Introducing Kennedy

Really, I should call him Bush, because he's a bit of a prick like Bush is, but he's sort of handsome, like Kennedy was, and somewhat smooth, so we're going with Kennedy.

Kennedy is a partner. His secretary was Drunk Granny. He's a baby partner, having not yet been one for an entire year yet. He's a bit of a Bush in that his father is Somebody Important, and his family has a lot of connections in the city, and that's smoothed his way through, well, life. Kennedy never wears jeans on Dress Down Fridays.

We won't mention that his family owns a fancy restaurant that I ate at once and got food poisoning from.

Kennedy is the type of guy to give you The Nod. Kennedy is the type to dismiss you if you're (in his eyes) beneath him, can be of no help to him, are of no consequence to him. Kennedy has two little kids, the older is friends with Tuna's oldest kid. Tuna is a pretty straight forward, wholesome nice guy, with a nice family. Wealthy? Sure, but still nice. Kennedy is extra fake with a side order of superficial. I have a hard time seeing how they're friends outside of work, but they are.

Anyway. Kennedy and I aren't in the same practice group, but the head partner in his group does a lot of work with Nice Partner. A few months ago both groups all went out for lunch together, to Tommy Toys. I wound up sitting between Head Partner and Kennedy. Drunk Granny warned me that Kennedy eats off people's plates. I thought the alcohol was speaking, but no. He would poke at something on my plate and ask if I was going to eat it. It amused me (except when he wanted the vanilla prawns I liked so much). We had a nice lunch. I later went back to that restaurant (this should be another post) to celebrate a friend's birthday.

You may have gathered that I am not the smoothest in social situations. At that lunch I took all known precautions, like asking lots of open-ended questions, not ordering messy foods, etc. The lunch went well. I tried lots of new foods, nobody said anything about the fact that I only drank water, I understood everything that was said around me, nobody made mention that I was the youngest person there by ten years. It was the first time Kennedy and I ever talked. I could tell he didn't really want to be stuck having to talk to me, but that's his tough shit. Maybe at the next lunch he'll get to the table sooner, and if he's lucky, he'll get to sit next to LEL instead of me. Yeah, come the lunch after that, he'll be BEGGING to sit next to me again. I'm sure of it - mark this blog entry.

Ahem. A few months after that lunch, when Kennedy's second baby was born, I stopped by his office to congratulate him. I appropriately cooed over his baby pictures (she really *is* cute). He seemed touched. Genuinely or not, I couldn't say - Kennedy lays it on thick. But it was the first time he ever looked me in the eyes instead of looking through me, so ever since then I've taken to asking how his kids are about once a month. He always thanks me for asking. He never asks how I am, and I'm sure it's never occurred to him to wonder whether or not I have a family he should be asking after. I'm inconsequential to him. People who look like me can't possibly have any connections to people who would be useful to him. I understand how his game is played.

One day, Drunk Granny told me that she accidentally walked in on Kennedy when he was very stressed. She found him in his office speaking into his tape recorder saying, "Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you." Then he'd rewind/erase it only to start all over again. "Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you." Lather, rinse, repeat. I can't explain why, but knowing this made me like Kennedy a little bit more.

On Friday, Drunk Granny's last day, a bunch of us were standing around her desk as she was getting ready to leave when Kennedy walked by. They've worked together for years. Drunk Granny knitted a blanket for Kennedy's new baby. Kennedy gave Drunk Granny an expensive vase his mother gave him that he didn't like. The two have gone out drinking together. They have a close relationship. I'm sure you can imagine my surprise when Kennedy interrupted us to shake Drunk Granny's hand. He then said something to the effect of, "Drunk Granny, it's been a pleasure. I couldn't have gotten where I am today without you, and you'll be sorely missed. Please don't hesitate to let me know if there's anything I can do for you."

There was something about Kennedy's tone that made me look a little closer at what was going on. Sure, it was oddly formal. But that's how Kennedy is. He employs the "When in doubt, always go more formal" method of living. Word on the Grandma Hallway is that Kennedy didn't talk to Drunk Granny for two days after he found out she was quitting, and that his wife had to calm him down. I'd dismissed that as unimportant information, but after Kennedy's speech it floated to the front of my brain. I looked at Kennedy as he smiled too brightly at Drunk Granny, watching as he walked away. Then I realized what was happening.

Kennedy almost cried! He had to walk away so as not to cry in front of all of us!

When I reported this to Nice Partner, who was upset that he didn't get a chance to say goodbye to Drunk Granny, his response was, "What a pussy." (To be frank, Nice Partner's not been quite so nice lately. I'm chalking it up to the fact that our trial is coming back in a couple of weeks (it was extended) and he's stressed.)

A replacement hasn't yet been found for Drunk Granny, and I'm concerned that Kennedy may come to me to do work for him. I'm telling you now, I won't do it. Oh, I'll say yes with a smile of course, but all his work will get farmed out to Word Processing. There is barely enough time for me to keep up with all the internet surfing I have to do, let alone deal with yet a THIRD partner giving me work? No way. Get LEL to do it - she isn't busy reading blogs and newspapers from states she used to live in. LEL only looks at websites that have lots of pictures.

Anyway, if you've got legal secretary experience, are in the Bay Area looking for a job, and are under 35 (because we need some younger blood in the Grandma Hallway), let me know and I'll see about getting you an interview. I'm dying to get the finder's fee!

