So about this new job, I love it. My boss is smart and brave, not a micromanager, excited about social media, and has commitment to community involvement that pulses throughout her every corporate move. But I’d love it more if those first paychecks were already direct-deposited. I’m confident, sort of, payday is imminent, that there’s must be glitch in the paperwork, or delay in direct deposit, or a pile of
Show me the Money . . . please!
So I’m working. I’ve got the job and we’re emailing and teleconferencing and all is well in the world. Except for, um, the fee-for-service aspect. Where’s the moolah? I keep at it, and I’m working and loving it. Writing and thinking and bantering and learning to the tune of 15 hours a week. Been at it 6 weeks now, got paid for 2. Never was any good at math, but
My kid rips open her first-ever paycheck and her jaw drops. “Where’s my money?” she demands. Apparently, she was expecting more. Her and me both. That’s the thing about R-Js. The real jobs deduct real taxes, something babysitting, mowing lawns, dog walking, tutoring, and the wrath of other teen beats fail to do. Her iTune purchasing power greatly diminished, and she has yet to realize the reality of mortgage payments,