Happy Early Purim!

Even though it's not Purim yet, I'm officially really excited about it. Why? Because today I got the most awesome e-mail from my aunt.

Months ago when she was in SF visiting, the subject of hamantashen came up and she mentioned that she makes them. I asked if I could sign up to get some, or if they don't travel well (I thought it'd be appropriate to give her an out if she didn't want to send me any). My aunt said of COURSE she'd send me some. I was partially excited, and partially thought she'd forget and it'd never happen. Imagine my excitement today to get an e-mail from her saying she had goodies to send me but had misplaced my new address, so could I resend it. YOU BET YOUR ASS I CAN!

Short Letters

Dear Beatbox Boy on American Idol:

I think you might be kind of good. But tonight, it looked like you were wearing sweatpants. Even if you weren't, the fact that the pants distracted me from your singing was not good. Don't wear those again.

Dear Paula,

Your eyes and forehead don't seem to move. Straight up, what's up with the Botox?

Dear Leasing Office,

I'm extra cold tonight. Despite having both heaters in the living room on, despite having a long sleeve shirt and a hooded sweatshirt on. When I finished using the oven tonight, I turned it off, but left the oven door partially open, and even with that I'm still cold. Please pull your shit together and fix this. Not because I'm paying over $2500 a month in rent, but because I'm simply cold and there's no good reason for that.

Dear Nice Partner,

When you go run into Tuna's office to fart, and run out giggling, we ALL know about it. And we all lose a bit of respect for you. Never mind that today you completely stunk up the hallway for hours. Stop it - not all of us think it's funny. In fact, I think you're the only one who thinks it is. Tuna only laughs because it's not professional to cry.

Dear Britney,

Sometimes I notice myself being extra sensitive and getting teary at especially touching commercials, feeling snubbed at nothing significant, and I realize I'm in PMS-mode. I make a note of that, not literally, but I tuck it in the front of my head, and it's a little reminder to myself. "You're not 100% well in the head, don't make any rash decisions." Please feel free to use this concept for your life. Also, stop trusting new people, and go back to the people you've known for over five years. Stop going out clubbing, stop hooking up with boys, just hole up with your kids for a while and really focus on them. If you do that someplace other than a major city like LA or NY, you'll get less media coverage, and I bet that will make you feel a bit better.

Dear LEL,

Fuck you. Go spill your Coke or coffee and shut up. Oh, and "spe-ci-a-li-ty" with five syllables is NOT a word.

Dear Tuna,

Stop throwing your time sheet at me. It's not "a fun way to catch it" but it's just making you look like a prick. I like you a lot, except for this. If you don't cut it out, I won't lend you my umbrella anymore.

Dear Weather,

As you may or may not have noticed above, I'm cold. If you could warm up just a little, and stop with the wind, I'd be really appreciative. Thanks so much.

Dear Guy In Public Pay Bathroom in Justin Herman Plaza,

I'm really happy for you that you were having so much fun in there. I know you were, because I heard you screaming, "Yeah! OH YEAH!" Good for you for finding fun in an unlikely location. San Francisco clearly has something for everyone.

The New Steamroller

On Saturday TNS moved a bed, clothing and assorted other things into the apartment. Saturday evening when I got home, she called to say she'd be going back and forth but would be sleeping here starting Tuesday night. Today I came home from work to find a note from TNS saying she'll still be going back and forth.

When I was on the phone with my brother this afternoon he reminded me to try to be nice to her, and not make her feel like shit just because I don't want a roommate and only have one for the extra money. I know he's right. And I came home ready to be all perky and welcoming and on my best roommate behavior. Only to see the note.

And although I'm happy she's not here, it's the second time now that I mentally prepared myself for her to be here, and the second time she's not here.

At least I have security and rent checks from her. So as far as I'm concerned, she should feel free to stay away as much as she'd like.

Team Green

**This post may make very little sense, as I've been awake since 3:27 a.m. Then again, it may be the most brilliant thing I've ever written. I make no promises in either direction.

