A Bonus Present!

Yesterday a friend presented me with a mix CD for no particular reason. Yay for Bonus Presents! In general we don't share/talk music that much; our taste is pretty different. I don't listen to music as much as I used to "in my younger days"; probably a combination of not getting good reception to any decent radio stations, and not having a car anymore. I don't even listen to music to fall asleep anymore. So basically, I can go weeks without singing, weeks without getting a song in my head, and days without hearing songs (other than MTV or VH1). It's one of those things that falls into the category of "I don't miss it until it comes back and I realize how happy music makes me."

Maybe it's wacky, but I *LIKE* letting music manipulate my moods. Back in my college days I had "Driving to Work" music, "Working Out" music, "Writing" music, "Being Angry" music, "Getting Pumped Up" music, etc. I liked that if I needed to be in a creative mood instead of having to "reach right down to the bottom of my soul, to see what I could feel"* I could cheat by just popping in some music to take me there.

Last night I listened to this new CD in bed while going to sleep. It made me sleepy, and I think my dreams had a soundtrack last night. I must make a goal to listen to music more often.

*Whoever can tell me what that line was from will get a present. Excluding You, who knows it's one of my favorite lines.

Loose Earlobe Lady Update

So I told you in an earlier post (that I'm not blog savvy enough to link on up here, so I apologize, but you'll have to scroll down) that I spoke with the woman who ran the training in LA about Loose Earlobe Lady (LEL) and she gave me some things to think about.

I did not want to continue going to work and being hurt each day by LEL's attempts to make me feel left out. However, I did not want to sink to her level and try to make her feel as awful as she was trying to make me feel. I wanted to rise above. My mother never misses a chance to tell me I'm immature and I wanted to prove to myself that she's wrong.

I've settled on mostly ignoring LEL and it seems to be working wonderfully. I don't ignore her with dirty looks. I don't roll my eyes. I just ignore her. It's a relief to have resolved this.

Vibes to the East Coast

Specifically, to the people in South Florida (hell, all of Florida) who are sitting in their closets without any power because of Hurricane Wilma. Wilma, you are a bitch who is kicking my Grandpa's ass right now. Please stop. He can't live through tough stuff.

Also, major vibes to this guy named Rich (and his wife Maggie) in Westchester.

He's cool and tries hard to be a good person, and his wife is in the hospital fighting a major allergic reaction to antibiotics. I'm rooting for her. And it's not just because I've had a couple of allergic reactions to antibiotics too.

I hope everyone sleeps well tonight. And wakes up alive, dry and secure that their friends love them tomorrow.

No Ball Jokes Please

Earlier in the week, I made plans to play tennis with someone yesterday and today at 9 am. We both admitted we weren't very good up front. I have not played tennis in over three years. She claims she's only been playing for three weeks after not having played for over fifteen years. So if we're not both beginners, we're at least both rusty. Yesterday at 8:20, TEN minutes before I was about to leave my house to go meet this person (We'll call her Serena), she called me to say she was sorry but had to cancel due to being called into work. Things happen; I understand. So we agreed to meet today.

Let's just sidetrack to talk about my tennis history. Basically, while I was twirling through dozen of ballet shoes growing up, my brother was climbing the ranks in national tennis competitions. You haven't heard his name, but he was solidly good back in the day. Every so often, he'd teach me a thing or two. I had no deep interest in tennis, but it was a way to get out of the house. While I was in college, I worked as a receptionist part time at a tennis club for two years. When a tennis pro had a free half hour or more and the club was quiet, we'd go onto an empty court and I'd get a free lesson.

You wouldn't know it to look at me, but I'm a natural athlete. Most sports come pretty easily to me, I grasp lessons quite well, and with a little practice, I'm an average tennis/football/whatever player. I've never gotten what would be considered "good" at tennis, and I can't keep score to save my life, but I can volley almost decently. With a little practice, I can volley totally decently.

