For the first time, we are three months behind. The state imposed ten "furlough" days on its employees, which means that my partner loses two weeks' income. And the woman I have worked for since 2002 decides that she too wants to take the work I am doing "in house." I am reassigned to develop subsidiary programs while someone in the Florida office takes over the main program. Of course, first I have to train her.
This reassignment gives my boss the chance to trim back my hours. After all, I'm only a contractor. My income is sputtering, trying to stay alive.
We call about our loan modification every week to 10 days. "In process...." they always say. Until about 60 days had passed. Then they suddenly need us to submit the paperwork again, because the stuff they have is too old.
We dutifully send it in again. Phone calls every week to 10 days. Oops, paperwork is too old. Please send it again.
We send it a third time. Phone calls. Oops, too old. Send it again.
A fourth time. Phone calls. Oh, sorry, the latest round of paperwork didn't get here soon enough. We closed your request for a modification. Start over.
How much do we spend on food every week? Electricity? Gasoline? Health care? I feel guilty buying new socks for my son.
The woman who plays Solitaire and files her nails while she talks to me is sitting in a big, comfy chair somewhere in Texas, cackling to the woman in the half-wall cubicle next to her: "You won't believe this loser's story! Two floods! Lost her job! Hah! Watch me lose her paperwork again!"
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