So I was reading a blog post about having teams this morning. Not teams like, "Shit, I have to take Chandler? But he runs like a girl" teams, but Team Heidi* teams.

I used to think I had a team. Actually, I thought I had teams. But one of my teams, who I used to lean against heavily, totally crumbled. And the weird thing is, the team crumbled when I leaned against it less than I ever had before. It was like I just suggested that someday, I might think of putting my hand against the wall while I fixed my shoe and the wall freaked out and immediately fell to the ground.

Another team got his own team. And while he tries to be on my team when he sees I'm needing one, he's really truly not on it. Part of being on a team means you're always on the team. He's got his own team now; his loyalties have shifted. Like loyalties might if you were born in Boston but then moved to New York. Sox? Yankees? Which team? And then you pick the Yankees at the end. And I'm not angry about it. Sad, yes. But I understand. Everybody wants their own team.

Some friends have said they're on my team. But you know that thing everyone goes through (please tell me everyone goes through it and it's not just me) where they say "If I don't call or write, who will call or write to me?" so they stop reaching out to see who does reach out to them when they're not being reminded to do it? I feel like the people who call and write when I'm not calling or writing them are the true team players. Ummm... and embarrassingly enough, that's only like one and a half people. Which really, is not enough for me.

I've vaguely talked about this with a few friends, and tried to explain. How much it unsettles me that nobody worries if I get home late at night, or not at all. That there's nobody to hold my hand when I have to go to a doctor. That when something awesome happens and I want to turn around to share the good news, I stop myself because I realize there's nobody to get excited along with me.

The people I've shared this with claim they get it. But they don't. They've claimed they'll call to check and make sure I've gotten home late at night when I've had to run an errand in a bad area. But they don't. And that's okay - they have their own teams, and again, I get it and wasn't depending on them.

I just wish I had my own team. And not a lame team, where everyone who participates gets a trophy either. A real team, where big tough guys are moved to tears because the love of the game just overwhelms them sometimes.

*The Hills? Anyone? WTF is wrong with Heidi? Spencer should be banned from sports after the way he's treated Aud...Hei... hell, every female in the game. What on EARTH does she see in him?

Die and Dye

In case anyone cares what I think about the Anna Nicole drama, here it is: Paternity of the baby should be established immediately. The entire country should collectively pray the father is Berkhead. The baby should NOT go to Anna Nicole's mother. If the baby's father is found to be Howard K. Stern, he should get custody only pending weekly drug tests. It's my hope that Howard K. Stern has some normal girlfriend on the side somewhere who likes newborn baby girls and has always just wanted to be a mother when she grew up. The judge who ruled in the case? He liked the attention a little too much. You can tell that back in the day when he was a cab driver, he was the sort who would talk and talk to you even if you just wanted him to drive fast and shut the hell up. Moving on.

In case anyone is wondering if my leasing office has fixed the massive drafts in my apartment, the answer is no. As I type this I am wearing two pairs of socks and my toes are STILL cold. After work on Friday, I bought flowers. I'm glad I didn't spend too much money on them, because by Saturday morning they'd died from the cold. Before you suggest that I didn't care for them properly, I'll tell you that I've bought flowers before and never had this happen. I trimmed the stems, put in water, a few pennies, and set them on the table, just like I've done in the past.

I worry that if, in the process of my brother moving back to SF from LA (!!) his dog comes to live with me, I'll have to tell him that I can't in good conscience let her stay here, because it's simply too cold for a small dog. Of course I would turn on the heat for her both day and night, but I'm just not sure it would be enough, and would hate to take the risk.

The receptionist at work is yet another grandma. It's not clear exactly why, but this reception grandma has an office. Obviously she doesn't use it all the time, since she's up front receiving people, but it's there, it's hers, and nobody else goes in it. She keeps things in it, and goes in there to make private phone calls and do grandmotherly things I suppose. So weird. She is the person to set up the kitchen for birthday celebrations, and set up any time we're having any sort of event. She does a nice job. When I first started working at this law firm, I sent the reception grandma an e-mail after the first kitchen-decorating extravaganza complimenting her on the decorating. She was very touched by my e-mail and has liked me ever since.