Go Ahead. Try To Buy My Love

I needed to mail a present to a friend who just had a baby, but I didn't have a box. I went to Walgreens to buy one. The only size they had wasn't big enough. There's another Walgreens around the corner though, so I walked to that one to see what they had. Same size box. I asked the Walgreens employee if there were any other boxes Walgreens sold. He asked what I needed it for. He pointed to a plastic bin and asked how that size was. Pretty good. He then uttered the words everyone loves to hear.

Let me see if I have anything in the back for you.

He came out with a box that was perfect for my needs. A used box in good shape. It was fweeeeeeeeee!

CVS is my favorite drugstore chain. Better than Walgreens (which always strikes me as slightly dirty), better than Rite Aid, better than everything. They have carpeting. They have good stationery and school supplies. Good makeup and magazine selections.

Hey CVS? You're not here in San Francisco, and I'm forced to use Walgreens. They're gaining on you.

Could Someone Send Me a Diaper At Work?

I need to give it to Loose Earlobe Lady. Why, you ask? Because...

LEL PEED IN HER PANTS AT WORK YESTERDAY!

That's right. She did. Here's how it went down. One of the grandmas was saying something to LEL. LEL was laughing. The other grandma (the one who sends out the clothing memos) was laughing. There's lots of laughing, about what I don't know. Probably some granny thing, like prunes or weather.

LEL comes back to her desk, and she's laughing so hard her eyes have turned to slits. She goes back to the other grandma's desk. There's a slight commotion, the laughter gets louder, my phone rings and I turn away from the action, when I hang up LEL is RUNNING to the bathroom. It is hands down the funniest thing that's ever happened anywhere I've ever worked.

In other (more serious) news, the coolest grandma (the one I always think of as Drunk Granny) has given notice, and Friday is her last day. She frequently drinks, heavily, during her lunch hour. She's that relative whose glass you always want to keep full, because the drunker she is, the funnier she'll be.

Today she came back from lunch sloshed, and after cornering me in the file room told me why she's leaving. HR told her she hit the top of the payscale and gave her a shitty raise. On top of that, the other secretary in her group (the one who's boinking her boss, a partner) routinely takes 2-3 hour lunches each week, and has taken four vacations so far this year. Drunk Granny said that it's not fair, and that she does all the work in their group.

I understand why she's upset and wants to leave. When I told Nice Partner the news, he didn't take it well. His face paled as he said, "You're shitting me." I wish I was - she actually knows more about litigation than Nice Partner, and we both frequently ask her questions. We will all miss Drunk Granny. She doesn't take shit from anybody. She does good work. She's funny and smart.

I wonder if in November I'll find out that since the beginning of October I've been supporting the baby attorney Drunk Granny currently works with, and that everyone just forgot to tell me.

Security!

I live in a building that has security guards. Last week was the first time in over two years of living here that I actually wanted them to do anything "security-ish" and the guy rose to his title and did a great job. Usually though, they're just retrieving my packages that are kept in the leasing office for me, or giving my friends a hard time about coming to see me even after I've buzzed them in.

Every time I walk past the security desk I smile and say hi. Partially because it's the nice thing to do, but also because I figure it must be kind of boring just sitting at that desk for hours and hours staring at the doors.

The night time security guard doesn't even bring books to read, which is what I'd do if I had that job. There's a fill-in female security guard who always has her iPod on, but the male security guard? He's got nothing.

That is, until recently. He's discovered just how useful his cell phone can be. A couple of weeks ago, as I walked by I overheard him saying, "So what do you do for fun?" into the phone. Thought nothing of it. This past week I heard, "So do you date a lot?" It's clear now. His crutch word is "so." What's also clear though is that he's trying to set up dates while at work.

I wonder if he'll find someone this way. I wonder which internet dating site he's using. I wonder if when he gets married he'll invite the other security guards, and if the fill-in girl will bring her iPod to the ceremony.

The World Does Not Revolve Around You

I am one of those people. You know the ones. Always convinced they're about to be fired. Despite being here a year, despite getting good feedback, raises, bonuses, more responsibility, etc. Every day I'm prepared to get fired. My desk has no decorations at all (except a card from my brother and an origami flower) because there'll be less to clean out when I get told to go home and never come back. Every day I remind myself to not fuck up and do a good job for each of the attorneys I work for.

Name Partner does a LOT of the recruiting here. Which means placement agencies are constantly calling him. HR is constantly calling him. He always has interviews scheduled. It's a lot of work to not be paranoid that it's about shitcanning and replacing me.

But I try. Every single day.

And On the Work Front, In a Strange Turn of Events...

A few days ago, LEL invited me to her temple for Rosh Hashanah servics. Last week she was on vacation, visiting her son and his family in the midwest. She was present for her grandson's birthday. Since coming back this week, she's been very nice to me.

Not that phony niceness that I hate and can't help but react poorly to. But honestly nice. Internally I am cringing, waiting for her to get upset for not complimenting her necklace or something else equally ridiculous, and go back to hating me, and sighing dramatically any time I talk to her.

Meanwhile, I'm nice to her in kind. Today I stopped by her desk, thanked her again for her very generous offer to take me to her temple, but said I wouldn't be able to attend. I explained that I'm having some roommate drama, and really need to be in the city to look for new housing. She seemed to understand and took it well.

