Two New Things For Me

1. This weekend, for the first time in my entire life, I gave a homeless person something. Directly. I worked up to it, though I didn't realize it. There are a few homeless people who live (live?) up the block from me, and I walk past them when I'm going to the train. They just lay on the ground and read or talk with each other or write. The day after Thanksgiving I somehow made eye contact with the woman, and we said hi.

Two days later, I was walking to the train with my friend's daughter, and we were snacking on some green grapes I'd thrown in a Ziplock. I have no idea what compelled me, but I just turned to the guy sitting there reading and asked if he wanted one. He said something like, "That'd be great, thanks" and I gave him three. He thanked me, I you're welcomed him, and the world kept moving. Somehow, I feel like I've broken a seal now.

2. On Saturday, for the very first time in my life, I went to an apartment lived in by lesbians. My friend had to feed their cat, and I was with her, so I went too. I told my mother about this on Sunday. My mother, who has (to her knowledge) never known anyone gay said to me, "I hope you didn't drink the water." Though I know she knows you can't "catch" being gay, she did act like it was a big deal that I ate a cookie one of them baked. She asked me what the apartment was like, so I told her all about the cool bookcases, their awesome view of a lake, the huge closet, the funky kitchen sink, and wrapped up by telling her it's clearly an apartment lived in by artsy people. Though as my friend and I were walking out, I did comment to her that they had a lot of shoes. "They're two women, what do you expect?"

"So, you couldn't tell?" No Mom, you couldn't tell. My poor clueless mother. You'd never believe it if I told you she grew up in Brooklyn and Queens.

Baby Attorneys Are Cute

Yeah, I'm doing it again. I'm throwing another blog by a New Yorker at you. Catch this.

I'm not sure what exactly it is about them, but I find baby attorneys to be adorable. Maybe it's their cluelessness. Maybe it's the cluelessness combined with their $100K+ education. Maybe it's the cluelessness combined with knowing the top baby attorneys can earn in one month what some law firm receptionists earn in one year. Maybe it's the eager beaver attitude. Maybe it's that I feel so badly for the way they're treated by partners. Whatever it is, I like them. I think they're cute.

A baby attorney works in the office right across from my desk. Well, he's not a TRUE baby attorney, because he's been a lawyer for five long years, but he's close. Plus he's new to the firm. His last name is two syllables, starts with a "T", and the two partners he works for call him Tunafish. He fetches one of them lunch almost every day. Hey, at least I don't have to do it. I don't even bring them coffee (because it's not 1964). When it was time for his review I was the one typing in the edits, so I know the partners like him and think he does good work. Why they feel the need to endlessly tease him though, is beyond me. Because they can? Because it was done to them and they feel it's only fair and just they pass the torch?

I was in the Cowboy's office two days ago, chatting with him about the holiday cards. The other partner I work with wandered in, and the three of us started talking about how to parlay the holiday cards into a marketing opportunity. I made the outrageous suggestion that the two partners pick the top dozen clients, buy each of them a bottle of nice wine, and THROW AWAY AN ENTIRE DAY OF BILLING to go hand-deliver wine to those clients. On an average day, each of these guys bills nine hours. They bill out at $450. No, no, I'm the secretary - let me do the math for you. $8,100. That's right, that's how much money I was suggesting they NOT earn. Not to mention the cost of the wine, or the gas they'd demand the firm reimburse them for. It's a bit of a crazy suggestion; one I never would have tossed out five years ago. But I feel like I have a good handle on the Cowboy (wait, that sounds funny), and thought he'd go for it. He did, and so did the other partner.

Only problem? Not only did they decide Tunafish should come along, but he should dress up as Santa. No, wait, not Santa, an ELF! Yeah, yeah, make the new pledge dress up as an elf and parade him around town in green tights! Poor, poor baby attorneys.