Over the last two months, people have been talking furiously about the reception grandma. She had dark brown hair. Now she has white hair. Except for a patch in the back that's bright yellow. Each week her hair has gotten progressively lighter. It looks HORRIBLE. Not just the color itself, but her hair looks brittle, fried. A lot of people don't like the reception grandma - word in the hallway is that she's a mole, she writes down what time people arrive and leave and tells HR. I'll tell you now that I don't know if that's true or not, but I've arrived late and left early and nobody has EVER said anything to me about it. Maybe I'm special. Because I've been hearing AWFUL shit about the reception grandma's hair to the point that I feel bad for her. I wonder what she's thinking. I wonder if she likes her hair the way it is now. I wonder if this was the look she was going for.

Working on Commuting

I just need to say that the new grandma who wore red leather pants two weeks ago showed up today wearing a leather skirt. Thank you.

So, my new commute is not working out for me.

In the mornings, the bus doesn't come until five minutes before 9 a.m., getting me to work 10-15 minutes late every day. In the evenings, I have to stand outside in the cold for 20-35 minutes waiting for the bus to come take me home. This will not do.

This morning I tried a different route, that involves taking two buses. I got to work at 9:06 a.m. Better, but still not good enough. However, I overshot my stop getting off the first bus, so I'm going to try again tomorrow. This new route, although it involves more walking, might just be what I need.

I found a different route for getting home that also involves taking two buses. Not much waiting is involved at all, but each day something goes wrong while I'm ON the bus that goes down Market Street. There's a car accident and we get stuck on the bus for a long time. A crazy man gets on the bus and blocks the aisle with his huge suitcase and engages in a stand-off with the bus driver who says he won't move the bus until Crazy Man moves his suitcase. Crazy Man inspires half the passengers of the bus to prepare to flee as he mumbles to himself and reaches around in his suitcase, worrying everyone he's about to pull out a gun, only to open his hand and reveal a tape measure in an effort to prove his point. This bus lets me off further away from home than the evening bus I used to take, leaving me to walk three blocks to get home.

I think the evening commute is half a dozen of one, six of another. I can either lose 25 minutes standing outside, or while sitting on the bus for whatever reason followed by walking the last few blocks home.

I started this post with a grandma tidbit, and I'll end it with another grandma tidbit. Cat Lady told me yesterday that LEL is not only not being invited to move when my department moves to a different office, but that she was told to start looking for a new job. I'm not sure I can believe Cat Lady. Tuna and I had a chat this morning about the move, and I told him that I hope to still have a job. He promised to speak with Cowboy and see what he can do for me.

Exciting Update: Today I got to work late taking the two-bus route. However, I will claim the Milli Vanilli card, and blame it on the rain that was fallin' fallin'. Will try again tomorrow.

Let's Talk About Sex: Hypocrosy

I don't really remember talking specifically with my father about sex. (Whoa. Two words that seem weird in the same sentence.) He was there for the sex questions that came up during dinner. I vaguely remember him telling me something helpful after I'd first gotten my period, when we were in the car headed towards the LIE, and my being surprised that he, what with being a boy and all, could be helpful about girl things such as periods. The majority of sex talks usually happened with my mother, before my father had gotten home from work - maybe that's why he wasn't involved in them. He was the parent who explained a vasectomy to me when I was 15 or 16 though. In a condo in New Hampshire, my parents and I standing near the kitchen.

I do remember sitting on the floor of the den, on the ugly green carpet, while my mother sat on the couch feeling inspired after a particularly good After-School Special, and telling me I should wait until I get married to have sex. But if I wanted to have sex before that, I should use condoms. And if I wouldn't buy them myself, I should tell her, and she'd get them for me. Thanks Mom. In hindsight, I think she should have pointed out that if I was too embarrassed to buy my own condoms then perhaps I wasn't mature enough to be having sex, but whatever. It was a good effort. She made her point. "Here's something to aim for, but if you don't make it, then just aim for this and I'll help if you need me to." Okay.

