Happy Friday. Or Whatever.

Yeah, one of those blah moods is upon us. Upon me, more specifically.

First grade got the most votes, so first grade it is. Lest you worry, I haven't forgotten about first grade entirely and a rough draft is done, but I need to add some things and rearrage paragraphs and all that fun shit. I'll aim for a Monday "release" date. Then Monday night we can have a wrap party. Or not, whatever. I feel like writing but don't feel like writing about anything. So, I'll share some tidbits.

There were a lot of birthdays in my department this month, and I took it upon myself to get cards for Tuna, Cowboy and Nice Partner. I'm very pleased that I gave each guy the right card on the right day. Hopefully they are too.

Tuesday night I got a splinter while Clorox Wiping the cabinet above my microwave oven. It sits in my pinky taunting me, laughing at me for not being able to get it out with my Tweezerman tweezers. Both Cowboy and Tuna have inspected my finger and assured me it will rise to the surface on its own, and I don't have to do anything. I check my finger approximately 40,294 times each day. No, I'm not interested in doing anything that begins with "just take a safety pin...", but thank you.

File Clerk told me she thinks New Girl who took over for Drunk Granny is a cokehead. She has gotten angry for seemingly no valid reason, and sniffs an awful lot. It's been so long since I've hung out with people who do coke that I barely remember the signs. I have no opinion on the coke angle one way or another. Just reporting the rumors here.

The other rumor is LEL is out of a job June 1st. I've been told this by Cat Lady and the Accounting woman. LEL goes to interviews wearing khakis and a sweater with the tag hanging out about once a week. Shocking she doesn't have a new job. It blows my mind that she doesn't realize interview for legal position = business suit. How does she not know this? Yesterday we had to walk past each other, and I moved to the right, as this is America and that's what one does here, but LEL also moved to MY right. So I stood still to let her pick a side so I could go to the other one, and as she went by me she said, "Excuse you." Was that supposed to be a dig on the You're welcomes I doled out? I think it was.

Last Sunday I went to downtown Sonoma to meet up with some friends. It was a very laid back afternoon, and it's definitely in the top five days of my entire life. One of the other top five days of my entire life involve a Harley, and another involves a sailboat in Miami, so you'd think hanging out in a park with friends wouldn't make the cut. But it does. I just REALLY liked the people I was with, felt comfortable with them, and when people started packing up to head home, I wanted to throw myself at their feet, wrap my arms around their knees, and scream, "Nooooooo! STAYYYYY!" I'm sure if I'd done that they wouldn't want to hang out with me anymore though, so I didn't. Instead I encouraged everyone to come visit me in the city.

The Hills! (Spoiler)

WHITNEY FELL! HOLY CRAP! Who else saw that? OH MY GOD I CAN'T BELIEVE WHITNEY FELL DOWN THE STAIRS WEARING THE HILARY SWANK DRESS!

Okay seriously, was that not the funniest thing EVER? And equally awesome was at the end of the show when Whitney and Lauren are telling Audrina about the fall and Lauren says something like, "I thought it was going to be a domino effect with all the models falling down, but it wasn't."

Here's a clip for those of you who want to watch it over and over, like I do.

I am also proud of Heidi for telling Spencer (a.k.a. Steve Sanders) she wasn't moving in with him. Now I respect her a tiny bit more. This is the first thing she's done right all season.

Thank you for sharing this with me. Really, I must start having Hills parties each Tuesday night.

"I Gotta Get It Out, I Gotta Get It Out*"

Okay so I just need to purge this before I implode.

LEL's latest thing is that when she and I are walking down the hallway towards each other in opposite directions, when we come upon each other she flattens herself against the wall, as if I smell (I don't) or am so fat that I take up the entire space (I'm not). I'm feeling like the next time we get to that point, I am thinking of dramatically throwing MYself against the wall wildly, just making fun of her. Yeah, maturity is not really winning in this situation.

Her other thing is that she will never ever be polite to me. To me, being polite to her is simply the professional thing to do, and that's why I am always polite to her, no matter how rude she is to me. Except, not exactly. It is unquestionably rude to point out somebody else's lack of manners. And that's exactly what I've been doing.

LEL not only will go so far as to print to the printer I use (because Cat Lady scared her away from using the one she uses), she will also throw out documents I print if she gets to them first. I would never do that. I have actually taken something off the printer, seen it's clearly hers, and said to her "I think this is yours" while holding it out to her. And then, as she walks away after taking it, I say "You're welcome." Sometimes mumbled, sometimes brightly with a shit-eating grin. Today I held a door for her and after she'd walked through, I tossed a "You're welcome" over my shoulder as I turned the corner.