Later this afternoon I was looking through the Cowboy's files at Tuna's urging, and LEL literally RAN down the hall to me. LEL does not like for anyone to touch her files. We have been through this before, and Cowboy has told her she MUST allow other people to get files from the cabinets. LEL and I have agreed that I can take files out, but will not put them back; LEL wants to put her own files back. I'm perfectly happy with this - less work for me, right?

So I explained what I was looking for. LEL gave me the file I needed, and then reminded me not to re-file it, but to put it on her desk when I was finished. This was all a very pleasant exchange.

Bizarre.

The Beginning of the End

Yesterday, Steamroller was ready to move out by the end of the week. After a day of looking at hotel prices and for apartments, this morning I found a post-it note slipped under my door.

She asked if she could stay, if she promises to have her parents gone by the end of the weekend. I pointed out to her that in the last 36 hours, I've heard three wildly different things from her:

1. She wants to stay until our leasing company kicks us out (what she'd told me right before her parents arrived
2. She'll move out by the end of the week but pay for October.
3. Now she wants to stay and will have her parents find alternate housing.

I told Steamroller that I'm wary to agree to anything because she has such a solid history of changing her mind.

Steamroller fought back tears and insisted she wanted to stay. Fine, I told her. Meanwhile, although she doesn't know it, I'll continue looking for another place.

Last night I locked myself in my bedroom, not even eating dinner, because I was so uncomfortable with the thought of running into The Mother. Today when I came home from work, she was standing in the living room eating, and looking out the window. She didn't say a word to me or even acknowledge me. Nice.

Soooo... I guess that whole "always staying in the bedroom" thing and that whole "we'll be completely finished with the kitchen by 4:30 every day"
thing are off the table now that I've said The Parents have to go. Bummer.

At least it seems like things are calming down.

Balls of Steel, I Tell You

I was scared to go home. In my world, there is no violence. In my entire life, I have never seen my father physically pull my mother away from anyone. It's just completely foreign to me. I feel like there was a very real possibility that The Mother was going to get physical with me this morning. She didn't, but this morning's screaming got me concerned. She was just SO VERY ANGRY. I wasn't sure where she was going to go with all that anger.

So when I came home I (lied and) went to Security and told them that when I got off my elevator, I thought I saw someone walk into my apartment and go in the direction of my bedroom. I'm not pleased that I lied, but I just had no clue what I'd be walking into, and I know these guys aren't that busy, sitting in the control room, watching the security cameras and playing cards.

So a security guy escorted me upstairs. On the way, he picked up a maintenance man. I gave the security guy my key, and he opened the door and walked in. Everything was in its normal place. I pointed him towards my bedroom and he opened the door as I peered behind him. It was just as I'd left it this morning.

While he opened the closets and checked in the shower the maintenance man opened Steamroller's bathroom and bedroom doors, scaring the hell out of The Parents. I told him they were okay, and he apologized for disturbing them. We did no explaining.

I profusely thanked the guys, who encouraged me to call if there were any problems, and escorted them out.

In my bedroom, changing my clothes, when my cell phone rings. Steamroller. I figured the parents called her to say some strange man just opened the door and they don't know why.

Down in the lobby I call my voicemail. Steamroller tells me she can't find her lease and isn't sure if she has to give me 30 days notice. She asks me to find out and call her at the office.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! DO YOUR OWN DAMN WORK!

My father used to tell me that I had to learn to figure things out for myself. That I would piss people off if I asked things I should be able to figure out on my own. Guess Steamroller's dad never gave her that speech. So, I've decided that I too, have "lost" my lease. That will be my official position. I've done enough for the Steamroller.

She knew the phone number for the leasing office when I told her that having her parents stay for a month would violate our lease. She was all set to call them then. So I'm sure she can figure out that phone number again to ask for a copy of the lease or ask how many days notice she has to give.

Yeah, I'm feeling pretty damn bitchy these days.

30 Days Notice

Yesterday when I went home for lunch, I snapped. Why? Because The Parents were cooking and eating. Even if they'd immediately started cleaning up the kitchen at that moment, there wouldn't have been enough time for them to clean, me to cook lunch, eat, clean up and get back to work in under one hour. So I left. Furious.

When I got home after work, The Mother cornered me in the kitchen and asked if I was going to kick her out. I guess she could tell I had been angry. I smiled sadly at her, and said, "I *REALLY* need to speak with Steamroller about this." She pressed, I side-stepped answering. It was a nice dance. I don't think it's fair to force me into being the bad guy who has to tell people they have to leave. That's the Steamroller's job.

I left the house, and returned two and a half hours later. Less than ten minutes after arriving at home, The Mother knocks on my door.

For more than twenty minutes she was standing in my bedroom begging to stay, clutching my arm so tightly that eventually, my fingers started tingling. She said that they would give me money for all the extra water and electricity they were using. I kept repeating two phrases:

I really need to speak with Steamroller.
I really can't discuss this with you, it's not fair that either of us have been put in this position.

I was very uncomfortable. And not just because I was in my pajamas. I reiterated that this was not personal, that I liked The Mother very much, but quite simply, Steamroller and I agreed on ONE week, and we're now in Week Four. I explained how I was feeling taken advantage of, what with Steamroller's boyfriend being there every night, sometimes even when Steamroller herself wasn't home, and then he left, and Steamroller promptly brought her parents in. I explained how when I'd put up an ad for a roommate, it was for ONE roommate. Not one roommate and a boyfriend and some parents.

