The Sopranos In Loincloths
Mo turned on the Tudors in order to view the season-ending episode and the first scene involved some guy suffering a flaming death at the stake. There is ample fornicating, treachery, and violence to go around. If Rome was the Sopranos in togas then the Tudors is the Sopranos in doublets.
So last Thursday's call about the job that wasn't has been followed by confirmatory meetings, phone calls, commiserations & c. It turns out that "these are the rules" and "no there's nothing we can do" and "we work in an uncaring system... we don't care!" govern the situation. We know we have ourselves to blame for this predicament. We do not understand the arcanery of the language employed in collective agreements. I can no more easily navigate the Bering sea with a bottle cap and a flashlight than that document. So now Mo will not return to work in a month as planned. She will stay at home (so to speak) for a number of months more while we try to figure out what's next.
We are reasonably secure in terms of financial prospects and Mo can now spend more time with our kiddies. Mo can consider her career options, like more book learnin', or other jobs in library land, and that is very cool. But for this situation we may not have looked at what prospects there are. We are, in other words, lucky to have this problem.
The manner in which this has come down has been a mite unsettling. The "notice" of this procedure was vague and nearly incomprehensible. Mo did not have the hammer dropped, so to speak, until one month before her anticipated return to work and after we had gotten ourselves organized for the event (for once!). I don't like seeing Mo upset and this has been, hmm, upsetting. Again, I know we are in good shape, and we probably should have seen this coming, but still, fuck!
I can only speak for myself (unless paid to do otherwise) but I must say that Mo's employer, which I will not identify herein, is a... words fail. Cockwad.
Sascha Pluperfect Hound.