This morning at 8:55, after standing at the train stop for over 15 minutes, I call Serena to apologize and let her know I'm still waiting for the train and will be about 5 minutes late. At 9:05 I am standing where we agreed to meet. Serena is not there. I call her. No answer. I leave a voice mail. I call her other phone number. She picks up and says she's just getting out of the shower and will be right down. I wait. I stretch my hamstrings. I say hello to some dogs on their morning walks. I say hello to a baby out for a morning jog. I play balance beam on the cement border around some flowers. Finally, Serena arrives, saying she thought we agreed to meet at 9:30. No, we did not agree to that, and I have the e-mail to prove it. But whatever. Game on.

I am wearing a very old pair of khakis, a t-shirt, a sweatshirt, the same sneakers I wear every day and carrying a Prince Pro from the 80's that used to be my brother's. Serena is decked out in a tennis outfit, complete with a little skirt, brand new tennis sneakers, and a fancy tennis bag. I wonder if I should be worried, and she's not as much of a beginner as she claimed she was. As we're walking to the tennis courts on the roof of her apartment complex, I twirl my tennis racquet fancily like the tennis pros used to, and Serena's eyes widen a bit. I resist the urge to reassure her that's my only trick. Apparently I'm a bit competitive.

My first swing drives the ball into the net. I have no ego, I have no ego. Do not cry, do not stop playing. We continue, and within five minutes I'm hitting the ball straight to her racquet. We're both doing the pansy serve, and I decide to try a "real" serve, like you see at Wimbleton, minus the dramatic grunt. My serve makes it over the net, though I put a bit too much energy into it and Serena can't return the ball. My mental note to pull back on my next serve helps, and we actually volley a little.

I decide to try a backhand (always my weak spot), swing wildly, and miss by a foot. I keep trying the backhands, and keep missing. I rack my brain to think of anything I might have been taught about backhands that will help me now. All I can come up with is to keep the racquet perpendicular to the ground. I try again and either miss or drive the ball into the net. Four times in a row. Do not cry, do not stop trying. Serena serves and sets me up for a perfect backhand. I connect, and the ball sails beautifully over the net. Do not gloat, try to do it again.

I make a mental note to ask my brother about tennis etiquette regarding picking up tennis balls and such. Serena keeps walking over to her bench to check her cell phone while I wait. Serena keeps taking practice swings while I wait. Serena goes to a nearby wall and practices hitting the ball against the wall while I'm waiting. I get pissed. I get even by hitting the ball within the lines, but not directly to her, making her run to return each ball.

We've now been playing for forty minutes. We'd agreed to play for about another half hour, when Serena's cell phone rings. "What?! FUCK!" She paces around her side of the court shouting expletives while I wait, yet again. I hear her say something about losing over $100,000. She hangs up the phone and tells me her friend is having an emergency and she has to run. Of course I say okay, and she offers to leave the tennis balls with me, in case I want to hit against the wall. I tell her I'll return them to her when we meet up next weekend. Serena agrees and runs off.

On my way home, I think about if I want to play again, and decide I do. I think about if that was a fake emergency Serena staged, and can't decide. If we wind up playing tennis next weekend, then I might think it was real.

Overall, excellent experience. I wish it'd lasted longer, but I had fun and am glad this morning happened.

Approaching: The Final Countdown

Once upon a time, in a land known as the East Coast, I knew a guy who was over ten years older than I am. He often talked about his life and after listening to him for a long time I noticed a pattern. He always blamed everything he didn't like about himself on his parents. He was cold that day? It was because when he was seven his mother made him wear an ugly jacket to school and he got teased. Things like that; you get the idea. One day I realized that he'd lived on his own longer than he'd lived with his parents, and was STILL blaming them for everything that went wrong in his life.