The Mother said "But hotel is very expensive for us." I sweetly pointed out that a hotel is very expensive for everyone who needs to stay in one, but that's part of planning a big trip. I explained that though she may not realize, I was sure Steamroller with her five - six years of experience living in the U.S. realizes that it's a huge imposition on a roommate to have parents in a two bedroom apartment. The Mother admitted finally that they were wrong and I was right. But please, could she stay?

It's clear where Steamroller gets her steamrollerness from. I was ready to say yes just so The Mother would let go of my arm. But no. I didn't even know what I was considering agreeing to.

"How long are you asking to stay?"
"Until October 16th, when Steamroller quits her job."

THAT'S A MONTH AND A HALF! FUCK NO!

Finally I told The Mother, just to get her out of my room, that I'd think about it. What else could I say? I didn't want to have to be the bad guy. I locked my bedroom door last night before going to sleep.

This morning at 8:35 a.m. Steamroller knocked on the door. I asked her what was going on. I told her how upset I was. I told her I knew she lied to me last week when she called, saying she'd been locked out of the apartment when really it had been her mother. She said she knew I wouldn't mind letting her mother in. She's right - I didn't. I wouldn't want my mother stuck standing outside my apartment door either. But I do mind being lied to.

This is when Steamroller started crying. She told me she wants her dad to stay until October 2nd, and her mom to stay through the 16th. I told Steamroller The Mother had told me she was quitting her job, is that true? No, she just wants to. I told the Steamroller that since her parents were here for one month, they would pay three quarters of the rent.

Steamroller got very upset and told me she'll start looking for a new apartment this week. She left my room.

I went to the hallway and was waiting for the elevator when I heard screaming, and then the door to our apartment opened. The Mother angrily asked me to come back inside.

"Why did you make this all Steamroller's fault?"

I don't know what exactly came out of my mouth, though it may have been "Excuse me?"

All hell broke loose. I became scared The Mother was going to hit me. Steamroller yelled at her to go back in her bedroom. There was yelling in another language. The Father was pulling The Mother by the arm.

Steamroller shoved The Mother into the bedroom and shut the door. She apologized, waving her mother off, saying she's crazy, don't listen to her. Steamroller hugged me. The Mother came back out of the bedroom and screamed at me that I'm "no kind of roommate." Again, the same pulling and shoving back into the bedroom happened.

I left for work. Scared to be leaving this woman who so clearly hates me in my apartment with all my furniture. Got an e-mail from Steamroller again apologizing and giving me 30 days notice, saying she'll pay rent in October.

I'm scared to go home. I'm scared not to BE at home. I'm just scared, and equating home with fear, and that's never a good thing.

Happy Anniversary ...

TO ME! Today is exactly one year that I've been working for this firm. I temped for them for about three weeks before being offered a permanent position.

Thank you law firm for keeping me employed for the last year of my life. Thank you Cowboy, for deciding to change who I work with instead of firing me, when you realized our personalities did not mesh as well as you wanted them to. I'm sorry that I can't be super peppy and outgoing like you wanted. Thank you Nice Partner for not firing me when I sent out a Notice of Deposition without sending out the Subpoena that was supposed to go with it. Thank you for not firing me when I was at training in LA and asked the trainer a LOT of extra questions (thank goodness it was just the two of us, so I wasn't holding up other people). Thank you gay HR guy for not firing me when I came to talk to you about my difficulties with LEL, and explaining where she was coming from so that I could keep that in mind when dealing with her.

Thank you for being a place that ebbs and flows, thus giving me ample time to play online and blog about work, from work.

Thank you Grandmas, for giving me so much blogterial.

Thank you to Golden Boy & CG for letting me stay with them while I was in LA for training, which gave me time to play with the dog (which for me, is seriously like one year of therapy). Speaking of which, I was at Golden Boy and CG's loft in LA (for one of GB's surgeries) when I got the phone call from the temp agency that they'd like to have me work at this firm.

It was most surprising, as when I interviewed with the temp agency, I walked out with a bad taste in my mouth. The woman I met with was weirdly formal, and kept me waiting almost a half hour past the time we were supposed to meet. I tried to tell her I wanted a low pressure position without quite coming right out and saying, "I'm a fucking idiot who doesn't know shit, so please don't set me up to fail, because I'm scared I'll kill myself if I get fired from yet another job." The only good thing about our meeting was that when I told her the name of the SF law firm I'd worked at previously (that fired me) she told me they have a bad reputation and nobody likes working there. Validation is a great thing.

Thank you Temp Agency Lady for managing to somehow hold this position for me. While I was sick for a week. While I lied and told you I was sick for another week, but really I was better and just stalling to see if my brother would need surgery and I would be going to LA. While I was in LA for the surgery.

Thank you to my parents, who had to listen to me call them from the lobby of my building a few times, crying, overwhelmed, and sure I was about to be fired at any moment. It's hard to help from so far away. I'm sorry if I yelled at you during those phone calls.

Thank you to Golden Boy, who told me that his female friends who are lawyers have ALL cried at work and/or about work, and that it IS hard sometimes. Thank you for the pep talks.

Thank you to Beth One for coming up with my Cowboy name.