I also remember coming home from middle school and asking my mother was cum was. It was the only time I recall her ever getting flustered from a sex question. When she told me to give her a minute, she had to go look it up, I was surprised. "You don't KNOW?" I think the truth was she needed to buy time to go collect herself. What she told me was that she knew, but just wanted to make sure she was going to explain it correctly to me. Uh huh.

When I was 18, after my grandma died, my grandfather quickly hooked up with his "girlfriend" and they came from Florida to visit. We didn't like her, and not just because she wasn't my grandma and it was too soon. We had real reasons. Anyway. My grandpa and this woman were sort of living together, and my mother told them they couldn't sleep together when they came to visit. I was 18 and my brother was 20, and I think we both believed my mother said what she did because she didn't like the girlfriend.

My mother claimed it was because she had "impressionable children" living in the house, and two unmarried adults sleeping in the same bed was unacceptable for us to be seeing. Not that we'd be seeing old people in bed. Because ew. But you know. Anyway. This went on for a long time.Four or five years passed this way. My grandpa would come visiting from Florida, girlfriend in tow, and he'd sleep on the bed in the basement, while the girlfriend slept in the guest room.

At this point my brother's girlfriend would frequently come over at night after dinner, and they'd lock themselves in my brother's room to "watch movies" and she'd stay over all night. In the mornings I'd often run into her on the stairs, putting on her sneakers to sort of sneak out of our house. I say "sort of" because she wasn't really sneaking anything. My dad was already awake and in the kitchen, I saw her, my brother certainly knew she was there. They weren't fooling anybody. I think maybe my mother was trying to fool herself.

The whole thing was ridiculous. My grandpa couldn't sleep in the same room with the girlfriend he sleeps in the same room with in Florida, at our house. Because of the impressionable children. One of whom was having his own girlfriend sleep over in the same room.

I love for things to be fair. Always have. Probably why I like law so much. Had I not disliked my grandpa's girlfriend so much, I would have fought this battle. Eventually, my mother caved and let my grandpa and his girlfriend both sleep in the study. I think it was after my grandpa was having a hard time with the basement stairs.

Unfortunately, my mother accidentally sent the wrong message. She meant for the adults to be leading by example, or some shit like that. All that I learned was that when you don't like someone, it's kind of okay to do dicky things to them. Which, if I think about how the world works, kind of does seem accurate, though unfair. I also learned that my mother can be a bitch. I mean, I felt like she was a bitch to me many times before that, but I'd been taught not to believe my interpretation of situations involving me, and this was one that didn't involve me that I felt I was seeing clearly.

Are you wondering where I'm going with this? I know I am. My point is, my parents tried to be honest about sex and relationships. But even when you try, you can still miss.

Timing Is Everything

I

was in Justin Herman Plaza tonight from 5:35 p.m. to 5:55 p.m.

Ice Queen

(Except she's not married, so technically, wouldn't that make her an ice princess? Whatever, the point is, I suppose almost every big office has one, as does mine.)

The file clerk tells me on numerous occasions that I seem so put together. After I finish laughing...

Turns out she thinks that because my socks usually match my outfit. Okay fine, always match my outfit. But I like socks. (And pajamas.) Today when the file clerk lifted the hem of my pants to see if my socks matched my green turtleneck (they do, naturally), she said it again. My response was, "You know who I always think looks very put together? Marina."

The file clerk made a face. "What? You don't think so?" (I know my dad is internally cringing and shaking his head, thinking I shouldn't talk about other people at work. But now that I've said this, he's protesting, saying "No I'm not. You have to make the decisions you think are right....")"

Marina is an ice queen." I was surprised. Marina is an associate who lives near me and has a dog. We've talked about our neighborhood several times. She's not overly out-going, like the grandmas are, but I think she's nice enough as far as I'm concerned. I've never heard her yell at anyone, or say anything mean or hurtful. She's just reserved. But the file clerk did have to agree with me; Marina does dress nicely.