I've been doing this for about two weeks now, because .... well, because I guess I'm slightly snapping. I can only take so much, and I've taken A LOT. We haven't even discussed LEL's habit of bypassing me to speak with my attorneys, or the time she mistakenly entered her Baby Attorney's time on Name Partner's time code and then denied it because I was the one who'd discovered her mistake. We haven't talked about the fact that if LEL comes into the copy room while I'm there, I always move over to make room for her, but she never extends the same courtesy for me. Or that if Cowboy needs something from her when she's not around to do it, I always offer to help him, and then fill her in on what's gone on when she returns, so she's not left in the dark, and she never thanks me for that.

This afternoon after I did the you're welcome thing, as we both got back to our desks, LEL said something like "Don't talk to me about manners" or "You can't talk to me about manners." My gut reaction was to think "Of course I can - I can do whatever I want." I made a face reflecting that somehow, and LEL then said, "In that case, YOU'RE WELCOME for the menorah I gave you, that I spent $25 on."

Oh no she di'in't. As soon as she said that, I replied with, "I thanked you for that, in same moment I picked it up." Which is true, I did. I then followed up with an e-mailed thank you note to her that morning also.

I never told LEL what I did with her menorah that she gave me. I gave it away. I listed it on Craigslist for free and gave it to somebody, because I knew I'd never use it. If I were going to use any sort of menorah, it'd be an electric one.

Anyway. I am not proud of myself for acting this way, pointing out LEL's lack of manners all the time. I know better. You might say, just don't do things for her that would require a normal person to thank you, so you're not compelled to say you're welcome. However, that goes against me - if I know the right thing to do for the good of my department, my law firm, I feel like I have to do that. Fucking work ethic, screwing up everything. Yeah, I should just be the bigger person.

UPDATE: This morning I just spoke with Cat Lady about it all, and she encouraged me to keep doing this you're welcome shit, even after I said "Everybody knows it's bad manners to correct someone else's bad manners" which tells you something about Cat Lady. She also encouraged me to tell Cowboy and Nice Partner, which I don't want to do. It's pathetic enough that two grown women can't work out an issue - I can't also drag in our bosses. Cat Lady insists LEL will be gone in two months.

I just had horrible chest pains for about ten minutes, and I wonder if that's my punishment for being immature about this and not just completely ignoring LEL's idiocy, like I probably should be doing.

*First person to tell me what movie that line is from gets a prize.

It's New! It's Different!

Dear Readers,

I have many things to tell you - so many that I don't know where to begin. Therefore, I will leave it up to you. I know, this is new and different and not what you expect here - normally I try to write to get things out, to vent frustrations, but not today.

Therefore. Today I'm going interactive. Below you will see choices. Please vote in the comments section, and I will blog about whichever topic gets the most votes. If this works well, I'll make it a regular thing. If it doesn't, maybe I'll put this entry back in Draft form and pretend I never posted it to begin with.

A. First grade (involves my first major cat fight, and a mind-blowing discovery)
B. An update on work
C. LEL and what she and her loose earlobes have been doing to amuse/annoy me
D. A review of the books I've been reading recently
E. Pictures I took Monday morning before work
F. A picture of the left side of my closet (if you're facing it, not if you're standing inside the closet, looking out, wondering what you're doing there)

To make the decision process easier for my four and a half readers, I'll tell you now there have been no memos going out at work lately telling everyone what to wear. No reason, they've just gone away. Figured it was only fair to throw that out there, lest people vote for B in the hopes of hearing what color everyone is supposed to wear on Thursday.

Also, I feel you should be aware I'm on telephone standby for Jury Duty. Not for any real reason of course, but just because I feel like sharing that with you.

Look Cool

Want me to tell you a story? Okay!

Once upon a time, like when I was five or six, I had two outfits that were my favorites (except the shoes). One was a red cordoroy skirt with a white turtleneck that was covered with tiny ladybugs. I wore white tights, my navy blue Crayola belt and my navy blue buckle shoes that I hated with it. I had a red sweatshirt that I sometimes wore over the ladybug turtleneck. The other outfit was a denim skirt with a blue shirt that had a rainbow with shades of blue and purple across it. Also worn with aforementioned Crayola belt and buckle shoes.

I think I wore the red ladybug outfit to my first day of first grade. Around that time (of first grade), my parents decided we should get a time-share in New Hampshire. We went to check out the place, and our family friends were meeting us there. The time-share was new, so new that it wasn't finished being built yet, and we were sharing a condo on the lake with the other family. Eight people, two bedrooms. You know what that equals? Four little kids on the pull-out couch.

This morning I had breakfast with Golden Boy, and as he spooned sugar into his coffee, we both looked at the sugar cubes, remembering when we'd take them from the place in New Hampshire. He recalls us taking them to eat secretly, when our mother wouldn't catch us. I recall something different though.

What I recall was that when I was around six, and we were in New Hampshire for the first time, there was a big party, like a wine-and-cheese type of gathering. Golden Boy and I were the only kids there, or maybe the other kids were older, or we didn't like them, but the point is we only had each other to hang out with. I was wearing my ladybug turtleneck with the red sweatshirt that night. The party was on the lake, and it was loud and warm with all the people. We ran around the people, and our parents were certainly in a vacation state of mind, because why else would they have said okay when their kids, one who could barely swim and the other, completely terrified of water, asked if they could take sugar cubes out to the lake to feed the ducks at night?

