It's payday on Wednesday, and not a moment too soon. I can't wait to see what the new raise does to my take-home pay. And thank God I've swatted those pesky neighborhood mosquitoes off me, so I don't have to give any of the money back.
People don't realize how hard it is for us to live on what we're making down here. Even with the free junkets we manage to take halfway around the world every now and then, this job just isn't a profitable proposition at $40 an hour.
We're subject to inflation in our own lives, just like everybody else. I was going through my receipts the other night, and I couldn't believe how much things are costing me nowadays. A pack of Swisher Sweets is now three bucks. Breakfast at Mickey D's is up to $5. And excuse me, but a buck and a half for a Tabasco Slim Jim? Almost a five-spot for a six-pack of Pabst tall boys?
Of course, don't even look at the bill from your gas station card. We don't all ride around on Vespas and streetcars. It's $38 to fill up the truck.
The big ticket items have gotten even more outrageous. Two tickets to see Steve Miller set you back almost $150, if you want a decent seat. And I love my therapist and all – she's been a great help with my anger management issues – but $175 an hour seems a bit steep.
Even something as simple as getting your back waxed once a month – that used to run me 40 bucks a pop. Now the gal is charging 50. I don't get it. It's the exact same sweet, exquisite pain as it ever was.
Tom took me out for a meal the other night, to thank me for helping with his campaign. He's quite a guy, but I must confess it was an odd evening.
It started when I asked him where we should go. He went on and on about how we needed to go to a tapas place. "A lot of small plates, young man, that's the way to do it. They add up. People in Portland are going to resent you if you eat those big platters."
OK, whatever. We bike over to the restaurant, and it's really crowded. We put our name on the list and take a seat out in the waiting area. The hostess asks if we have a preference for a seating location. Tom tells her, "I envision a site where excellence will be the norm, and all diners can achieve their potential." She rolls her eyes and says, "Sir, would that be a table or a booth?" He says, "I want to partner with my public-sector colleague to build a solid, diversified dinner."
It takes about 20 minutes to get a table. Every time the hostess reads out a name, Tom says, in a loud voice, "I'm not him." Smith, party of two? "I'm not him." Jones, party of four? "I'm not him." By now, people are staring.
We finally get a table, and the waiter comes over and asks if he can get us something from the bar. I order a microbrew. The guy turns to Tom and asks, "And you, sir?" To which Tom replies, "That's not the kind of decision I would rush into. I believe we need to have a conversation with the community before we choose."
The next four years are going to be – well, interesting.