I don't see her as an Ice Queen, the more I think about it. I see Marina more as someone who doesn't get involved in any petty shit, someone who keeps her head down and focuses on her work, someone who's not peppy, but will talk with you if you talk with her. She also happens to have amazingly perfect posture any mother (or physical therapist) would be impressed by. Shoulders back, chin up, back straight. Which I suppose does kind of make her look haughty. To me though, it just looks like she may have taken ballet as a kid and been serious about it.

It upsets me. That someone like Marina is looked at badly. Because I'm not very outgoing either. I take a while to warm up to people. The idea that people would think I'm an ice queen because of that makes me sad.

Hallefuckinglujah!

Hi Green:
Just left you a voicemail, sorry it took the better part of today to get back to you, but I do want to take the place. I am going to be running around tomorrow but please call me on my cell at (415) 777-whothefuckcaresthisisn'tarealnumberanyway so we can discuss the details/next steps etc. Thanks and hope you are having a good weekend! -THE NEW STEAMROLLER!!!!!!!!!!!!

I would like to thank the Academy
I would like to thank my brother, for showing me how to attach pictures to my ad to make it better and for co-signing my lease, trusting me to
A. Find a roommate
B. Not get shit-canned and therefore become unable to pay my rent, leaving the burden to him
I would like to thank everyone who came to see my place, for being - even if a bit weird - relatively normal and not killing me
I would like to thank all the potential roommates who offered to take off their shoes upon entering the apartment
I would like to thank the Head Grandma at work for worrying about me each time she knew I had a potential roommate coming over, which reminded me to take little safety precautions*
I would like to thank my dad, for respecting my position when I asked him to stop asking me how the roommate search was going
I would like to thank every reader of my blog who read my whining about this process
I would like to thank my friend's kid, for helping coin the term "The New and Improved Steamroller"
I would like to thank Craigslist for giving me a place to post an ad for free
I would like to thank the New and Improved Steamroller (yes, she'll get her own name) for sending me this e-mail, thus making a very dreary and rainy Saturday fucking awesome
I would like to thank myself, for just last night deciding "I should make a list of all the crap I'm putting off buying until I have a roommate"

*Safety precautions simply consisted of not locking the door after letting people in, keeping my cell phone in my pocket, and always positioning myself closer to each door than they were, which is easier and requires less thinking than it sounds

The Furious Filer

LEL is very particular about her files. She doesn't like for anybody else to touch them. It's only because we work in the same department that she "allows" me to pull files from "her" file cabinets (they're really Cowboy's file cabinets). But I'm never EVER to put anything back. I'm not to put files back in the cabinets, nor am I to file any documents in the files. Once I've taken something out, I'm to put it in LEL's in-box and let her re-file.

She's excellent at her filing. She loves her filing. Nothing makes LEL happier than a big fat batch of filing to plow through. She runs back and forth between her desk and the file cabinets, earlobes flapping wildly in the breeze she creates, clutching papers to her chest the whole way. You know how professional tennis players grunt when they serve? She grunts the same way when she staples or three-hole punches documents.

I am the exact opposite way. I mourn the loss of the old days, when I had a file clerk who did all my filing for me, and did it with a smile. I hate filing. I hate the paper cuts that it brings, I hate the alphabet, I hate everything about filing.

Lately something weird has been happening. Tuna will call me or pull me into his office, tell me this is to be kept quiet, and then ask me to do something like fax a document to a client. It'll always be something Cowboy is involved with. Of course I say okay, of course I go do whatever is needed. But let's review. LEL is Cowboy's secretary. I used to be, but haven't been for quite some time now. A client is a client is a client, right? I mean, LEL is a fucking wackjob, but she can walk over to the copy room and toss some clipped papers in a bin marked "FAXES", right? And yet this keeps happening.

Yesterday Tuna had me take a letter signed by Cowboy and FILE IT when LEL wasn't looking. Today he had me take that letter and fax it to someone. Then I was to put it back. All without LEL noticing. Getting the letter and faxing it were no problem. But then LEL was on a filing spree and I couldn't get to the cabinets without her noticing. So it was sitting on my desk for a while.