Tunafish is such a nice guy, too. He has a very sweet wife and two adorable little girls. The cutest thing is hearing him on the phone with his almost-three-year-old when she's come home from pre-school, trying to talk with her about her day. When I first started at the firm, he'd quietly give me advice about the Cowboy and how to best communicate with him (voice mail over e-mail). He never rolls his eyes at his secretary, Loose Earlobe Lady, even when she's at her wackiest and I'm laughing hysterically. He does cute baby attorney things too. On Monday he was supposed to handle a big conference call for the Cowboy at 9am, and he asked me to come into work early that morning in case he needed help with the conference call. Because he was nervous something would go wrong. Since it was only 15 minutes, I found it cute. I'm sure if I'd had to set my alarm any earlier than it's regular time it wouldn't have been so cute.

Granted, I'm only at a mid-sized firm now. They pay the salary of a Big Firm, but I don't feel like I work at a factory. As much as my two partners may be on Tunafish, as far as I know he's never stayed past 8pm for them. Though during election time a couple of weeks ago, they did insist he go out campaigning for one of our clients. On the weekend. He couldn't bill the client for that time.

One of my friends from Florida was a baby attorney when we first met. Not a TRUE baby attorney, because she had a year or two under her belt, but she was new enough that on my first day of work she frantically asked me how to fax something. Despite the fact that I literally dropped what I was doing to help her, I couldn't move fast enough to ease her mind, because she was so worried one of the partners would come demanding to see a confirmation page before the fax machine had spit one out. She was treated like absolute shit by the guys we worked for. Every single day, they would order in lunch, and go sit at the dining room table in the Head Honcho's office overlooking the Atlantic. Every single day all the secretaries would huddle around the kitchen table eating the lunches we brought from home. My friend sat with us. Every day. Any time one of their clients got arrested and found themselves in jail in Miami, they'd send her. Even though she got tears in her eyes when she described how the guards made her take out her barrettes so they could feel through her hair. They bounced her check. Numerous times. Okay, they bounced mine too, but only once, and I made them pay the bank fee when they did it. They tried to get her to only take two weeks off after she delivered her baby. By c-section. After a high-risk pregnancy. It's sad that there's such a price to pay if you're a good attorney.

And since they paid her shit (less than $50K), we can't even console ourselves with the usual thought of "Tough shit if they treat her horribly, she's rolling in dough." Common misconception, about those high salaries. A year after my brother had passed the bar and was working for a big name law firm in San Francisco, I moved out here. I was shocked to learn that I had more disposable income than he did. Those higher taxes, combined with loan payments, 401K payments, etc.? It all adds up. We sat down and did the math once, and I really did have more cash each pay period than my brother. Those baby attorneys may be earning a lot, but they're not taking home that much money.

I can always tell when a baby attorney has ceased being a baby attorney. It's the moment they whip out a $100 bill and ask a group of secretaries which one of them has change for it.

Good luck to all the new baby attorneys who just passed the bar all over the country. For those of you who didn't pass, let me tell you about Ryan. He went to law school with my brother and moved out to S.F. when he did. Ryan went to the same BarBri class my brother did, they studied together, and yet somehow he failed the Bar. His firm did NOT fire him. They gave him four weeks off work to study full time, plus Ryan took all his vacation time for the entire year off as well. He took it a second time and passed.

Weight is Worth

I saw this online exchange happen between two friends joking around with each other:

"Nothing's more important than being pretty. And nobody can stay mad at a pretty girl."
"I tell my daughter that every night before bed."

They were kidding. I know them, and am sure of this. What saddened me is that some people really believe this, and treat others this way.

My grandpa has a slut girlfriend we call The Pot, or Ruthpot. We all hate her. We have tried and tried to like her, be nice to her, and just.... we hate her. She has offended everyone in my immediate family. More than once. She's not a lovely women. She lacks class. She lacks manners. She lacks tact. She lacks intelligence. My grandpa was a very lonely extrovert after my grandma died, and Ruthpot is who he shacked up with. Ruthpot has a granddaughter named Dayna. Yes, it's really spelled that way.

Dayna is several years younger than I am, in her early 20's. She was raised by a single mom. Dayna had some growing up problems (didn't we all) and was in and out of mental hospitals a couple of times while dropping out of high school. She's doing much better now, and has gone through training to become a surgical nurse's assistant or something.