Thank you to my friends who are willing to come to me to meet for lunch, since I can't go far on my lunch hour. Thank you to the universe for giving me a job so close to where I live that going home for lunch is an option.

Thank you blog readers for putting up with my bitching about work, and for encouraging me to find the humor in the grandmas. I really do like working here, and do appreciate the job (and the money it pays me).

Hope to see you back here next year!

Happy New Year!

The Jewish New Year is coming up. I think Rosh Hashanah starts this Friday at sundown.

I've never gone to temple on the high holy days. Most temples charge money for the seats during the high holidays, and my parents never paid for them. So we never went. I have very unhappy and frustrating memories of having to be all dressed up in a skirt, tights, and my ugly, navy blue buckle shoes that I hated, and not being allowed to do anything during Rosh Hashanah. I would spend the whole day sitting around, being bored. No television. No going outside to play, because "it's not appropriate", according to my mother. If I was lucky I could walk to the corner and then turn around and come back.

I would look down at my feet, shoved into those ugly, navy blue buckle shoes, and want to cry. I was so embarrassed by them. They were just so ... so ... UGLY. And babyish. And did I mention ugly? Everyone else my age got to wear cool slip-on shoes. I begged for those, only to be told no. I would have even settled for the slip-on party shoes that had the strap in the back, but no.

Anyway. So I never went to temple for these special services that cost money. I didn't mind - everyone knows services are pretty boring. I'm a Friday night services kind of girl. You're out of the temple in no more than an hour and a half. In Florida, I kind of wanted to go to Friday night services sometimes but never did.

I had no interest in joining a temple or anything like that. Kind of just wanted to sneak in the back, hear the hebrew songs I've liked since the early 80's, put a coin in the tzedukah box, and sneak out at the end.

Never did it. I'm not good at walking into places by myself. Someone once suggested to me that I be a professional temp, and after thinking about it, I ultimately realized I don't have the right personality for it. It's good for me, because you're never really held responsible for any screw-ups since, "Hey, I'm just the temp." But having to walk into new law firms all the time? I'd have a nervous breakdown.

I even get a little anxious when I walk into one of those movie theatres where you have to walk up the steps to the rows of seats. I round the corner, face the steps, and feel like everyone's staring at me, waiting to see what I do. Even though they're not - they're busy talking to someone, turning off their cellphone, something. The weird thing is, I don't get stage fright. Well, being that I haven't been in any sort of performance since college, maybe I do now, but I never did before. Moving along.

So I really haven't been to any sort of temple services since my grandma died almost 12 years ago. LEL and I have talked about religion a little bit as we're both jewish, though I try not to let it get too deep. The law firm I work at is not exactly Goldstein, Greenberg, Cohen and Schneider, LLP, if you know what I'm saying, and LEL has a loud voice that carries. So talking jewish stuff in the office doesn't seem like the best idea to me. She's reformed, but very active in her temple. We've had some mild jew-offs. Today LEL asked what I'm doing (meaning for temple) regarding the holidays. In a curious turn of events this afternoon, LEL invited me to her temple's services for the high holy days, complete with offering to pick me up at the BART station and everything.

I thanked her profusely and asked if I could figure out my schedule and get back to her. I'm pretty sure I'll say no thank you. But it sure was very nice of her. Is it wrong that I'm wondering if LEL was moved to do this because she was told it was me who got her birthday card, and had it signed by everyone? Perhaps I should add that to my list of issues for Yom Kippur.

"Get Off My TRAINNNNNNN!"

CONTEST TIME! The first person to comment and tell me what movie that's from without looking it up online will win a prize. Ready? GO!

Seriously, with that amount of rage that the title line was said in the movie, is exactly how I feel like screaming at the Steamroller right now.

The Mother is currently in the kitchen, IN A NIGHTGOWN (hey, at least she's dressed, right?), cooking. Using every single counter. All I wanted was to come home and put my Trader Joe's food away, and grab a waffle. But no. There was barely space for me to fit my food (only $20 of it so you know I didn't have much) into the fridge.

The fridge. Let's talk about that, shall we? (It's my blog, so we shall.) On the door of the fridge is a green Jolly Rancher lollipop. It's not mine. It's been in there for MONTHS (who keeps lollipops in the fridge?). Today, while putting away my groceries, I noticed what can only be described as green slime on the door right next to the lollipop. I was disgusted.

I made a big show of saying, "EWWWWWW!" to The Mother while pointing, who said, "Oh, is that yours?" I made a horrified face, as if I would never allow anything to become such a disgusting mess (because I wouldn't), and said no, so she said she'd tell her daughter. Yeah, while you're at it, tell the wittle steamwoller to take her fucking Valentine's Day flowers out of the vase she asked if she could borrow from me in FEBRUARY and clean the vase and put it back, won't you? Because I think we all know it'll never occur to Steamroller to do that on her own.

I am so very angry. I am so very tired of having to Clorox Wipe every single inch of the kitchen every single time I want to cook. I want The Parents to go back to China. Or Los Angeles, where they were for part of last week. Or really, just go anywhere but here. GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN!!!!!

Breaking the Cardinal Rule

Anyone who is not a schmuck and works in an office knows The Cardinal Rule: be nice to the little people. Be nice to the receptionist, librarian, secretaries, copy room guys, janitors, and in general, everyone "below" you.