I'm sure if I mentioned this to my mother she'd say she never said we could do that, and my father would say he doesn't remember. But I remember.

The clearest memory I have of the whole night is following my brother after we came up with our feed-the-ducks plan, trying not to lose him among all the adults holding wine glasses, and of Golden Boy turning around to me as we were going towards the table with the sugar cubes and saying, "Look cool." My response to that directive?

To hold down the sleeves of my ladybug turtleneck while pushing up the sleeves of my red sweatshirt.

Nappening, Anyone?

On one hand I can't believe this exists. On the other, I think it's a great idea.

My roommate told me she might go. If I find out more, I'll let you know. If you went, tell me all about it.

Update on the Vagina Issue (Not Mine)

It seems Richard Leprine, the principal who suspended students for daring to say the word "vagina" out loud, has umm... suspended the suspension he gave three girls.

Mandy

(Amanda, this is it.)

I first became aware of Mandy some time in middle school. She was a year behind me, and was way beyond not popular. While I was in middle school, Champion sweatshirts exploded onto the Long Island scene. You were supposed to wear your Champion sweatshirt over a turtleneck.

The outfit went like this:
turtleneck
Champion college sweatshirt
sweatpants, with the ankles either pushed up right below the knees, or twisted (out, not in) at the ankle
baggy socks, with the elastic ankles of the sweatpants resting above the socks, and the bottom layer of the baggy socks resting just below the highest part of the Keds
Keds

During the warmer months you could get away with wearing a polo shirt underneath your Champion sweatshirt instead of the turtleneck. I used to wear a white polo my dad had given me, that had some emblem from his company under my sweatshirt.

I had a hot pink Champion, an aqua one, and a peach one. The first two were cheap Champions, and didn't fit the way the sweatshirts were meant to. The peach one fit perfectly, but it was, you know, peach. Later on I got my brother's college Champion, which I think was North Carolina, but I can't be sure. I'm just sure it was black. Then after that I got his old red one, which I liked a lot.

Mandy had a few Champion sweatshirts too. I only remember a red one specifically. She only had the cheap ones, and I think her mother must not have read the label and put hers in the dryer on high, because Mandy's sweatshirts were always too small. They always accentuated her flabbiness.

In the late 80's/early 90's, oversized was in, and nothing else would do. Somehow, Mandy never got the memo, and she showed up most days in a form-fitting Champion sweatshirt. Mandy was not just fat. She was fat in a disproportionate way. Mandy also had permanently red cheeks. She was clumsy. She also, because she got picked on so often, for anything, got flustered very easily.

Yeah, Mandy was very unpopular. She was the type to remind the teacher they forgot to give the class homework. The type to laugh at other people's inside jokes that she didn't get. Mandy also followed rules, in an effort to be viewed as .... I don't know what. Even my mother who is a total stickler for rules, has been known to tell me "That's bullshit" when a rule is ridiculous. It's my mother who taught me that when driving, safety comes before laws.

I can't remember how long it took, but a while after I switched to the private high school towards the end of 10th grade, Mandy switched over there too. This meant not only did I have to ride the tard cart to my school that was several school districts away, but I had to be on a bus with Mandy. A small bus, that didn't leave much room for getting away from her. It's hard to explain what exactly was so annoying about Mandy that made me feel like she deserved to be treated so badly. Probably because it's been over a dozen years since I've seen her. But I will say right now that as badly as I was teased in school, Mandy was so annoying that I felt she deserved to be treated horribly. (Why yes, I AM a terrible person.)

Though I don't remember the cause for it, I do recall a rule being instituted that parents were supposed to wait with students while they were waiting for the tard cart to come in the mornings. My mother is not a morning person - she likes to sleep in. Plus, I was in 11th grade, and she knew damn well I was capable of walking out of the house and locking the door when the bus arrived, without her help or supervision. The first morning the rule was in effect, my mother sat on the couch in the den with me. Tard cart came, I headed out, and my mother was finished following that rule for the rest of time.

Mandy's mom, on the other hand, was not that kind of mother. Not only did Mandy's mother wait with her, but she waited OUTSIDE, in full view of all of us. Each morning, Mandy's mother would stand on the driveway with Mandy. We were all surprised she didn't make it worse by kissing Mandy goodbye in front of us. Now I think "poor Mandy; how humiliating" but at the time I wondered if Mandy's mom was wearing a matching, poorly-fitted Champion under her coat.

I think it was that Mandy tried to involve herself in conversations she wasn't invited to join. If Nicole asked me what time it was, Mandy would answer. "Thanks, Information Central." And that's how we started referring to Mandy as 411. Nicole, Caryn, Kimber, Alayne, Maureen and I would all sit near the back of the tard cart, with the Chrises - Chris the Little Deaf Kid, Chris the Angry Druggie, and Chris the Hot Druggie.

