A Dick Move

I'm always disgusted by dick moves, partially because they're so dicky but also because I usually think the people involved should know better.

Two e-mails went out at the law firm I'm long-term temping at.

One was an invitation to the San Francisco office, for the firm's holiday lunch, scheduled during work hours. I did not respond, thinking that since I am technically not a member of the firm, it would not be right of me to go.

The other was an e-mail asking who wants to participate in a holiday gift exchange. I responded that I'd like to participate, figuring it'd be a good way for me to re-gift something at home that's perfectly nice, but not my taste.

Last week, I got an email from the head of HR asking me to RSVP to the holiday lunch and say whether I'd like the fish or steak. I respond this way:

Sorry I hadn't responded earlier - thought it was just for firm employees. But if I'm welcome, I'd certainly love to attend. Filet mignon, please!
Thanks HR,
Green

A couple of days ago, I got this email back from the guy coordinating the gift exchange:

Hi Green, I wasn't sure if anyone told you but the firm thought it would be
a little awkward to get a temp a gift especially when they didn't know you.
Sorry about that.
Hopefully everything works out and you become permanent so you can participate next year.

Okay, what the fuck?! Either I'm in, or I'm not! Pick one and be consistent! So I'm welcome to have you, the firm, spend however much it costs per plate for me, but not welcome to participate in something that would cost the firm itself NOTHING?

I was really tempted to forward that message to HR saying that in light of it, I don't feel it'd be proper for me to attend the holiday lunch after all, sorry for any inconvenience.

It SUCKS that it's during work hours also, because it's not like I can get out of the lunch by saying I have other plans, since I should have planned to be at work during those hours. So you'd better fucking believe I'm putting in for the time I spend at that lunch. Hell, I may even steal an extra dessert to bring home to Trixie, too.

I'm really disgusted by this. And upset that I have to go to a fucking party with a slew of people who I don't know, and who obviously have no interest in me since I'm "just a temp." Maybe I'll get "sick" that day and go home early.

Levi's Sucks

It's hard to explain exactly what it is, but Levi's? They suck. I have four pairs of their jeans - it's not that the quality of their clothing sucks. Because it doesn't.

There's something about their store. I don't know if it's too big for me, or it's too loud with their music or what.

But the few times I've been there, I get hot and overwhelmed and can't find anything and can't get out of there fast enough.

You might say to shop on their website, but I only do that with companies I know very well, and Levi's changed the way they size their jeans about a year ago, and I haven't been able to acclimate to it yet, and find a style that looks right on me.

That's all.

All I Want Is Time and Grammar Lessons

Most of the time people are surprised when they find out I don't have a bachelor's degree, and that pleases me. Except, then they expect me to know things. Like grammar. Unfortunately, they don't teach grammar in college. Well, actually they do sometimes, but I tested out of those non-credit classes when I took the college placement test.

I need third-grade grammar. Apparently, I was very busy in third grade - my worst grade of elementary school, made even worse due to it following my best year - and along with map skills and parts of the eye and ear, completely missed learning grammar and parts of speech. During a huge punishment in 7th grade, I managed to teach myself some very basic, elementary if you will, grammar. Like what verbs, nouns and adjectives are.

There was a tv show called the Adventures of Beans Baxter, and it's from that show that I learned what an adverb is. Prepositions and prepositional phrases are still iffy, and I can't stop ending sentences with prepositions.

I'd like to think it's just because I'm sick that I've made a lot of grammatical errors at work this week. But I know that's not the truth. I have no clue how to do those posessive apostophes and all that shit. The partner just told me yesterday that when a last name ends in a Z, you treat it like an S in terms of apostrophes. I did not know that. Do most people know that? How the hell do you learn these things?

Hanukah is a week away, and my family keeps asking what I want. I want to learn grammar - that's what I want. I don't want a book that teaches grammar, because I can't learn that way. I want someone to actually sit down and teach me the things I don't know in a way that I can learn them.

I know people like to give presents that don't require time and effort beyond buying something, or some things. But I have too many things as it is. I need fewer things. In fact, if someone gave me a present of helping me sell or give away some of my things, I'd love that. If I get another vase, I will cry. What I want, is what I need. And what I need, is help with various things. And yoga classes. It's time to bring back the fucking yoga.

