.
At least I got to keep my cake schedule.
And I'll go through this again in the spring for the sake of me. I'm just that way. Ask anybody.
Sheeit.
The rule on scheduling classes round heah is that the Moms without question get the fewest preps, are last in, first out, and are entitled to at least one "sick day" per week. It goes without saying that other Moms present aren't responsible for the picking up of the slack for the Mom who is out for the day. The UN Declaration on Human Rights doesn't include non-breeders in its list of folks entitled to its list of intrinsic freedoms and inherent dignities. And, no, tending to the care and maintenance of seven cats, all of whom have one or more types of anxiety or mood disorders, doesn't qualify me for some of those basic Mom perks.
This is why I volunteered to be on the scheduling committee.
For the past three weeks life has been terrifyingly busy. And sometimes, downright terrifying.
The university has a registration cut off date, followed by a late registration cut off date and then a neverending cut off date for students who don't mind whipping up imaginery grief by knocking off a grandparent every now and then if they need a good excuse for bending rules. Grandparents drop dead by the dozens throughout a semester here.
Ok. So it is possible in a society that promotes old timey polygamist unions to have in one's extended family dozens of grandparents--and when you factor in a preference for cousin on cousin marriages, it could be that they're telling the truth.
So here it is, week three and new faces continue to crop up each day--having, in theory, just come from a funeral. So the scheduling committee has had to meet nearly every day for the past three weeks as class sections expand then collapse or fold into one another as we try to accommodate this stream of late comers who come bopping into class weeks after the registration period, the late registration period, and the late, late registration periods have closed.
But do not even think about rescheduling a Mom.
As a result, the non-Moms must meet with a new group of students in different classes and sections every third day or so. I used to be one of those non-Moms whose schedule didn't gel until a few weeks before midterms.
That's why I joined the scheduling committee. I make my own schedule. That's one up in my favor. However, now I am responsible for bringing trials, tribulations and grave injustices into the lives of so many whose only sin it seems is that they forgot to beget.
So my cell phone has been switched off. My office door remains locked. I skipped out on the beginning-of-the-year pot luck welcome back dinner--too many cold shoulders and icy glares dished up with the falafels and humus.
Ah. You know. Fuggem.
At least I got to keep my cake schedule.
And I'll go through this again in the spring for the sake of me. I'm just that way. Ask anybody.
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5 Comments:
Oh no. I find myself bobbing up and down on my own - what's that thing called that - see saw. I had to go and google it and, apparently, it's too old fashioned for any one to manufacture it anymore. In the end, I had to remember it all on my own.
So. My own see saw. On the one hand, I'm thinking you're very clever and am more than a little impressed at the lengths you've gone to protect yourself.
On the other hand, as a non-children owner myself who never EVER has an excuse good enough to equal a Mom's - in spite of having some pretty damned good excuses - I'm battling a curling lip as I write.
I'm going to go pour myself some wine and watch a movie that I don't have to explain to anyone. That kind of makes up for it.
Booda, would you snarl at me less if you knew that most if not all Moms here hire Malaysian, Sri Lankan or Filipino maids to work on call 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, three year contracts to not only do all household chores but to bear the brunt of the child rearing process? Who wouldn't take this out when you can get a live-in virtual slave for a couple hundred bucks a month, and since their passports are pulled and locked away, they ain't goin' nowhere. It's true! Google= abuse maids arab gulf states. Makes you want to bear your teeth.
Ridiculous, how long I've been meaning to reply to your reply and didn't.
I wouldn't really snarl. I don't know where I got this thing, that I genuinely care about doing my job well, independent of how others are doing theirs. It's probably the freelancer in me, don't you think?
Lately, though, since I've been managing others, I really have to be attentive to spreading the access to creativity and looseness around. I'm sure THEY think of it as spreading the burden. Ha.
Anyway, that extra piece, the much abused maids, would make my head explode. (I just had to delete a whole paragraph. Undoubtedly why it's taken so long to reply. Really, a person could go on and on about it.)
I keep forgetting which side of the congressional aisle supports family leave acts--it's not the family values side, and that confuses me. I've been away too long. OK. Give the Moms a break. Give the Dads a break. But please hire temps or adjuncts. I'm busy.
Ugly monkey with lipstick.
Burns
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