I don't want to be like him. However, I honestly *DO* believe that a lot of things I don't like or understand about myself can be traced back to my parents. So I set a goal. When I turn 30, there will be no more blaming my parents for how I am. I moved out of their house when I was 23 (and a half, if you want to get technical) and feel that almost seven years is ample time to get over the many traumas my parents caused me. Yes, I realize this is an overly ambitious goal. But I will try nonetheless. In a few days I'll turn 29. So before I have less than a year to blame my parents for everything I'll just toss out these two gems:

1. I hate cleaning if other people are around. I can't clean the kitchen if my roommate is home. I can't clean my desk at work if Loose Earlobe Lady or the Cowboy are around. Why, you ask? I asked myself that very question, and this is what I came up with: growing up my mother ALWAYS criticized my cleaning. If she sent me to clean my room she'd ask if she'd think it was clean when I announced being finished. If company was coming over and she sent me to dust, she'd always find a spot that I missed. Or two or twelve. Many times over the years, she'd wake me up after I'd gone to bed for the night, only to have me come down to the kitchen and reclean some dishes she didn't think were clean enough. So now I don't like to clean if there's anyone around, lest they point out how I've done it wrong.

2. A couple of weeks ago, I was having a HORRIBLE week. It was an outrageous effort to not cry at work at all moments. In the middle of all that, I had plans to meet a friend for lunch. So I left work, met my friend, had lunch with her, and sat around shooting the breeze for a half hour. Not only did I not tell her how upset I was, but it did not even OCCUR to me to tell her. Later that night when I was home feeling all alone in my troubles and generally sorry for myself, I realized most people bitch to their friends. Most people get support from their friends. I had a friend. I could have bitched. I could have gotten support. Or suggestions. Or both.

When I was a kid, if I cried, more often than not my father's response was "Stop crying before I give you something to cry about." My mother often told me that if I didn't tell her what was wrong, she couldn't help me. But when I'd tell her what was wrong she'd often say "I don't know what to tell you; I never would have gotten myself into that situation." What I got out of all that was to never tell people close to you that you're upset. They'll just make you feel worse.

My Very First and Probably Last Trip For Work

As a legal secretary, the furthest I ever travel for work is to the nearest courthouse. Attorneys travel for work. I stay behind and deal with everything they can't deal with while they're traveling. So to say I was excited that my law firm sent me to Los Angeles last week would be an understatement. But I was excited for two reasons:

1. The aforementioned traveling for work
2. Traveling to where my brother lives which meant I got to play with his dog (really, his girlfriend's dog, a cockapoo).

The trip to LA was for training now that my law firm has made me a permanent employee (health insurance, here I come!). I thought it would be a waste of time to be honest. Between all my learning disabilities and the fact that I'd already been working here for over a month, I figured I'd alternately be bored or confused throughout all of training.

I could not have been more wrong. It's not like they taught me so much that you'd wonder "How did she ever function before not knowing so much?" but more that I learned quicker ways of doing things, and can now do things on my own instead of relying on the WP Department like creating tables of contents.

Overall, I'm really impressed with my law firm. They provided breakfast in the conference room both mornings. They offered me a hotel room (which I declined so I could stay at my brother's and play with the dog) where they'd pay for room service, one call home per night, and one movie per stay. I was provided with a cab voucher (in LA) and a driver (in SF). The woman who did the training was FUCKING AWESOME at her job. Most firms just grab someone from their IT department and tell them they'll have to train new employees. This woman *KNOWS* how to teach (which is super important for someone with learning disabilities). She answered every single one of my questions. Even the ones that had nothing to do with what she was supposed to be teaching me. She struggled and persevered to understand my questions until she was able to answer them to my satisfaction. She waited while I scribbled notes. She asked once an hour if I wanted to take a break (I didn't). At the end of the first day, we both stayed late and talked for almost two hours. She validated a lot of my feelings regarding the issues with Loose Earlobe Lady.