I've known Dayna since she was about 11 years old. Her weight fluctuates wildly. She's been on Weight Watchers and other diet plans more times than I can count. She's been a Very Fat Girl, and a Regular Sized Girl. I've only met her about four times. So how do I know all this about her weight? Because The Pot tells me. Every single time I call to talk with my grandfather, I have to hear about Dayna. Do I hear how she's doing in nursing school? No. How she's feeling? No. Dayna's rise and fall in her grandmother's eyes is solely connected to her weight.

Dayna has no worth when she's in a fat stage. She is practically ignored by family. The only thing discussed is her weight and her looks. I would hate to see how Ruthpot treats her when they go out to eat. When Dayna is skinny, the world is full of rainbows and and unicorns. Dayna looks beautiful, Dayna is very happy, Dayna has no feelings or thoughts that are not tied directly to her weight.

Poor fucking Dayna! Her whole family treats her this way. If you call my Grandpa it's gotten to the point that even he will say "Everything here is good, Dayna's gone on Weight Watchers and lost 65 pounds. She looks wonderful, she's so happy." It's terrible. I'm sure Dayna is NOT happy, simply because how can someone be happy when they know they're not liked if they gain weight?

At this stage I simply refuse to hear about Dayna anymore. When The Pot starts to tell me "Dayna is gaining weight again.." I cut her off and tell her I don't care about Dayna's weight. She doesn't get it and just thinks I'm rude. Well you know, that's okay with me. It's for a good cause.

Some Cycles Absolutely Suck

When I lived in Florida, I didn't really have many friends. At whatever job I was at, there were people I was friendly with, but nothing ever extended outside of work. I was very, very alone there. Often I would leave work on Fridays and not speak out loud again until Monday morning when I arrived back at work.

I remember going to visit my grandfather two towns over one weekend, and when he gave me a big hug I realized it had literally been MONTHS since anyone had touched me. I was a little shocked and horrified and depressed all rolled into the three seconds I hugged him back. I contemplated telling my grandfather what I was feeling, but decided against it. Anyone who's taken Psych 101 in college knows about the research regarding touch, and how healthy it is for people (and animals). Suffice it to say I was moved to go back to my Psych 101 book and read about those monkeys put in cages with nothing, the other monkeys put in cages with wires shaped like adult monkeys wrapped in fur, and the third set of monkeys put in cages with their mothers. You know the monkeys in cages alone failed to thrive, right?

Ever since then, I've been very aware of how much I touch with other people. It's not very much at all, to be honest. Because it's so infrequent, I am always surprised when someone goes to hug me. I turn into Sally Field, thinking "They want to hug me? ME? Really?!" Because I get surprised and a little uncomfortable, I'm sure on some level, I send that out subconsciously, and of course people react by not hugging or touching me. Vicious cycle.

That's about as far as I've gotten on this topic. If I were in therapy, it'd definitely be a subject to therapize.

A Very Mildly Deep Thought

I was watching a friend get ready to go out last night, and once she had figured out her outfit I was promptly bored by the makeup portion of the preparations. I quietly started getting bored on her behalf as well, and then realized she seemed to be having fun with it. For the life of me I could not understand how she could think it was fun to dig around for makeup, try to find the right thing, apply it correctly, etc.

Then I realized she was getting ready to go out and do something that's lots of fun for her. To me, fun is taking my magazine and going to Starbucks for an hour or two to read (read = people-watch). Fun is playing with a dog. Fun is wasting a few hours in a bookstore. Nothing that is fun for me EVER involves makeup. If I have to put on makeup, it's for a job interview, or a wedding, or because I'll be seeing people who I feel like won't think I'm good enough the way I am so I need to make myself look as absolutely good as I possibly can. Makeup or fancy clothes are never for good reasons in my world.

Never mind that I don't know how to use makeup. I always thought all those articles in YM and Seventeen were for girls whose mothers had died, but maybe they were also intended for the girls like me, who just somehow didn't learn it from their mother.

At one point I almost wanted to ask the friend how she learned to put on makeup, but she was trying to get out the door, and I thought I might cry if I asked, so I just didn't. She asked me how her eyes looked right around then and I said I didn't know, because I know nothing about makeup. She said "You have eyeballs, don't you?" You know what my eyeballs saw? That she looked about the same as she usually does when she's going out.

Sometimes, I just really hate myself. This was one of those times. And no, I don't actually *WANT* to wear makeup.

