Ochel, ochel everywhere, but not a bite for me

Ah, the joys of working for a non-profit organization.

A person from one of our offices in a different borough of New York City, who happened to be making the rounds of our office, had the, um, interesting timing to hand me three memos to type, with my boss's authorization, exactly three minutes before I was scheduled to leave for the day. If the person had been from our location, I would have ever so politely told him/her to take a hike, er, come back this morning, but . . . To make a long story short, between typing, editing (far be it from me to leave not well enough alone), formatting, etc., I missed my Ulpan Hebrew class. And what did I get for my efforts? (No, obviously they're not going to pay me overtime--non-profit organizations, as I've been known to kvetch/complain before, are equally unprofitable for their employees.) What I got was the person's heartfelt thanks.

I've been working for this organization for five years now (four as a temp.). This isn't the first time that I've worked hours beyond the officially closing time of our organization in order to complete a project by the deadline. And yet, in all these years, I've never been offered dinner. No one's ever offered to order in so much as a slice of kosher pizza. It's bad enough that they can't pay me overtime. But it borders on insulting that my hard work ain't even worth a slice of pizza.