Mandy would sit up front near Marge, our grumpy bus driver. Nancy, the Nice Druggie would sometimes sit with us, and sometimes sit with Chris the Angry Druggie when they had Druggie Issues to discuss. Chris the Hot Druggie would either sleep or chat with us - he could share in our gossip even though we went to different schools, because his cousin Heather went to our school.

Mandy would listen to our conversations and continually interject. Some of us were meaner to her than others. Kimber was shy and quiet - she wouldn't give Mandy a verbal smackdown. But she'd give her the Glare of Death when Mandy was getting on her nerves. Kim would be telling me how she'd fooled around with her neighbor Scott, who was her boyfriend's best friend, and Mandy would lean in and say "Do you think Scott will tell Andy?" Out would come the Glare of Death.

One winter we had an especially crazy snowstorm and I was so determined not to fall walking down my driveway to the tard cart with people watching, that I'd start heading down to the curb early, lest I fall on my ass in front of everyone. Mandy did not have the same plan I did. You know she totally fell on her ass, right as she got in front of the bus. You KNOW I loved seeing people fall (I'm laughing even as I type this) as much then as I do now. I can not even begin to imagine how difficult it was for Mandy to get on the bus, with all of us hysterically laughing at her. Even Marge was laughing.

At my private high school, there was a smoking room. That's right, it was a room where kids could go to smoke during Break or Lunch. There were tables and metal folding chairs. Usually I didn't hang out there, but sometimes I'd go in to talk with someone for a while. Mostly I'd sit on the floor with Alanna or on the benches in the hallway with Kimber or Jen Italian. Sometimes we'd hang out in the front office (which was also the nurse's office).

I was sitting indian style on the filing cabinet in the front office during lunch on the day that Mandy rushed in, rushed past me, and rushed straight into the bathroom. We all looked at each other as we listened to Mandy puking behind the closed door. When she walked out, we all looked at her in silence. Someone asked if she was okay. She said she was, and explained she'd just puked because of a dare.

Apparently Jill had dared her to smoke a cigarette. Mandy went on to explain that her father smoked, and she knew that smoking made her sick.

"Wait, then why'd you take the dare, knowing it would make you sick?"

Because it was a dare. (Stupid reason. But it was a logic I understood.)

"Well what'd you get for smoking?" Nothing.

"So you smoked, KNOWING it would make you sick, on a dare, despite not getting anything for it?"

Yes.

And that is the exact moment when any shred of respect I'd had for Mandy vanished into thin air (like a cloud of smoke except that would be too corny).

After graduating from high school I don't remember ever seeing Mandy ever again.

Raise Your Hand If You Like Country Music

*Please note: My hand is *NOT* raised. That's not, as in, my hand is down, which is the opposite of up.

Okay fine, full disclosure: I like the song Jolene, by Dolly Parton, and there was one song years ago that I liked that might be by Shania Twain or somebody like her. I think it had lyrics like "I had a bad day, grab me a cold one and oh by the way..." Those are the only two country songs I've ever liked.

Last weekend a friend and I were talking about the months-old question, Hillary or Barack. Because I'm fun like that (that being a digable planet, naturally) I switched the question from who do you WANT to who do you THINK will win. She doesn't know. But she's sure it won't be Barack. Why? (Here's where she dropped the bomb.) Because "80% of the United States listens to country music."

Well. You might say that's not a reason to think Barack can't become president. (You also might say the previous sentence has double negatives.) But come on, who are we fooling? If that statistic is true, we know it IS the reason. Now I have no clue where she got this statistic from, and I wish I'd asked. However. Does anybody else think it could be true? Because that scares me. In a maybe-I-should-entertain-the-thought-of-moving-to-Canada kind of way. I wonder if you can get statistics broken down by city, state, country, etc. saying what percentage of people in that area like country music. Yes, I am stereotyping, but I don't want to live in an area that's dominated by country music. I just don't. I don't like cowboy hats, pickup trucks, cows, grits, or country music. How it came to be that I love Friday Night Lights, I don't know.

Growing up in Long Island, there was one country radio station I knew of. The girl in my brother's grade who worked at the shoe store with me liked country music. (She also liked my brother and he did not like her back, but that's a very short blog post for another day.) She used to always turn the radio from Z100 or KTU 103.5 to whatever that country station was, and we'd complain, she'd pull rank, we'd roll our eyes, and suffer through the rest of our shift. Thank god we didn't have to touch feet at work, because the combination of touching other people's smelly, sweaty feet WHILE listening to country music would have put me over the edge. (It was an OUTLET store - we just helped people find sizes.)

When I lived in South Florida there were two or three country stations, and once I listened to one while driving down 95 to downtown Fort Lauderdale, but it was an accident and I arrived at work in a bad mood.