The (Formerly) Lost Post: The Idea

I'm one of those people who gets pissed off by little things. Especially things that involve patience. Like waiting. I'm terrible at waiting (unless there's adequate people-watching at my disposal, like in ERs and airports). I especially hate having to wait in restaurants, where the people working there are in the SERVICE industry. I know, I know, they get paid less than minimum wage, and it's not their fault if Joey quit, and Jimmy called in sick. But fuck, when I have to sit there and can't eat my food while it's hot because you never came back to refill my water glass, that frustrates the hell out of me. Incidentally, that's how I judge a restaurant - I never want to get to the bottom of my water glass. Maybe one out of every ten restaurants will let this happen, which leads me to think it's reasonable.

But I hate waiting in restaurants. I don't want to wait once I know what I'm ordering, I don't want to wait for the check, I don't want to wait if you've delivered the food and I have a problem with it, I don't want to wait when I need more water, I don't want to wait for anything. Wow, I sound like a total nightmare in restaurants - let me assure you I'm not. Don't worry that I rip all waitstaff I encounter new assholes, or that you'd be embarrassed to dine with me. I just don't want to wait.

Some people say if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem. Some people are idiots. But regardless of them I came up with a solution to this waiting issue years ago. I could even go so far as to say decades ago, because I really am that old. My solution is to have a machine installed at each table. Each member of the waitstaff would have a pager that corresponds with the machines for their tables. If I need the check, I press a button. My waiter's pager goes off, and s/he sees a message that say the table number I'm sitting at, and a number that s/he knows means I need the check. There's one for the check, one for menus, one for "Ready to Order", one for more napkins, drink refills, and maybe one that indicates a problem with the food. It's absolutely brilliant.

Well, I may have come up with the idea, but some other punk actually made it exist. He didn't design it exactly the way I would have, but at least there's progress: From the 10/17/05 issue of the Los Angeles Business Journal:
Remote Concepts - A push of a button signals a waiter or waitress. Los Angeles based Remote Concepts Chief Executive Yaniv Shmelzer came up with the idea after growing impatient waiting for a refill. He turned Xuse Me into an ad vehicle by placing slots on two sides of the 6-inch triangular shaped wireless device. Restaurants get the device for free and advertisers pay $1 per day for one 3 by 3 1/2 inch ad. A touch of the service button lights up the unit, as well as the ads. It also features slots for the dessert menu, the salt and pepper shakers and sugar packets.

Blogging Status

I have not given up on blogging (I know all three of you were very worried and I appreciate that). An average post (I may be exposing myself as pathetic here, but it's not like you didn't know that already) takes me about an hour. When I'm writing I can't have the tv or music on, I can't chat with random people IMing me; I actually concentrate. I figure if I'm going to hope/expect people to read whatever I'm randomly thinking about, the least I could do is put the time and effort into organizing my thoughts so they're easily understood.

So when a post (that I was very excited about, btw) refused to appear, I was beyond bummed out. My core state of rest is that of a formerly depressed person. I take active steps each day to keep myself away from depression. Most of those steps are the same each day. Sometimes I need to add extra steps to fight extra hard against depression. I have always said my most valued posession is my mind. If I need to take a break from blogging to keep myself sane, or even just to not let the scales tip towards the downward spiral depression is, then yes, I'm taking that break.

I'm over it now, and aim to get a few posts done in the near future. They will not be done tonight, as I am currently babysitting for a sleeping child, and using a computer very foreign to me, a Windows Girl. But one will be The Lost Post, which I will painstakingly recreate from scratch for your reading pleasure. Now that I'm sitting here, the Writing Portion of my brain has switched itself on, and ideas are spewing forth in record speed. So, I'm off. To go find a crayon and write everything down before I forget.

Hey TypePad

YOU FUCKING SUCK!!! I just typed out an entire blog entry, and when I hit preview, the whole fucking thing was GONE. When I hit the back button, the whole thing was GONE.

She was right. You DO fucking suck. I pay you every fucking month. This month should be on the house. Take the five dollars out of your petty cash, and fix your fucking business so IT WORKS FOR THE PEOPLE WHO LOYALLY PAY FOR IT.