Then I get an e-mail Tuna has forwarded me from LEL, asking him if he has the exact file I have. Crap! I write back that it's on my desk, and will put it back as soon as she walks off to do anything else other than filing. I get my chance and run to slide the file back into place. So cloak and dagger. Tuna and I meet up in his office, and I tell him he can just tell her to check again, and it'll be there. Sure we'll be contributing to her eventual nervous breakdown, but hey, it's inevitable - might as well speed the process along, right? No? No.

Tuna decided instead that he'd tell LEL he had me pull something from the cabinet while she was away, because Cowboy needed it done immediately, and he told me to put the file back. He promised to tell LEL that I vehemently protested but he insisted. It was a very quiet conversation they had. I didn't even realize when it was happening. But all of a sudden LEL was at her desk, pounding away at her keyboard. POUNDING to the point I wondered if her fingers could possibly go straight through.

And then I got the e-mail from her. A very nice e-mail, thanking us for helping, but reminding Tuna that she prefers to file her own documents and asking that we both respect that in the future. Thanks! It almost seemed like a normal, nice e-mail. Except that I heard the POUNDING as she typed it out. LEL's fury was radiating off her body.

I think LEL is losing her mind. Like, seriously. Losing her mind. As uncomfortable as I am sitting next to someone I NEVER EVER speak to, I'm a pretty quiet person. I'm no Chatty Cathy. LEL LOVESSSSSS to talk. She talks to everyone, whether or not they have the time or inclination to talk with her. So I know it's a real effort for her to not talk with me. On the other side of her sits Cat Lady, who is back to not talking with LEL (it's hard to keep up).

Cat Lady wants LEL to go crazy. She wants bad things to happen to her. It's going to happen. I've been around crazy people before, and I can sense these things coming. Just like alcoholics have to hit their bottoms, crazy people have to break.

LEL is going to break soon. There are little signs that show me she's cracking. Like the fact that LEL sent Tuna an e-mail today asking him to do some administrative task while she's out of the office tomorrow. That's completely inappropriate - she only asked him to do it because she didn't want to talk to me. LEL is going to fall down in six months or less. That's my prediction. I'll let you know what happens.

In completely unrelated news, I drafted a Notice of Motion and Motion to Expunge Lis Pendens, Supporting Declaration of Nice J. Partner, and Memorandum of Points and Authorities this afternoon. I saved. I hit print. As I got up from my chair to fetch the pleadings from the printer, Nice Partner called me. Bypassing the printer I went to his office. Only to find out our opposing counsel had just called and was going to withdraw. His lis pendens. Which means all that work I had just done was for naught. In a monotone voice, I said to Nice Partner, "Thank you for providing me with this exciting opportunity to practice my typing and pleading skills." He laughed and apologized that it came down that way.

And Everywhere That Green Went, LEL Was Sure To Go

I joined the Social Committee at work a while ago. Guess who's attended the last two meetings? That's right, your favorite heavily perfumed grandma has decided she should be involved too. She always sits diagonally across the table from me, and makes sure to challenge something I say. At the first meeting she tried to instigate a jew-off, since we were the only two jews at the meeting, but I wouldn't bite.

At the most recent meeting LEL agreed to be in charge of our Lunar New Year celebration. Which the Head Grandma had to keep reminding her was not to be referred to as the Chinese New Year. Being in charge of a specific event is not as big a deal as you'd think. What's that? No, I haven't been in charge of any events yet. Shut up, we're talking about LEL here, not me.

Anyway. Being in charge of an event that's been done before means it's really easy. Ummm... so I hear from other people. Whatever, shut up. You look in the file at what was done last time, and do it again, unless there are notes that people complained. Celebrating the Lunar New Year means ordering Chinese food from a local restaurant for 110 people. Not very difficult. Except that apparently it is for LEL.

