Thursday, October 29, 2015
Careful What You Wish
The thing is, most people wish big. They want to win the lottery. They want to find Mr. or Ms. Perfectly Right. They want to own a huge estate with servants and oodles of money and everything they ever wanted displayed on every flat surface and on every wall. They want, want, want, want, want.
I didn't want much. I remember wishing that I had enough money not to have to look at price tags when I bought food and clothes and that I had enough of what I needed and not everything I wanted. One must always leave room for improvement. I reached that a long time ago -- at least where having enough is concerned. I have enough not to have to stress over price tags and have to decide what clothes, foods, whatever to give up to have something. I'm not wealthy. I'm not poor. I have enough. In fact, I have a little too much, but I did get there.
That's the thing with having small wishes. The wishes are fulfilled and it takes a while for that fact to settle in. I remember someone telling me that rich was hard. What's hard about being rich?
Okay, there is worrying about whether someone wants to be with you for the grab bags and door prizes or if they really like you. There's having to maintain a style to which one has become accustomed. There is the lifestyle that is expected of someone who has money, lots of money. There are expectations, people with their hands out, and the taxes -- unless you're rich enough to own a senator or four and do not have to pay taxes because, between the lawyers and the senators, you are exempt by law. Then of course one must pay for the lawyers and senators and it might have been cheaper to just pay the taxes. At least taxes once paid don't have to be paid again until the following year. Lawyers and senators keep sucking at the checkbook until there is nothing left or they die (or are bumped off). In that way, being rich is hard. So much upkeep.
My wishes were small. I still want a few million books sold, but it's not about the money. It's about having millions of my books in readers' hands. Doesn't mean I will write for free. Writers should be compensated for their hard work, sweat, blood, and tears, not to mention start up costs. Cover illustrators and editors also expect to be paid for their hard work, sweat, blood, and tears, not to mention for their expertise. It's the way of business, and one I've no problem paying for services rendered.
But I arrived. I really have what I wanted. A good income sufficient for my needs and some of my wants with a great view outside my windows and doors. I'm even living in my dream home.
My only wish now is not to have to work for the corporate thieves that currently - and begrudgingly - pay my salary. I have enough even without them, especially since my paycheck is less than workers at Burger King make, and I have skills, experience, expertise, and knowledge. None of what I bring to the corporation has been earned without expense and I am not being compensated accordingly. I'd rather they fire me so I can collect unemployment, thus giving me time to finish a few more books and hone my artistic abilities. I don't think it will take me long to figure out when that wish comes true.
I'm no slacker, but I do object to being used and abused and treated like a nickel whore picked up on some alley and taken for a spin in the alley by the dumpster. Like everyone who has earned their stripes and done their time in the field, I expect to be paid what I'm worth, which is probably why you won't find me leaning up against a lamp post or lurking near an alley waiting for some cheap john to throw me a nickel or a dime for my time. Even toilets get better treatment.
I had a chat with my supervisor the other day and she informed me that I must find a better solution to having the electricity going out than calling off work or cutting my shift short. I told her that I am saving for a whole house generator, but it is currently beyond my means on the pittance they deign to pay me. Her response was to give me a verbal warning about my attendance. And I was so hoping she'd fire me, except that's not going to happen since there is NO ONE to take the graveyard shift and work the accounts and hours I work.
I am the squeaky wheel in the corporate machine. When a doctor fails to do his job, I let my supervisor know. Every Single Time. I believe that doctors should be held accountable for the same rules I must follow: accurate information and accuracy in performing the job, especially since patient safety is the most important part of the job. But, no. That is not the case.
Doctors are exempt from following the rules and accurately doing their job. After all, they have malpractice insurance for that eventuality. At least that is the corporate policy. Doctors get a pass on following the rules and I must fill in the blanks and cover the doctors' collective asses.
I understand that doctors have degrees and experience, but they are not above the law -- or the rules. And I am going to keep reminding them of that fact as long as I am still breathing. That is my job. I am not going to cover their asses and I am not going to lie for them. I won't lie for anyone come to that.
In that case, enough is enough -- and far too much. Do your job. I'll do mine.
As for compensation, I will continue to be the squeaky wheel. Someone is bound to notice soon, either to pay me more or fire me. Either way, I win.
Enough is enough.
That is all. Disperse.