and how much their jobs fucking suck right now to have lunch together. That would be R and me, and we work together and we are both staring down the barrel of 50 and both in the same place in our despair about our work lives. We are too old, too experienced, and too smart to deserve the crap that we live with right now. He has it even worse than I do, believe me. I wish, wish, wish I could go into more details, but cheer up, I may get fed up enough to quit on Monday and then you'll get details. At least about me, I can't out him.
No raise in the paycheck today. Jefe is out at some mandatory company function, with several powers that be and the head of HR, so I figured this was a fine time to send him a little note he could read on his Blackberry, gently inquiring into the status of the raise and promotion that has been dangled over my head for, oh, more than an entire quarter now. I sent the email late in the day and don't expect an answer until maybe Monday. But Monday there will be an answer.
It will either be, "It's a done deal, here it is in writing, sign here, the money will be in your next check," or I will quit. It's really quite simple. I have enough self respect and more than that, I know my value in the local legal market, and I know that I am making average money for working way above and beyond the call of paralegalhood. Yes, I was very excited about scrubbing off the scarlet P, but if that turns out to have been bullshit, I will put my P back on and go where I can just do the P-word job and NOT have to put up with the shit. I don't want to do that. I really wanted this to work out. But I don't have a good feeling.
And if/when I do quit, I want the entire internets to scream at me if I start talking about going back to work before I take at least a full month off. Because I can afford to be unemployed for a while, and could even afford to do contract work for a while and be picky about a job, but I really, really like the idea of a month off, to think things over, do things I want to do around the house, and not rush from one job to another, only pausing long enough to slap some paint on a wall and throw my back out laying sod, instead of visiting Cousin C to drink margaritas at a beachside bar, like any sane non-type-A would.