It's the Finals - Study Hard!

If Helio doesn't win I am going to shoot myself.

Marie? Good dancer? Eh. Is she a good entertainer? Not for me, but I could see others being entertained? Good doll saleswoman? Absolutely.

Mel B? Her performances tonight lacked any oomph. She seemed no more excited about tonight than any other night. Is it me, or does it seem to anyone else that she takes tranquilizers? Her freestyle tonight needed to be very sharp. It wasn't.

And then there was Helio. Carrie-Ann was right - a couple of the lifts could have been a bit smoother on the dismount. But the fact that he did them, didn't drop her, and overall made the whole thing pretty damn graceful, was very impressive. Helio should win.

To the Dude

Found it - thank you so much!

We're Back To the Hills

I've been sick lately, and yesterday I felt well enough to do more than lay in bed moaning yet not well enough to go sit in front of the tv in our living room. Which clearly meant I should watch tv on my laptop.

For about three hours I watched all the episodes of The Hills from this season that I've missed, because my shitty cable company doesn't provide MTV anymore.

And I see now that nothing's really changed. Heidi is still friendless except for Spencer, who swallows hard any time his boobily enhanced girlfriend mentions wedding details. Lauren is still trying to figure out whether or not she likes Brody, who was wearing a bitch of a brace on his birthday in Vegas. Whitney still wants to know about all of Lauren's drama, and manages to screw up at work by being both unprofessional and unprepared yet keep getting told she's doing a good job. And Audrina, bless her heart, is still being serenaded by Justin Bobby's belches. Oh, and she got a promotion to a cubicle. Sweet girl, but not too smart. I'm glad she's got Lauren as a friend.

My favorite person on the entire show is Lo, even though she only guest stars. Lo is fucking hysterical. My favorite episode was a recent one, when Lauren invites Heidi to her apartment only to tell her, "I want to forgive you ... and, I want to forget you." I was so proud of Lauren for saying that. My next favorite episode is going to be the one where Lo takes Audrina out for drinks and convinces her to dump Justin Bobby for good. Unless of course Whitney falls down a staircase again. Because that's just great television and would obviously trump all.

Can I just ask a question of my readers who are either in, or from, LA? On average, over the course of four days, if that equals 12 meals for you, how many of those would be eaten out at a restaurant with a friend? Also, over the course of the same four days, on how many of those days would you be wearing heels? These girls, at age 21, wear heels more often than I ever have in my entire life, and I'm ten years older than they are.

Heh - Good Luck

Because really, how the hell was I supposed to realize I'd have to take pictures of anything I write in a mirror ... oh my god can I flip this somehow with the fancy options offered? Please hold while I scramble to investigate this.... okay no.

My only option would be to rotate it, which would not make it any easier to read. So umm.... hi, and also, sorry.

Yeah, in case you haven't figured it out, I've been playing with my Mac today. So far I've gotten a mix CD onto my iPod courtesy of the Mac (and a long phone call with a friend, complete with cursing), and I figured out how to play with the Photobooth feature. Oh, and I downloaded pictures off my digital camera onto iPhoto, but can't figure out how to access them in ANY way. Not to upload them here, not to get them onto Flickr, not how to get them into an email. Which pisses me off because my pictures from Los Angeles are just dying to be shown off. I wrote captions for each picture and everything!

Working on it. Any help is welcome. But be warned, a phone call may be necessary, and I'm both retarded and frustrated, a dangerous combination.

Okay. So. Game time. The first person to comment with what my photobooth picture says gets a prize.

Five Hours Down, Five To Go

Charlie and Oliver were brothers, and one encouraged the other to pay attention to the "little people" he encountered, like cab drivers. Charlie and Oliver are characters in a Brad Meltzer book, but I still think it was good advice.

I would say that 75% of the cab drivers I encounter in San Francisco are regular people, who just happen to have a hard job. Generally I try to talk with cab drivers - I consider it an opportunity to practice small talk, which I'm not good at. So yes, I use cab drivers.