These people are the ones who make sure your work gets where it needs to go, and that you have a place to do your oh-so-important work. Sure, you draft legal documents, but do you actually know how to print on letterhead? Prepare a Proof of Service that indicates First Class Mail and Facsimile? Do you know where extra lightbulbs are kept for when the one right above your desk blows out? I didn't think so.

Everyone knows the old "watch how your date treats the waitress and you'll know how he's going to treat you" rule. But in addition to that, I think everyone should watch how the higher-ups treat the underlings. It tells you a lot about a person, and where they see themselves.

Our receptionist tells me if Name Partner is in or out of the office when I call her (his office is pretty far away from my desk, but he walks by her going in and out). The copy room guys will call me if my fax isn't going through, instead of waiting until the next run and dumping it in my Inbox. Not everyone gets this treatment. But not everyone says "thank you" to the copy room guys. Not everyone compliments the receptionist on how beautifully she decorated for birthdays.

Yesterday, I told Tuna that I had a 12:30 appointment. He needed to have a letter hand-delivered to BFE County. I got the exhibits ready. I had the messenger on standby. Tuna told me to go ahead and have the messenger come pick up the letter. The letter that you're still revising? "The messenger can wait." Oh. You're in THAT mode, are you? Okay, fine. 12:26 p.m. Still revising. Still waiting to hear how many copies of everything he wants. 12:32 p.m. I greet the messenger, apologize for the wait. It's a long drive to BFE County. The closer we get towards late afternoon, the more traffic there'll be. 12:48 p.m. Messenger getting antsy. I am angry. "Hey Green, we need to hand-deliver this to Joe Bloggs also." I find that address and give it to the messenger. He tried to avoid glaring at me, knowing it's not my fault; I try to avoid being hurt by his glare. 12:57 p.m. Tuna strides out of his office and down the hall. Over his shoulder I hear, "Hey, I'm going to lunch. You can print out the letter, make four copies and send it out now."

Gee thanks. Welcome to My Shit List. Granted, it's a typical attorney prick move, and I shouldn't really be that upset. Hell, I've had documents thrown at me before, this is nothing. But what makes this even prickier than it seems is that Tuna is never a prick. So I hope he felt REALLY good acting that way. I hope it's out of his system. Next time I'm going to Peet's, I won't be asking if he wants anything. He won't notice, but it'll make me feel better.

Steamroller Update

Steamroller's parents are still in town. Chinese strangers are in my apartment, hidden away in Steamroller's bedroom. Late at night when I'm in bed, I hear voices in another language that keep me awake. When I walk by the kitchen there are strange foods on the counter, raw egg drippings and egg shells in the sink, and food splatter all over the stove. I try to ignore it and just secretly Clorox Wipe the entire kitchen when nobody else is home.

I've now run into the mother (whose name I don't know) three times. Never see the father, though I've heard a male voice speaking Mandarin, which I assume is his.

On Sunday afternoon I got a migraine that became so bad that I took a taxi home. When I walked into my apartment, The Mother was cooking up lots of great-smelling foods. I said hi to her without breaking stride; my goal of getting to my bed too important to stop for formalities. Out of the corner of my brain, I registered that she seemed disappointed. The Mother had wanted to chat with me, and I made that impossible. Promptly going to bed, I slept on and off until 1 a.m. Awake through the early morning until it was time to go to work Monday, I headed home that evening beyond EXHAUSTED.

While on my way, my cell phone rang.

Steamroller: Are you going to be home soon?
GY: I'm not sure, why do you ask?
Steam: Oh, never mind.
GY: What's up?
Steam: I forgot my key and am locked out.
GY: I'm getting on the train now, and should be home in 15-20 minutes. Why don't you wait in the lobby?

I stopped off for milk, and then headed up to my floor. Standing outside the door was The Mother. The Steamroller herself was nowhere to be found.

I smiled at The Mother, said hello, and after I unlocked the door, she followed me in. It was 6:30 p.m., I was tired (having been up since 1 a.m.), hungry for dinner, and the kitchen was a WRECK. The Mother wanted to talk. Before I could do my usual Home From Work things (hanging up my coat, taking off my shoes, washing my hands, etc.) she'd blocked me in the living room. To tell me what?

To tell me how much she really likes me. How it makes her feel good that the Steamroller lives with me. How the Steamroller aspires to be like me (Huh?! I didn't ask). To say that although the Steamroller thinks she's mature, she's actually spoiled and immature. To say that the Steamroller hopes to live with me even after we have to move. That the Steamroller looks up to me like a big sister. The Mother then got teary, told me she loves me, and hugged me. Tightly. OH MY GOD.

I finally managed to put all the things I was holding down on the bench, get free from The Mother, and go get a drink of water.

The Mother continued talking, telling me how she and The Father were headed to LA on Tuesday for a few days, but then would be back. "Oh, how interesting; I hope you have a great time in LA!" Wait a minute, what do you mean when you say you'll be back? Back in San Francisco, or back messing up the kitchen I can't use when you cook in it?

Then The Mother drops The Bomb. Apparently her wittle steamwoller didn't realize how work would be so... so... workish! There are long hours! There's overtime! It's HARD! Wittle Steamwoller is not as happy as she was when she went to visit The Parents in China, when she flitted around Hong Kong, dyed her hair red, and partied like a rock star. Shocking. Yeah so Steamroller is planning on quitting her job October 16th. The Mother tells me this, and then adds that the act of quitting her job will be stressful, so she's going to come back and help her wittle steamwoller through the difficult transition of QUITTING HER JOB.