Here in San Francisco there also seem to be about three country radio stations. I don't get great reception, and the station that comes in clearest is country. Howard Stern was always my back-up radio station when I lived in Florida, but he's moved on. I have embraced the beauty that is static, because each time I try to listen to any non-country morning show, I am sorely disappointed.

I don't know what radio station I was listening to this morning, but the DJs were trying with all they had to be like Y100 (Z100's sister station in South Florida), complete with trapping people who are cheating on their significant others. This morning a woman thought her husband was cheating on her so the DJ's called him, pretended they were a flower shop and he'd won a dozen roses to be sent to anyone he wants. They asked him who to send them to. "Kelly." Great, and what would he like the card to say? "Thanks for last night, I never realized massage oil could have so many uses." Ew! I mean, Busted! Then the wife starts screaming "Edmund, who the BLEEEEP is Kelly?!" Edmund first plays dumb. "Who's this?" The wife becomes infuriated. "This is your WIFE! You know, the woman you had a baby with!" Next Edmund plays indifferent. "Whatever, I never liked you anyway." Dude, so why'd you marry her and have a baby with her? Why'd you stay with her? What's your interpretation of that "forsaking all others" mumbo jumbo?

This sounds interesting. This sounds exciting. This sounds like something you'd like to listen to. But really, it's all because of my awesome writing skillz. In reality, it's just sad. It's sad people like Edmund are bringing children into the world. And I also find it kind of sad that someone would want to bust their husband in such a public Jerry Springer sort of way. I mean yes, the wife has nothing to be ashamed of - she did nothing wrong. It's just ... why let all of the Bay Area know about your marital problems? Isn't it enough that when you get divorced it'll be public record?

And so in conclusion, if you vote for me and I become POTUS, I will make sure there are better radio station options.

Thank You

I remember spending at least one entire session (if not more) with my stupid shrink discussing how I was uncomfortable with attention, even compliments. My parents tried to drill into me that any time someone gave me a compliment I should "smile and say thank you." Now, even when a compliment makes me cry, I smile through the tears while thanking the person.

While I was in hebrew school, we had some award ceremony one time. My brother was there too, and my mother had volunteered to help the rabbi hand out the awards. Every single kid got one. We were called up to the bimah one by one, handed the award, and supposed to go back to our seats. After we got home from that, my mother said she'd noticed my brother and I were the only kids to have thanked her. I was shocked. Surely the other kids knew this basic rule - thank anyone who hands you something.

I'm quite good with thanking people for saying or doing something for me. However. I really am awful at thanking people for gifts. Someone will leave something for me, I'll find it, appreciate it, totally enjoy it, know I should thank them, and then .... not do it. Why? What the hell is wrong with me? I fuck it up so often.

When I lived in Florida I had a boss who had his co-worker/friend give me a gift card to a department store for Administrative Assistant's Day, because he was out of the office. I went home that night, whipped out my stationery, and promptly wrote him a thank you note. The next morning it was sitting in his In Box before he arrived at the office. After I saw him walk by me, I assumed he saw my thank you note since he'd spent a few minutes in his office. We talked about some work things that had come up.

An hour later he came up to me and asked if Kathy had given me an envelope from him. I turned to him with a huge smile. "Yes, thank you!" He nodded, mumbling "You're welcome" and walked off. I was confused. What had I done wrong? How had I managed to screw this up?

I had not gone to him in person to tell him thank you when I first saw him face-to-face. After some frantic e-mails to my father and brother, I sent my boss a carefully crafted e-mail explaining that when he'd come up to me, I thought he'd already seen the thank you note I'd left in his In Box. I hadn't realized other people had tossed things on top of it. It ended with an apology and a hearty re-thanking. He fired me. Not right then, and not for that of course, but it certainly soured him on me, and just added to my feeling of being a social retard.

Amazingly enough, I've managed to recreate this mistake several times since. But I think that's all about to change.

A co-worker of mine is not well off, and last weekend as I was cleaning out some drawers, I put aside some things for her that I knew she'd like (and would feel relatively comfortable getting from me). When I got to work Monday morning, I put a bag on her chair. After I knew she'd arrived (I got to work a whole FIVE minutes early, a record for me since moving), I went to say hello, assuming she'd say something about what I'd left for her. Nothing. A couple of hours later, I had to go to her again for workstuff. Again, nothing. What the fuck? Where's my thank you, bitch?! I thought of you during my weekend. I moved the bag with your stuff from the corner on the floor to my bedroom doorknob because I was concerned I'd forget it in the morning rush to get out of the house. I was careful to make sure nothing fell out while getting on and off two different buses.

It took until 2:31 p.m. to get an acknowledgment - an e-mailed thank you comprised of six words. It made me feel really bad. Like never doing anything nice for her again. It made me think all sorts of mean things. But mostly it made me realize "This must be how people think of me when I don't thank them promptly after they've given me something." I know, duh. I'm old enough that I shouldn't need to personally experience something in order to be able to guess how the other person might feel, and act appropriately.