Earlier this week I felt myself coming down with a cold, and by the time I woke up this morning my throat felt like someone had sand-papered it. Breathing is difficult. The sinus pressure in my face is painful. My brother and his fiance had invited me to their house for Thanksgiving, and I wanted to go. So this morning I made two pies without breathing on them and in the afternoon I mascara-ed up to haul myself deeper into the city for Thanksgiving dinner.

While at my brother's house, his fiance found some cold medicine I could take. Although I had to continuously excuse myself from whoever I was talking to in order to find tissues (Golden Boy, sorry I used up all your tissues), tonight was fun.

I met some very cool people, tried some new foods, and aside from the Cold From Hell, had a good time. When it was time to head home, I knew I was going to get a taxi - waiting for the buses was going to take too long, and my bed was calling for me. My brother and his out-of-town friend walked me to a major intersection, and in less than five minutes I was able to hail a cab.

$1,883. That's how much it will cost my cab driver to get a plane ticket to Nigeria, he told me. He then talked about money for the next half a dozen blocks we drove down on Market Street. I felt like he was trying to butter me up for a big tip. I round up, but not that far up. I asked if he was at the beginning or the end of his shift, and that's when he told me. He'd been working for the last five hours, and he had five more hours to drive around the city. Ten hours on Thanksgiving. You could make the argument that since he's not American, why would he want to celebrate Thanksgiving, but are you really that cold?

He's lived in San Francisco for ten years, and is 47. His fiance is 21 and he wants to bring her to America from Nigeria. He asked if I would like to see a picture. Sure. Okay, he told me, after he has my confidence. Huh what, now? Yes, that's what he said. And that's when I mentally moved him out of the 75% of regular cab drivers.

"Are you married," he asked me. I told him no. My throat hurt when I spoke and I had no more small talk left in me. "Do you want to be?" he inquired. Asking someone whether or not they want to be married is a pretty heavy question for a cab ride.

"If it happens, great, if it doesn't, that's okay too," I told him. Right then is when I think he stopped liking me, because he started humming and didn't speak to me again until he arrived at my apartment.

I wonder about Nigeria, and what the social customs are there related to marriage. I wonder if the 21 year old woman in Nigeria knows what's waiting for her if she marries this much older man and comes to America. Is there some little Nigerian community in the Bay Area, like there's Little Havana in Miami, or will she be terribly homesick while her husband works long hours for little money? I wonder if the Bay Area is the part of America she wants to come to. I wish I knew more.

I rounded up. Happy Thanksgiving.

Let's Give Me Something To Blog About

The large pear-shaped woman who sits next to me sometimes does stereotypical secretarial things that give us a bad reputation. Like this morning, when she was using nail-polish remover and then filing her nails. At her desk. During working hours. Then there's yesterday afternoon when she was on a personal call for over an hour. She has an adult daughter with one of those stripper names like Brittany or Tiffany or something who lives in D.C. She's very loud on the phone, so I couldn't help but hear most of her conversation. Ever wonder what large pear-shaped middle aged women talk about with their adult daughters? Wonder no more, my friends, because I wrote it down!

In order:
clam chowder (I wonder if she was referring to Manhattan or New England)
fungus
chocolate
miscarriage
cigars
a graduation and reception (twice, but I'm not clear if two people graduated or one person's graduation was discussed twice)
Paris street scenes
Facebook
Costco
and, last but certainly not least, the funniest thing I've heard since working here: "Raquel is on the tape, and boy did she have a lot of hair!"

Found - Joseph Finder

So far I've read Paranoia and just today started Killer Instinct, but I'm happily in love. Few things make me happier than discovering a new author who has a slew of books just waiting to be read.

Dad (sorry I haven't called you back yet), I keep thinking you would *really* like this author. A lot. Like every time I'm reading. I will e-mail you where your library is if you haven't already found it.

Jew Cool

Trixie has been dating/fighting with a guy we refer to as Old Guy for at least half a year now. We all hate him. Literally every single one of Trixie's friends can't stand him. So we were all thrilled when Trix announced that a kid, a 26 year-old at her law firm, had asked her out. Trixie is a couple of years older than me, and thought the idea of dating someone so much younger was crazy, and she couldn't do it. No way. He's seven years her junior.

