I staged my own strike from work this week. I told my boss that I would not come back from my vacation unless he agreed to pay me bonus money owed to me for over a year. I had to use what little leverage I have in my position (an upcoming LSAT course start, with me being the only adequately-trained LSAT teacher in town) to strong-arm him into agreeing to pay me.
He agreed (in writing!) to take care of the situation. Granted, he called me tactless and difficult in the process, but sticks and stones and all...
My cat continues to heal. We’ve had several days of non-urine soaked mattresses, but a few close calls. I am the only one who gives Ruby her rather foul-tasting medication. Consequently, Dimitri is spared the Calico-frothy-mouthed- post-medicated-laser-beam- glares-of-death. Dim swears that he doesn’t “know how to do it as well as you can, dear,” something that sounds amazingly like his excuse for not doing laundry.
In the meantime, my Calico could win an Oscar for her melodramatic gagging sounds and Yowls of Extreme Displeasure twice daily (dark on Wednesdays, both shows topless). I can’t wait for this antibiotic to run out.
And hey, if my boss flakes on paying me, I could always unleash the Y.o.E.D.s on him.