Really, there is nothing I would suggest she do differently to make training better. I would just like whoever is in charge of such things to include office procedures in her curriculum. I will be sending her a thank you letter directly, but I also want to find out who her boss is and send them an e-mail letting them know just how great she was.

The worst part of the trip was that when I arrived in LA Monday night I was greeted by Crazy Girl telling me we'd just stop to pick my brother up at the hospital, as he'd been there since the ambulance had taken him around noon. The whole time I was in LA I was worrying that my brother would have a heart attack or have to go back in the hospital and I'd wind up having to make a decision about staying with him and risking losing my new job or leaving him. I'm fairly certain I'd have stayed if he'd needed me. We all know Crazy Girl is practically no help (she'll get her own post later; yes, it's that bad).

The absolute highlight of the trip was landing at Oakland Airport, and whipping out my cell phone to call our driver to say, "J_, I've landed. Would you please pull the car around?" And J_ did. He was right at the curb when I walked out. I could really get used to that sort of thing.

I'm Not Seeing the Appeal

So for the last couple of days I had the opportunity to use tons of Kiehl's products. I did. I used them at least twice a day. The verdict? I see absolutely no difference in my skin. Might as well just stick with buying my Cetaphil from Target since it costs less. Why again do people rave about this Kiehl's stuff?

Score Two for the Steamroller

1. Thursday night I left her a note saying "If you could get a rent check to me by Sunday, I'd really appreciate it." Within a half hour of her coming home (and seeing my note) a rent check was slid under my bedroom door, along with an apology. Today she told me that she may forget in the future but encouraged me to not be shy about asking her for rent a couple of days before the first of each month. I once had an awful experience with asking a roommate to pay me the rent she owed, and I'm very relieved and happy with the Steamroller's response.

2. We ordered high speed internet because the Steamroller wanted it. It arrived, her computer is all hooked up, and today her boyfriend tried to hook up my computer as well. He couldn't. Steamroller kneeled on the floor near my bed working on my laptop right along with him, even going so far as to call a friend of hers for help. Despite my writing this via dial-up and AOL, she and her boyfriend have a few more ideas and are going to implement them as soon as they shovel their lunch. I'm really pleased that they're not giving up on getting me into the 21st century.

Dorky? Yes. Honest? Yes. A Rave.

I really like my New Walking Buddy a lot. We'll call her Ruby. She's my age, single (like me), working as support staff (like me), worried about raising rent costs and having to move soon (like me), dyslexic (like me), feeling a bit conflicted about her relationship with her mother (like me), black (not like me), and from Texas (again, not like me).

I liked my Old Walking Buddy too. She had to cancel often; I liked her anyway. But I didn't relate to her at all. We came from such different places, and our lives are lived differently.

Ruby and I talk and whatever one of us says, the other says some version of "Oh my God - ME TOO!" Yesterday I admitted to her that I cried at work. Today she asked me how everything went, and I recapped my day in five minutes and then asked how her day went. Ruby made a funny face, and then admitted she cried at work today! Must be something in the air. When we parted at the end of our walk, we wished each other good luck on not crying at work tomorrow. Amen.

Sixth Grade Flashbacks

It's not that I want to stop earning money. It's not that I don't like the guys I work for. It's not that I want to attempt to try to get someone else to hire me.

It's just that I just don't want to be in sixth grade again. I was miserable in sixth grade when I was ten and eleven years old, and I'm miserable being back there now, in my twenties. In sixth grade I had no friends. Every day in the lunchroom I had to argue and fight my way into being allowed to sit at somebody's table, since we weren't allowed to skip lunch. On the first day of our music class when I sat on one side of the room, everyone else in the class sat on the other side and for the rest of the year I sat by myself. I cringed any time one of our assignments involved being part of a team or having a partner. I checked my seat each time before I sat down, and removed tacks, clay, mud and signs saying mean things. Nobody ever talked to me except to say hurtful things to me. At one point things got so bad that my teacher created some random errand for me to do that involved going to the front office so she could give the entire class a talk about how they had to be nice to me. On picture day there was a huge standoff because nobody in the class would agree to sit next to me. I could go on and on, but I think you get the idea.

