Meaning: I continued to pay the faceless California bureaucracy for eight years, and nowhere in their contract with me does it say they have the right to impose additional conditions or penalties.
Of course, I haven’t gone over all the 2-point font in the contract with a fine-toothed comb, so maybe they do say that somewhere. I should review the contract in the next couple of days. If I wait to go over the fine print that till the whole situation stops making me hysterical, I’ll probably be dead.
Anyway, Ichabod agrees the situation seems monstrously unfair and essentially a punishment for being poor.
“You might have a case,” he said. “If you do have a case, you should fight it. It’s the principle of the thing.”
He might be able to put me in touch with some tax lawyers.
Also, Steve’s wife is dying. Steve lives catty-corner three houses down, and I don’t particularly like him on account of his habit of screaming, “Fuck this shit!” at the top of his lungs every time his snowblower motor takes longer than 10 seconds to ignite.
But I organized a neighborhood brigade to bring the Steve household meals for the next week—‘cause that’s the neighborly thing to do.
I’m down for chili tomorrow.
I’m very tempted to buy a couple of cans of Hormel, throw it in a pot, and pretend I cooked it.
But that would be wrong.
Not much else to report. I spent most of yesterday working on a very boring client piece.
I’d hoped to get it done, but I didn’t get it done because so-oo-ooooo boring.
But it should be finished today.
The sky is bright blue. The sun is out! The daffodils are spiking up through the hardened earth.
When you go through a northeastern winter, you really feel like you deserve the spring.