I did a lot of nodding and oh reallying. I did not at any time freak out on The Mother and tell her she's got to get the hell out, pronto. I did not tell The Mother that rage was ripping through my body as she spoke to me, due to her daughter's lie about having forgotten her key. I did not tell The Mother that I cannot wait to get rid of her daughter, that her daughter is only better than the slutty roommate I had in college who had sex with various boys while I slept (or lay awake, as the case may be) in the very same room. (By the way, just for you, I will mention that the slutty roommate had red shoes.) I did not tell The Mother that she will not be staying in our apartment come October 16th.

I am going to make Steamroller do this. She actually said to me, "Don't worry; I'm very mature" when we initially met, as she looked out at the Bay Bridge in what is now her bedroom. Which I now realize I should have taken as a warning sign that she wasn't. People who are mature don't have to tell others they are. Hindsight, the bitch, again. So I'm going to make Steamroller be mature like she claimed she was, and talk directly to me. Instead of having The Mother do her dirty work. I'm going to tell her in no uncertain terms that no more houseguests are welcome.

Just as soon as she gets home before midnight.

Do You Have a Pin? I'd Like To Drop It.

Then I'd like to listen to the sound it makes. I'd be able to, since LEL is out on vacation all this week. As is Cat Lady. Weather Grandma got moved to another floor permanently, so all week, everyone on my side of this floor has been enjoying the peace and quiet.

Yesterday the accounting woman stopped by my desk to comment on how beautifully quiet it is this week. She then dropped the bomb that LEL bitches every month when it's time to do the Cowboy's bills about how I screwed them up when they were my responsibility. This pissed me off. Sure, I screwed them up, but that's because LEL didn't train me when I started and I was trying to figure things out for myself. But I realized my mistakes and got the bills out correctly the two months before LEL became the Cowboy's secretary.

At least the accounting woman told me that each time LEL complains about bills I did (over six months ago), Cowboy tells her to shut up and listen to him. Here's how I screwed up (it's pretty big): When bills are generated, I prepare a cover letter to go to the client on top of the bill. What I didn't realize at first, was that if a client doesn't pay, their balance does NOT roll over to the next month. There's a sheet at the end of a client's bill that says what months are past due, but that's all. Cowboy routinely had me throw that sheet out, and I didn't realize it was all we had to send to the client to remind them of past due invoices.

LEL claimed to Cowboy that I specifically told her past balances DO roll over to following months, which is a total lie. He knows she was trying to cover her own ass, and is not angry at me about this. I've mostly let it go, and am only mildly bitter about LEL trying to throw me under the bus.

Speaking of LEL, it's been a slow day today, so go on over and click the link you see here. This amuses me so very much.

What also amuses me is the temp the firm brought in to cover LEL's desk. She's a total grandma! Funnily enough, from Rockville Centre. Small world, huh? Today she is wearing an ankle-length black skirt that has rows and rows of different-colored frogs. Yes, you read that right. FROGS. She's wearing a blouse that poufs at the shoulders, has pearls for buttons, and has a bow. Her hairstyle makes me want to call her Loretta, although that's not her name.

Also exciting in my work world: I'm busier than I used to be, ever since I was given another partner to work for. Supposedly it's this great honor since he's a name partner, though no pay raise comes with it. Whatever, I'm happy to help. I suppose they don't think I'm doing too terribly if they'll let me work with him. It was a very subtle shift that happened a month or so ago. You know how someone higher up than you walks by, and happens to ask for a favor? Of course you drop what you're doing and do whatever they need.

So Name Partner came by a few times with little things for me to do. A fax here, a FedEx there. No big deal. Then he came by and dropped a tape off. And some bills. And something else. I marched into the office of our gay HR guy and asked, "Do I ... work for Name Partner?" His jaw dropped as he responded, "Oh my God, nobody said anything to you?"

So yeah, I've got Nice Partner, Tuna, and Name Partner now. Name Partner is only supposed to be in this office half of each week. But just my luck, right after his secretarial needs became my responsibility, I was informed there's a big deal going down, it's all taking place in SF, and Name will be spending a lot more time here. Great.

At least Name Partner is very nice, and fairly independent. Like most of the other attorneys here, he is not a yeller, and appreciates everything done for him.

I've almost worked here for exactly one year. The card Golden Boy sent me when I got the job is still taped to my monitor.

Dancing With the Stars

I don't normally write much about tv shows, but seeing dance makes me stop in my tracks and stare.

Seeing someone dance and really enjoy it makes me smile. Who'd have thought Emmitt Smith would grin like an idiot when he dances? Genuinely having fun when you're doing something makes it seem like you're doing it well, even if you're not. Emmitt did decently though. He was smooth, if not complicated, in his moves. It was fun to watch him, simply because he was so clearly having fun. I hope to watch him again next week.

Tucker Carlson, on the other hand, was not nearly as smooth. He didn't even try. He smiled, but it was so clearly an "I give up" smile. He'll be eliminated quickly, because in general, people give up on those who give up on themselves. I can't wait to see what Jon Stewart has to say about Tucker's performance. More importantly, I'm dying to find out if Jon comments on Tucker's reappearance of the infamous bowtie.

What If ...

what if you worked at a place so ridiculous that you wrote about it all the time?