The woman who sits next to me (Loose Earlobe Lady/LEL) at work is recreating sixth grade to the best of her abilities. She is making me miserable. Most of the time I feel very far away from the person I had to be growing up. Since the day I started work the HR guy and the two partners I work for have encouraged me to ask LEL any questions I may have or for any help I may need. Any time I go to ask her anything, she sighs dramatically, rolls her eyes, and in general makes it clear that she's annoyed and disgusted that I'm talking to her.

It's brought me right back to the person I was in sixth grade. I'm quiet, I'm introverted. I'm surprised when people are nice to me. The other day I asked someone how a task gets done, and she happily explained it to me, asking a couple of times if I had any questions, encouraging me to come back if I thought of anything else or had any problems. I was very sad when I realized that my first thought was "I wonder why she's being so nice to me" - I forgot that most people are not like LEL anymore. I forgot that most people grow out of acting like sixth graders.

Tonight I stayed a little late at work because something came up that I needed to deal with. I filled in the associate who sits across from me on what happened. He suggested that I go one step further than I had, and instead of waiting until tomorrow to tell my boss what had happened, I leave him a voice mail right then. I called the Cowboy and left him a voice mail. When I went back to thank the associate for his advice, I told him that he reminds me of my dad, in that his work advice is always right. He got a little embarrassed and apologized for being fatherly or butting in. He said he didn't mean to be stepping on my toes or telling me how to do my job. I assured him that I saw it as a good thing, and greatly appreciated his advice. He told me he'd made some mistakes when he first started working here and wanted to pass on what he learned.

It is very touching to me that there's someone quietly watching out for me, keeping me from accidentally getting on the Cowboy's Shit List. It almost makes me not mind Loose Earlobe Lady. Almost.

Shall We Take Bets?

On how soon I'll be getting fired? The problem with me keeping jobs is people meet me and always think I'm smart. Because they think I'm smart, more difficult things are expected of me. What they don't know is that I have learning disabilities* and although I smile and nod knowingly, a lot of times I have no understanding of what the hell people are talking about.

In regular life that's not too big a deal. But in work situations when people expect a certain level of performance from me and then I can't deliver, they just think I'm lazy or unmotivated or something.

Today one of the guys I work for asked me to do something. He started to explain exactly what he wanted, and then stopped himself by saying "Well you're smart - you'll figure it out." Umm, Dick? Actually, no. No, I won't figure it out. What *will* happen is that I'll do the smile and nod thing, go back to my desk and stare at the papers you gave me and stare at the computer, realize I need to cry, go stand outside of the building crying to a member of my family who won't know what to say to me, at which point I'll go back in and give it all to Word Processing to do for me. When you come to me asking why I gave the project to them for completion, I will vaguely wave at papers on my desk (that I keep there for this exact purpose) indicating that I've become swamped with an urgent task that takes precedent over yours.

Fuck. I really need to get on that winning the lottery project. But of course it's me, so I'd fuck that up somehow too.

*No, I'm not protected under the ADA - that's more for permanent physical disabilities, or temporary mental disabilites. Life's a bitch. Then I get fired.

Let Me Tell You About The Grandmas

Today is Come to Work With Green Yogurt Day. Join me, won't you? My desk at work is at the corner of a hallway. Along the other side of the hallway are attorney's offices. Along my side of the hallway are other legal secretaries. They are all grandmas. What do I mean by that? I mean, they are all in their late 50's or older, and all either have grandchildren or cats that they gush about to anyone who will listen. I mean, they all smell like Lysol or old-lady perfume. I mean, they share their Maalox and Tums without any shame. I mean, they talk about medical problems as if they're in training to move to Florida and sit around the pool talking about them like the real retired grandparents do. I mean, they're old, and they do old people things.