Please send me a present right away, so I can test this theory. I'm sure you'll agree that's the best method of making sure I've really learned the lesson.

No Really, How ARE You?

Nobody ever cares how you are. Nobody wants to know. When they ask how you are, all they want is for it to be noted that they know to say The Right Thing. They feel obligated to show the world that their mother taught them manners. That’s all.

I hate how are you. I want everybody to care when they ask me, or not to ask me at all. Actually, even more than that, I want to be asked what can be done to make me better. However well or not well I am, I want to know someone Really Cares. Enough that they’d be willing to interrupt their lives. Because asking how someone is doesn’t really interrupt someone’s life. It means nothing to them – that’s why they toss it out to everyone they know. It’s quick, it’s easy, it makes them look good.

That’s not enough for me.
My mother was taken to the hospital Wednesday night via ambulance. I went to work on Thursday and Friday like I normally do. All my work got done. I didn’t cry at my desk. Aside from taking over Tuna’s office twice for privacy before he’d gotten in to make phone calls, and spending more time than usual on the telephone, nobody at work would have really known.

Except that I told Tuna. Mostly because he arrived at work to find me behind his closed office door. Thursday morning Nice Partner was zooming out of the office to a deposition and had a client with him – clearly not a time for personal conversations. Name Partner and I have never had any personal conversations. I feel like I’m stepping on his toes when I ask if he’ll be in the office tomorrow. We don’t do personal.

I never told my roommate, The New Steamroller. Even though we’re getting along swimmingly, and we have talked more in the last week than I ever talked to the original Steamroller in over six months of living together.

Now that I’m on the Social Committee, the Head Grandma and I talk a lot – and at one point on Thursday she gave me A Look, and asked if I was okay. She’s my favorite of all the grandmas, but I gave her a perky smile and assured her I was. The fact that she gave me a second look was all I needed to feel noticed and cared about. I didn’t need her to gush all over me and make a big fuss, which is what would have happened had I told her.

As absolutely unrealistic as it is, I want people to magically call me up and ask after me. Not just if they find out a crisis is going on, but all the time. Actually it’s not that magical. I think when people are close, they can do things like that. Wednesday afternoon I almost called my mother apropos of nothing, but then got busy and didn’t do it. I hadn’t called her in over a week before that, but something on Wednesday made me feel like it was the thing to do.

Tuna gave me the standard “I hope she’s okay, take whatever time you need” speech, even though as an associate I don’t think he really has the power to grant me time off that way. But I knew what he meant, and appreciated it just the same. That was Thursday. On Friday he never asked how my mother was doing, or if I was alright. Maybe he was busy. Maybe his own mother is in the hospital. Maybe he’s got his own life and he can’t handle hearing about anyone else’s problems.

Supposedly, when people are getting ready to commit suicide, they take steps that others close to them should notice. They get their affairs in order. For teenagers that means giving away their precious CD’s, their favorite lighter, writing down on Hello Kitty stationery who gets which of their best clothes and hiding the paper between their mattress and boxspring to be found later. For adults it means making a will, paying off debts, making it clear who should raise their kids.

But there’s a whole other section of people. The people who aren’t about to commit suicide, but simply walk around wanting to be noticed and cared about. The people who don’t feel noticed and cared about. Those people need more than a trite “how are you?” They need someone to really care how they are, and strive to make them happier.

Some people believe you have to create your own happiness. Those people must not be the ones who believe in the It Takes a Village theory. I can strive and strive to do things that make me happy, but I will still notice when a hot guy looks through me as he drops a door on me. I don’t strive to be happy. I strive to be content. Content makes me happy. Actual happiness is a bonus.

Just for the record, in case you haven’t figured it out yet. I’m not polite for the sake of being polite. I don’t say “How are you?” to people I don’t care about. If I ask, it’s because I really care. I’m ready to sit down, take my shoes off, and really listen. And you can damn well believe that as you talk, I’ll be thinking about if there’s anything I can do to make you happier. To make you feel listened to. Noticed.

If I ask, I really want to know. I want to hear whatever the truth is. How ARE you??

Jaw Droppings

A few months ago I had to give something to LEL. I could have rolled my chair over to her in-box with one push of my feet, because that's how close we sit to each other. But I didn't. I got off my ass and walked the entire five feet over to her desk and said something along the lines of "Cowboy asked that you file this in the Grumpleson file" as I placed the document in her in-box. Would you like to know the response I got to that? Sure you would!

"In the future, when addressing me, please go around and stand in front of my desk at the ponywall; don't stand next to me."

You have GOT to be fucking kidding me. Talk about standing on ceremony! Talk about making people jump through hoops! Talk about earlobes that swing in the breeze!

But whatever - killing LEL with kindness is my method of dealing with her, so I agreed to do that. In reality, I never do that. I e-mail her, I wait until she's not at her desk to give her things, and twice I've even gone so far as to use our mail guys to deliver inter-office envelopes to her.