Word in the hallway is, LEL has asked the Head Grandma (who runs Social Committee meetings) so many questions that she got told "Hey, you volunteered to be in charge of this, so do it." LEL already knows which place to order from. A year ago, Cowboy had her order Chinese food one day for everyone in our corner, and we all agreed the food was great. So LEL already knows where to order the food from. And really, restaurants are used to catering events. They know how it's done. I mean sure, you can request specific things you like, but in general, if you're trying to feed over 100 people, you want a little of everything.

But no. A half hour ago I heard LEL enlisting the help of our facilities coordinator. At first it made sense - you have to reserve a conference room, make sure it's allowed, whatever. But because LEL and I sit so close, and because she is unable to speak any quieter than you would if you wanted to be heard while seated at the Superbowl, I know LEL was discussing which dishes to order with the guy. Maybe she's worried everyone will know she's in charge, will blame her if something they hoped for isn't there? But it's free food. The attorneys LOVE free food. The only time I've seen Tuna run is when he's found out about leftover food after a meeting. COME ON! Just be bold and decisive and make a damn decision! It's just food.

In other, unrelated news, LEL is expecting her first granddaughter. This means I will have to hear a lot more of "HELLO GORGEOUS!" and "Tell Gramma 'I lub you'" Oy to the vey.

Three Things, All of Which Would Be Better If I Had Accompanying Pictures

1. Doogie Houser - ever wonder where he is now? I know exactly where he is every weekday morning at 8:55 a.m. He's at Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf (which is way too long a name, by the way) in San Francisco. He gives the name "Brian" at the register but I can tell he secretly likes when people say "Excuse me, Doogie" to get past him to reach the milk for their non-fat triple caf latte. Doogie, I mean Brian, also stands around with a Crackberry, pretending to read important messages. I'm sure he's really just reading fan mail he had his assistant scan in and email to him. Little letters saying "I loved you in Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle" and the like.

2. A brand new grandma started at our firm yesterday. Today she wore dark red leather pants. With a heavy cable-knit yellow sweater. She looks like the type of woman to be named Linda or Barbara, aside from the leather pants. She doesn't sit near any of the other grandmas, and I'll try to find out this week if she's an actual grandma or just of grandma age.

3. This morning when I went in to Nice Partner's office he was leaning way back in his chair with each foot planted firmly on the edge of his desk. Remember when Ross when to the doctor with Rachel and he hopped up on the table and put his legs in the stirrups? Yeah, just like that.

Orange You Glad I Didn't Say Orange Again?

I called the orange people today. Yet again. After calling numerous times last week.

I'll admit it right now - I totally lost my temper. I've been in customer service. While the industry has moved away from the old "the customer is always right" stance, you are still supposed to do whatever you can within reason to help the customer.

I'm not overly difficult. It's not unreasonable to ask whether an order you placed, to be delivered to friends, has been delivered. It's not unreasonable to ask for a date and time it was delivered. When the company can't provide that information, it's not unreasonable to ask for tracking numbers so you can track your order.

Or is it? Apparently this orange company thought all those requests WERE unreasonable. Apparently the people at this orange company are idiots.

Last week I filed a complaint with the Attorney General's Office when I ran out of patience. Today, after the guy laughed at me on the phone when I was asking for a tracking number, right before I hung up the phone I said, "I hate you." Not so much in a mean, angry way. But more in a "I'm sad and beaten down and have reached the end and hate you for helping me get to this point." Don't tell me that DHL does not give tracking numbers. There's no way in hell they will accept packages to be delivered without giving them tracking numbers. I really hate being lied to.

So yes, I said "I hate you" to the orange man. After three weeks of calling to find out about these fucking oranges. After being told repeatedly the orange company had no record of my order. After I forwarded them the confirmation they'd e-mailed me. After I left message after message for the owner.

And then I called my credit card company and told them about my saga. I explained all the efforts I'd made, and ended with "So, will you go kick their asses for me, credit card style?" The guy laughed, and reversed the charge, back to the orange company.

Contacts? Check.
Oranges? Check.
Drafts in apartment? Wellllll.... still working on that one.