Now I have nothing against grandmas. I grew up with three myself, and loved them all. But two of these grandmas are different. Let me introduce you.

First, there's Loose Earlobe Lady (LEL). I call her that (to you) because one of her earlobes flaps back and forth wildly as her head moves. Her head moves every single time she talks. During my first two days of work, it took all I had to not laugh hysterically each time I saw her speak. You'd think she and I would get along swimmingly, because according to her grandma stats she's "a nice Jewish grandma" but you'd be wrong. She tries on old lady perfumes during her lunch hour, and this past week encouraged me to smell her as she stood over me at my desk. I leaned a half inch in her direction, pretended to inhale, and (not too dramatically) pretended to love it. But that wasn't enough for Loose Earlobe Lady. She said "No really, SMELL it!" and then did the unthinkable. Pulled the collar of her v-neck sweater FAR away from her body while leaning over towards me, essentially shoving her boobs in my face. Was I just sexually harrassed by a grandma?! GROSS!

LEL and I have different working styles. If an attorney asks me to do something, I say "sure" and walk away to get it done. If an attorney asks her to do something she asks many questions, and then says "Okay Bob, I'll get right on that. You can count on me. I'll have that for you in a jiffy." Now, Bob bills clients at $325 an hour. He doesn't want to stand there listening to Loose Earlobe Lady yammer on about how she'll get something done for him. So the attorneys in our department are starting to like me a little better than they like Loose Earlobe Lady.

Another important thing to know is that like many grandmas, LEL is losing her hearing. Yesterday one of the associates she works for (who sits right across from me) called her and asked her for a fax number of a client. She did her spiel, and right as he added, "I'll hold on" she hung up on him. Way to go, Grandma. LEL also speaks VERY LOUDLY. It's very distracting and annoying to me.

Let's talk about the food. All grandmas are required to carry gum in their purse and tissues shoved up their sleeves. It's in the Grandma Manual. Grandmas always have some good snacks lying around (never mind that they also try to offer you prunes all the time; they're projecting). Loose Earlobe Lady keeps a candy dish filled with Hershey's chocolates on her ledge. That's fine with me. Just because I'm trying to diet, it doesn't mean the rest of the world has to. I've worked at places where I kept candy on my desk. But this is not the end of the food. Loose Earlobe Lady also drinks cans of diet Coke continuously throughout the day. With ice. Which would not be a problem if she didn't spill full glasses of it once a week. LEL also snacks throughout the day. When I say "throughout" I do not really mean sporadically. I mean it's nonstop. She has bags and bags of soy crisps or some such shit in her cabinet and crinkles them all the time. Wait, that's not fair - it's not *ALL* the time. Sometimes she has granola bars instead. All day long either the sound of her loud voice is interrupting my train of thought, or the crinkling of her various snacks and munching sounds are.

Loose Earlobe Lady is very sensitive. The attorneys she works for, work for the partners I work for. When my partner called us both into his office and encouraged me to delegate to her, I don't think LEL was pleased. At all. She's older, she's been working in law firms longer than I have, and she shouldn't have to listen to a twenty-something year old asking her to help file things. Which I haven't done. Yet.