Today LEL came to my desk to give me a document of Tuna's, claiming it's mine to file. She did it smugly, pleased to be giving me work to do. I was in a mood.

"LEL? In the future, please address me from the other side of the ponywall."

LEL's response? "EXCUSE ME?" Her jaw dropped.

I slapped the most innocent expression I could onto my face and replied, "What? I'm just asking that you extend the same courtesy to me that you demanded." And then I walked away without waiting to see her reaction. And I didn't trip over the carpet until I'd rounded the corner and she couldn't see me anymore. Thank goodness.

And yes, I laugh at myself when I trip.

New York Can't Handle the Truth

Do we have to call them the Va-jay-jay Monologues now? I'm very disappointed in New York. I expect this from Florida. Really. I do.

But New York? Shame on you. Good for Megan Reback, Elan Stahl and Hannah Levinson. They were the perfect people to disobey the order to not use the word "vagina" since they are honor students. They should be proud to write about this suspension experience in their college essays.

Why Richard Leprine, principal of the school the girls attend, said the word was not appropriate, is beyond me. It seems like he claims there may have been children in the audience, and it wouldn't be appropriate for them to hear vagina said out loud. Umm... why?

Megan Reback claimed the youngest "children" were other high school students. I would love to hear what age Richard Leprine thinks it's appropriate for people to hear the word vagina. I'm just so disgusted by this attitude, that everything is taboo. Everything is only taboo because of people like Richard Leprine.

I expect better of New York. I hope for better from New York. New York, please don't make me hate you, and lack respect for you. You're not Florida. You don't have to be an asshole.

Organic Epidural

While I was at Safeway yesterday, I found organic Kraft macaroni and cheese. It was a dollar more expensive than Spiderman, but I decided to try it anyway. I love Kraft mac & cheese.

So I made some last night. Then I ate some. It tasted okay. Nothing great, nothing awful, you know? It does NOT taste the same as regular Kraft macaroni and cheese, but it doesn't have that bad aftertaste that Trader Joe's and Annie's have.

Then a few hours later, I went to bed. 15 minutes after laying down, I began having the absolute worst cramps I've ever had in my entire life. It was horrible. I was in excruciating pain. I tried to psych out the pain. "Women give birth in fields. That's got to hurt way more than this; therefore this doesn't hurt that much. How do I feel now?" Didn't work. I wondered exactly how much more childbirth hurts than what I was feeling. Two times more? Ten times more painful? I came to the conclusion that if I ever give birth, there will be a reservation for an epidural in my name. Back and leg pain? No problem! But I am apparently not cut out for any sort of stomach pain.

After about an hour I felt better, and went to sleep. When I woke up this morning everything was fine. In wondering what caused my horrible cramps, I mentally listed everything I hate yesterday. The only thing I'd never had before was the organic mac & cheese. Clearly, organic is NOT better. I'll never make that mistake again.

Touched

There was an earthquake last night. I wasn't sure that was what I was feeling though, and had to ask someone. It felt like something hit the side of my apartment building really hard. Usually I feel earthquakes from the bottom up, or on the all the sides. This felt like something slammed into the building - something like a plane, because I'm from New York and that's where my mind goes first.

While getting ready for work this morning my cell phone started ringing. Even though I was sure it would be a wrong number, I went to get my phone anyway, and saw my brother's work phone number. He was calling because he'd heard about the earthquake. To check on me. He's been working 18-hour days lately, and he called me when he heard about the earthquake. Don't ever tell yourself "nobody really cares" when you're thinking of doing something nice, and starting to decide not to. I'm touched every single time I find out someone thought of me.

Today at work the Grandmas were discussing the earthquake. LEL was in Berkeley when it happened. I know, because she said so three times in the space of 18 seconds. Cat Lady asked if she cried like a baby. Loudly. Of course LEL didn't hear her the first two times, and Cat Lady got to repeat herself. "You cried like a baby, didn't you? You scream when I trip. When the earthquake happened, I thought of you right away. I know you screamed like a monkey." LEL claims she was terrified. She did not seem touched to know Cat Lady thought of her.

Kindergarten

Before kindergarten started, I had to get evaluated or something, to see if I was ready for school. My mother and I went to the elementary school, and there were metal folding chairs in the kindergarten hallway. We sat in those, and my mother showed me the classroom I was supposed to walk into. But I couldn't do it. I was too scared to walk into a room by myself, at age four and a half, of older kids I didn't know. So we sat. And sat. And then? We sat some more. My mother calmly waited with me in those metal chairs, waiting for me to get up the courage to go in the door. Looking back, I think it was hours. Maybe it was just 20 minutes, maybe it was all afternoon - I don't know. What I do know, is that my mother was calm and encouraging. There was nothing better she could have done. Eventually another little girl showed up for her kindergarten evaluation, and my mother pointed out her bravery when she pushed the door open and went right in. So I did it too. The door was heavy, and when I got into the classroom all the kids were sitting on the floor - it was story time.