Oh yeah - then you'd have my blog, and the Bouncer's blog, and five trillion other people's blogs.

It takes a certain amount of creativity to be frustrated by your job, yet be able to write about it in such a way that other people are actually interested.

It takes creativity to a whole different level though, when you INVENT a ridiculous place to work at and then blog about it. That's why I am in awe of this blog. This is hysterical. My grandmas at work are funny, sure. But nothing like this. This blows my mind.

(And makes me want to take my creativity to another level. Quick, where's the nearest creative writing class?)

Not All Change Is Good

Last night I stopped off at my corner store to buy milk. It was .89, and I realized the smallest bill I had was a $10.

For the first time in years, I left a penny in that little dish that says, "Take a penny, leave a penny."

It's Got To Be Talked About

Someone I know has been reading and watching everything she can that pertains to 9/11, saying we need to remember. I agree - we do need to remember. Everyone remembers in their own way and should do what works for them. Personally, I don't need to read and watch everything put out there to do it, though.

One of the wisest things I ever heard about death is that people die two times: Once when they leave this earth, and a second time when they're forgotten about.

When people learn that I'm from New York they often ask if I've been to the WTC Memorial, and expect to hear that I have been. When I say I haven't, they seem surprised. A couple of people have asked why not.

Why WOULD I? I was raised in New York. I can still be brought to tears in less than 30 seconds if talking about 9/11 with another New Yorker. The idea of the WTC site being a tourist trap grosses me out, and I want nothing to do with the gawking. The idea of people being excited to see where the towers went down, or bragging about having been there sickens me. I don't need to go there to see it in person. I personally worried and saw enough on tv on 9/11 and 9/12 and won't be forgetting any time soon. In my opinion, the Memorial should be there for the people who in some way or another, were related to those who died. It's not there for me. It feels like I would be where I don't belong if I went.

I understand that different people mourn in different ways. That for some people, as Americans, New York feels like the most American place to be in the country. That people feel they have to acknowledge what happened five years ago. Some people do it in small ways, like writing about it on their blogs, and others do it in big ways, like stringing up huge sheets that are red, white and blue that list the names of all the people who died five years ago. That's what the AT&T Ballpark did. Imagine three translucent sheets hanging down behind the statue they have of Willie Mayes. That's what I saw when walking to the train a couple of nights ago. It took my breath away. Something about that sort of display rubs me the wrong way, in a "Look how creative we are to have come up with this cool way of showing how great we are to incorporate into baseball what everyone else is talking about!"

I'm not saying that's how the meetings went down, just that that's how it felt to me. Hell, you could be reading this blog being disgusted by me for writing about 9/11 when none of my family members died. And really, what's more traditionally American than baseball and defending the U.S. and all the freedom it stands for? Or, used to stand for. But that's how it felt to me.

If I feel the need to read about 9/11, I'll start by going here.

Involved

Tunafish is on a reduced hours schedule. That means that he is not required / expected by the firm to put in as many hours as some of the other associates. Why? Because he wants to be able to spend time with his family. He's married with two little kids. Tuna is very clearly a guy who works to live, not a guy who lives to work. It's obvious in the way he calls his daughter each afternoon, to find out how preschool went. It's obvious when he dashes out for a long lunch, to go watch a kiddie ballet recital.

I don't know if this means Tuna is not on the partner track, or he is, but it will take longer for him to get there than it will take others who bill more hours.

Nice Partner has a few young children himself. He gets to the office around 8 a.m. each day and usually leaves after I do, save for one day a week when he leaves at 5 p.m. Nice Partner never talks to his kids during the workday. It's very clear to me that he loves his kids. Yet I can't see him being an "involved" father the way Tuna is. They both have kids around the same age. They both recently had their kids in the office. Tuna stopped working for the most part, and colored with his daughter and played ball with the baby. Nice Partner kept working, and tried to encourage his kid to entertain himself.

Today Tuna, Cowboy and Other Partner were working hard to get a brief filed. (You know you've been in the legal industry a long time when you don't feel the urge to make jokes about the word 'brief'.) According to Tuna, last night he was in the office until 11 p.m, and Other Partner was there until 2 a.m. Then OP returned to the office at 5:30 a.m. Tuna billed 12 hours yesterday.

We were chatting after the brief was filed, and Tuna told me he doesn't know how some people do it. How they can justify spending so much time away from their kids. I shrugged. "You do what you have to in order to get the job done. You prioritize." Tuna pointed at the top of his desk, where there are pictures of a little girl in pigtails and a beach hat, and a baby crawling and happily being held. "These are my priorities."

I don't think the dads who get home at night after their kids are asleep and leave before their kids wake up love their kids any less than the more involved dads, the Tuna-style dads. I think they just show their love differently. Some show it by providing financially, and some show it by showing up.

Of course, Tuna is providing financially. It's not like he's saying "BabyTuna, if you had a dance recital, I would be there because I make the time for you. It's because I make the time for you that we can't afford to send you to dance classes." The Tuna Family is doing quite well. The Tuna Kids will get to take whatever classes they want. Maybe they just won't have a dad who's a partner in a law firm as soon as some of their friends will.

I don't really have a point to all this. It was just an interesting conversation to be having at work. Sorry if that's not translating here.

P.S. I have fond memories of going to work with my dad on Saturday mornings as a little kid, bringing my yellow Mr. Math with me for entertainment.