I have been working 12 straight days and I'm, um, CRANKY

A POEM:
I love my job,
don't get me wrong.
But if one more person tells me there should be special rules just for them and a special one-on-one meeting or orientation just because they didn't read the yearly calendar they got in September, the special RE Newsletter in early January, the announcements in the Sunday Times, or the letter I mailed out a month ago, my head will pop off. It takes a great deal of effort to respond gently and respectfully and thoughtfully to these individuals who invariably approach me in the middle of the sunday morning chaos, a day or two before the deadline or event in question. So I've got a little resentment stored up.

This poem is best imagined as delivered from a soapbox on the subway platform, perhaps under Boston Common.

Ladies and gentlemen,
if your DRE sends you a letter in the mail,
please consider reading it when it arrives.
Consider the possibility that
perhaps, just perhaps,
your DRE worked for hours carefully crafting the information
so you would be fully informed and
able to make thoughtful decisions for the benefit of your children and family,
and
perhaps, just perhaps,
if it wasn't complicated or important s/he would have just written a note in the Sunday Times or left it as a brief comment in the monthly newsletter,
and
PERHAPS, JUST FREAKING PERHAPS,
s/he wouldn't have sent a personal letter
with a list of check-box rsvp options to your house unless it
CONTAINED INFORMATION THAT WAS ACTUALLY DIFFERENT THAN NORMAL AND THAT REQUIRED YOUR ATTENTION, FORETHOUGHT, DECISION MAKING ABILITY AND PLANNING AHEAD.


Thank you for your attention to my poem. I welcome your donation of nickles and quarters in this tin can before you get on the train or into the UUA. In fairness to your ability to make informed decisions, let me note that if I don't get enough change, I may share another "poem."