I sat down next to the girl who'd pushed open the door. The teacher, a grandmotherly looking woman with tight, gray curls, offered the other girl and I the opportunity to share a chocolate bar. She was a stranger to me, so I said no thank you. I was deemed ready for kindergarten. That teacher was not my teacher though. I got a different, better teacher. In all honesty, the teacher with the curly hair seemed kind of stupid to me. I guess I was an obnoxious four year old, to think an adult was stupid. But she was.

Kindergarten started out really well. The girl who lived around the block from me who I played with often, Jennifer, was in my class. Elizabeth, who was prissy and liked to play with baby things like dolls, was in the other class and I was happy about that. That girl who pushed open the door? I think that was Alana, and she and I were friends. I don't know who gave it to me, but I got a dorito one morning. The second after I started chewing, I knew I hated it. When I told Alana, she encouraged me to spit the dorito out in the coat closet in our classroom. I did, behind a boy's coat, and felt guilty for it as I should have. Since then I've never had another Dorito. Alana tried to get me to try a cheese puff, but I was grossed out by how they turned other kid's fingers orange, and refused. Plus they smelled bad.

When you look back at things that happened when you were a kid, time is hard to figure. I don't know if I was out of kindergarten often, or just once for a long time. But I think it was because of fever of unknown origin. The day I came back to school, my nice teacher told me the class had been learning about what baby animals were called, and she went through them all with the class, to bring me up to speed. Everyone wanted to sit next to Laurie (the tall one, not the regular Lori) and she kept scooting further and further back, away from the group. Because it was my first day back I guess, I was allowed to sit with Laurie.

There was a girl named Beth in my kindergarten class. She always had a runny nose. Not just runny, but dried snot was all around her nose also. And she was allergic to chocolate. I remember, because on birthdays when kids brought munchkins in from Dunkin Donuts, Beth got to choose which one she wanted first, lest she be stuck with a chocolate munchkin.

I hear that these days kids in kindergarten have to learn how to read. Back in the olden days when I was in kindergarten, we were just preparing to learn how to read. I remember having to trace the number "8" on a ditto, and bringing it to my teacher after I finished. I traced it wrong. I traced two circles, one on top of the other, rather than tracing in a figure eight pattern. I could not see the difference; did not understand what I was doing wrong at all. Learning disability even then? Maybe. I make eights correctly now. While I was working on my "8"I looked over at all the kids who'd traced their 8 correctly and were already playing. I was jealous; I wanted to be them.

Another time I finished my work early and ran to grab the best truck in the classroom - it went the fastest and I'd wanted to ride on it since the beginning of the year, but the boys had always gotten it first. I rode my truck over to my friends, who had congregated underneath a table to finish their work. I proudly showed off the truck, assuming they'd be excited at what I got for us to share, away from the boys. One of them pushed me away, and I was not only hurt, but confused. Did they not realize how fast the truck could go?

The end of the school day was always chaotic - kindergarten was half days and I was an afternoon student, so we were getting out of class at the same time as the rest of the school. Two fourth graders came every day around 3 p.m. to help us kindergartners get jackets on and lunch boxes together, and to walk us to the lobby. I was a walker, and my mother didn't embarrass me by waiting in the lobby. She waited all the way at the bottom of the hill, near the crossing guard. Sometimes she brought our dog. During the winter when there was snow, a few times she even brought our red plastic sled, and lugged me, the dog, my bookbag, and my brother's bookbag home. She'd bring the plastic ski poles (I don't recall there being any plastic skis) for my brother to use. There was a small hill that was no big deal to walk up, but must have been a bitch and a half for her to drag us up (the mountain).

Even though when I was a fourth grader, I was a kindergarten helper for a while, as a kindergartner I hated the helpers. I didn't need any help with my jacket. Of course I didn't, because my parents had a rule - if you can't zipper it, we won't buy it for you. The kindergarten helpers always made us walk IN a line to the lobby, and ON a silver line on the floor. Why? Because that's what they were forced to do, probably. It seemed so lame to me. I didn't need to be escorted to the lobby. I wouldn't get lost - I never got lost in that school.

On the last day of kindergarten, my mother had walked to school to pick me up. As we were leaving to go home, someone told us a group of my friends were going to McDonalds to celebrate, and invited us. My mother explained to me that we'd have to walk home to get her car, and then drive over, so we couldn't go WITH them, but we'd catch up. When we arrived all the mothers were sitting together and all the kids were sitting at tables nearby. My mother got me settled with food and went to sit with the mothers. As I put my straw into my milkshake, Jill came over. I don't remember her exact words, but she said something very mean to me about thinking I was better than everyone else for getting a milkshake instead of a soda. I tried to explain - that I didn't like soda - but she wouldn't hear it. And somehow, she convinced all the other girls too.

Jill was a bitch, even in kindergarten. She never changed.