One day last week a secretary who sits far away decided to play a little joke on Cowboy Partner. As she was setting it up, she said twice that she'd fully take any blame for it. The following day the Cowboy found the joke, laughed, and then innocently asked LEL and I who did it. It was clear he wasn't angry, just curious. I could not tell him. Why? Because I didn't know her name. I know where she sits, what she was wearing the day she came over to set up the joke, I could point her out in a lineup, but just didn't know her name. Cowboy turned his attention to Loose Earlobe Lady. Now, he used to be a prosecuting attorney. He's a smart guy. LEL kept trying to dodge the question by distracting Cowboy with tales of the Neil Diamond concert she'd gone to over the weekend, but he couldn't be shaken off. Even though the Cowboy was standing at the ledge over my desk and LEL was 4 feet from me, I ignored them after a while and went back to working at my computer. The two of them continued their verbal dance, and then all of a sudden I looked up quickly. The way Loose Earlobe Lady responded to something sounded like she was about to cry. I looked at the Cowboy to see if he'd noticed, because as much as I can't stand LEL, I truly feel nobody should be made to cry at work, and luckily he had, and he backed off. Later in the day I saw the practical joker and let her know that the Cowboy'd be putting a lot of pressure on LEL, and she went and told him what she'd done. As the Cowboy had promised, he wasn't angry. The guy has a good sense of humor. But I get the impression that LEL didn't believe me that I didn't know the practical joker's name (I have since found it out), and that I purposely threw her in front of the proverbial truck. If that were true, I could see why she'd be angry.

Because of her (can I be obnoxious enough to say) jealousy issues, LEL seems to have decided not to help me. At all. With anything. Despite the fact that she's heard the partners and the HR guy tell me to ask her any questions I might have. She has two different ways of doing this. One way is to say she doesn't know, and refer me to someone else. She always refers me to someone who wouldn't know (the copy room guys won't know how to use the billing system!) or isn't around. Now Loose Earlobe Lady has been there for about a year. I know damn well she must know when sending out a check, whether or not you are supposed to rip off the bottom. Don't lie to me, bitch. Her other way is to answer my question in such a way that doesn't actually answer my question. Here's an example:

GY: LEL, what code do I put in [billing system] to indicate the attorney couldn't bill any of his hours?
LEL: I don't understand what you're asking.
GY: Well, Cowboy Partner is teaching a seminar all day today, so he can't bill any clients. What do I put in the spot where client codes usually go?
LEL: Client codes go right underneath attorney codes.
GY: Right, but where can I find a list of codes for non-client related activities?
LEL: I'm sorry, I don't understand what you're asking. You should ask Joe.
GY: Joe? Is that the guy who changes the lightbulbs and orders office supplies?

Then there's Cat Lady. I don't think Cat Lady has any actual grandchildren. There are no pictures of any on her desk. There are no weird art projects that are usually indicative of kids, like macaroni necklaces or whatever kids make these days. I've never heard her mention a husband, children, or babies. But what she does talk about is her cat. Romeo. Who Loose Earlobe Lady apparently named for her. Cat Lady had gastric bypass a few months ago. When there are no attorneys around, she likes to flash people her scar. That's just what I want to see at 9 a.m. A fat, mushy, pale belly with a huge scar running down it. She's worked at this firm for five years. Cat Lady thinks she's the bomb. She speaks very authoritatively, and tries to make people she speaks with feel stupid. Including attorneys. Now to be honest, sometimes attorneys don't know things. Not everything in the world is taught at law school. But show a little fucking respect, huh?? And stop telling me about how you're switching your cat to a raw food diet! I don't care. I already told you twice I'm a dog person.

Despite both of these ladies being old enough to know better, they gossip like they're in sixth grade. Despite the fact that they sit next to each other (the seating arrangement is me, LEL, Cat Lady), they e-mail back and forth all day long. Sometimes Cat Lady is actually working and doesn't have time for the gossip. But don't you worry that she's missing out on anything. Oh no, Loose Earlobe Lady won't hear of that. She'll loudly stage whisper "Cat! Cat!" and then sing the word "e-mail" to her. When someone they're e-mailing about walks towards them, LEL will say "Shh, shhh, she's coming!" Often times that someone is me.

There are more grandmas in our row of legal secretaries. But they're all normal. They just do the regular grandmotherly things, like reminding me to take my sweater when I'm headed out for lunch (sometimes I do, just to make them feel good), asking if I like working there (I do, despite the gossipy grandmas), and offering me some of their precious prunes (I politely decline).