Life for me lately - workwise, home-renovations wise and health-wise has been rather hectic and frustrating to say the least.
After the hassles of a soul-suckingly shiteful working day, it would be nice to head to my home as a haven of love, support and rest. However due to the current renovations that have gone on longer than a heavy metal guitar solo my 'haven' is literally three bedrooms to cook, eat, sleep and watch TV and use the computer in. The only other option of having somewhere to sit apart from the bed is by venturing outside to the tarpaulin-covered (and bird-poo dotted) sofas being stored under the back verandah. All with a fetching view of a dust bowl garden artistically patterned with Dogadoo's arse offerings.
No grass is left thanks to the total removal of top soil after our two underground rainwater tanks were installed, so we are either treated to a mouthful of dust when the gully winds blow or track slimy wet chook droppings and clay through the house.
It has therefore been a huge consolation that the editing and proof-reading process on my book (due out in January 2008; fingers crossed) has been a very cooperative and smooth one. Well for me anyway: maybe I shouldn't assume the same on the part of the editor.
Anyhow, it was with a great sense of indignation, anger and entitlement that I wrote a butt-kickingly stern account of my view regarding a situation that has gone from bad to worse in my day job. The time for feeling nervous and tearful had long since passed and my written missive was a first step in showing the heavies that sometimes we, pond-scum level plebs:
a) know our rights;
b) have a fair point to make;
c) deserve a right of reply;
d) are 'innocent' and should be treated as such; and
e) aren't going to shrink and disappear into the distance without getting resolution to all of the above.
Before submitting my 'Why I deserve to live' statement to the Head Honcho Hangman, I read through it a few times. A few more examples were added, some searing pieces of factual evidence to support my assertions were included and I threw in some choice descriptors (that were in fact true) that I knew would force the reader(s) to sit up and take notice.
Now for those of you regulars who 'know' my Dad* - a retired high school teacher with a mischievous streak and a fetish for good spelling - will also know that he's always been a supporter of workers' rights and the entitlement of every person to state their case. I asked him to check through my electrified email to see if I'd properly, professionally and maturely got my points across.
Dad confirmed that I had. "Go for it, Kiddo. You've exposed their contradictions and unfairnesses. Geez, this could be the SA Education Department Cardigans from the early 1970s!"
Off it went - in person, to a meeting, where I asked not to be interrupted as I read from it. Also via email, so that the hard copies I presented could not be 'lost' in the long 11 metre journey from my hand to the Head Honcho's office.
I sat back, feeling anxious, annoyed, outraged, hopeful of a fair resolution, nervous, shaking. Even chocolate lacked it's normal appeal (I never thought I'd ever had to write that in a sentence!) All I could do was wait for their response (I'm still waiting, in fact).
The phone rang - Brrrrrr- I was on it quicker than Britney on a bucket of frappuccino - Finally, the issue will be resolved, my name will be cleared and my reputation restored......! Aw bugger, it was only Dad.
"Er Kiddo, I just have to tell you. It's about your ~~long, delicate pause~~ um, that email. You've made a typo."
"Oh geez, where? Where Dad, where?" My heart was pounding harder than John Holmes at his celluloid peak.
"Er you mis-spelled the word 'foreword'."
"But I added the 'e' after the 'fore' bit and before the 'ward'."
"Nah sorry mate, it's fore WORD, as in 'before the words of the book', not 'foreward' as in goin forward but with an 'e' thrown in. I just had to point that out to you."
"Ohhh god, I feel so very blonde now Dad," I said, stifling a laugh but blushing at the same time. "I've used that word throughout my statement - it's the central bloody theme for hecks' sake - boy oh boy, that sure takes a fair bit of the sting out of my tail."
Dad chuckled. "Ah well, at least you can laugh about it. We're still with you kiddo."
"Yeah I know. I'm still a good speller you know Dad - even Love Chunks can't spell diarrhoea and I hold the crown for best speller in the Grad. Dip. Ed. course at Adelaide Uni in 1993-----"
"True. But I'm better."
And he is too.* I never seem to be able to get that hyperlink dooverlacky thingo to work, so you can read about my Dad here: http://blurbfromtheburbs.blogspot.com/2006/08/eat-your-veges-theyll-make-your-teeth.html