Old Guy is ten years her senior. I say, as long as he's out of school and has some time under his belt of working in the real world, the actual physical age tends not to matter. Despite saying she couldn't date him, Trixie kept talking about The Kid. "He's half Jewish, half Indian - he's our apartment!" "He's from New York - you'll like him!" Great, so I'll date him.

Finally Trixie started dating The Kid, and I got to meet him on Friday. Yes, that'd be right after bar results came out. He passed the bar. Yet another baby attorney is on his way to becoming official (he has to be sworn in ). After I congratulated him, I asked if he'd been nervous, waiting for the results.

Modestly, he shrugged and grinned. Cocky chap, ain't he?

Congratulations to all the baby attorneys who just found out they passed the bar. You can breathe now.

I Think a Girl Hit On Me Today

I went to the hair salon tonight and was waiting for my appointment. It's important to the story, and that's why I'm telling you I was wearing cordoroy pants, a t-shirt, and Asics.

Two girls, who seemed very into each other, were sitting across from me. It seemed like they were friends with one of the hairdressers. After a couple of minutes, one of the girls caught my eye and smiled. So I smiled back.

A while later, one of the girls got up and walked away. That's when the other one asked me what struck me as a weird question:

Potential Lesbian: Do you run cross-country?
Green Yogurt Who Is Not Gay, Not That There's Anything Wrong With That: Nooo...
PL: Oh, because you're wearing exactly what I used to wear when I ran.
GY: Oh. Nah, I just threw on something comfortable.
PL: Yeah, that's the only part of running I miss - the comfortable clothes. Soo.... you don't run?
GY: No

Okay, do I *LOOK* like the type of person who's a cross country runner? I don't even know what it MEANS to run cross country! Every time I've crossed the country I've flown. What on earth would make someone look at me and think I might be some sort of fancy runner? I can barely run after a moving ice-cream truck.

Which is why I think maybe she was hitting on me. Because why else would she strike up such a weird conversation. Of course, I could be wrong. In which case I think she's just a little stupid. Not only for looking at me and thinking I'm a runner, but who the hell would wear cordoroy pants to go running?

I told a friend about this, and she suggested that perhaps while both girls were lesbians, they might have just been friends with each other. That would make me feel better - I would like to think the one girl talking to me was not being disrespectful of her relationship with the other girl. I was just happy my friend didn't laugh at the idea of someone hitting on me.

Why I Should Move To D.C. Immediately

Next to me sits an older, large, pear-shaped woman Joan. She has at least one grown child, and is single "by choice" she told me today. Joan was talking to the H.R. woman casually, and they were brainstorming baby names for the H.R. woman. Who is not pregnant. And, in my opinion, they were picking horribly overused names and gushing over them as if they were discovering them for the first time.

Anyway, at one point they looked over at me and said something about how silly that is, what with nobody even trying to get pregnant. I laughed and told them despite not having a boyfriend I've already planned my wedding.

Later Joan turned to me, and told me that if I ever wanted to get married, the first step would be moving out of San Francisco. Why? Because of "the gays." Apparently, they're everywhere here. Joan's daughter met the guy she married when she lived in D.C. The fact that the daughter met him on Match.com didn't sink in with Joan.

I am to move to D.C. immediately. Because D.C. is the center of everything. The national headquarters of numerous companies are there. A lot of "exciting things" that Joan didn't specify, happen in D.C. There are so many colleges there, and very wholesome young men.

Peoples? I have zero interest in moving to D.C. I'm not that interested in politics. And although I am attracted to the preppy sort you can find in D.C., there are some preppies here in S.F. And, I'm not married to the preppy type either. I could totally marry a guy who had a tattoo. Not on his face or anything, but a half-sleeve or something would be fine.

Joan would not shut the fuck up about how important it was for me to move. It seemed, from listening to Joan, that my most important goal in life should be to find a husband. Immediately. By packing up and moving to D.C.

What I thought was interesting was that just yesterday, Joan was telling me all about her sister, who also lives in the area, is also a legal secretary, and happens to be looking for a job. Surely she couldn't really have thought she'd talk me into moving that quickly so as to get her sister into my job.

The other weird thing about Joan was that she tried to tell me, presenting it as just trying to be helpful of course, that my outfit today was inappropriate. I was wearing cordoroy gray pants, a green sweater, and black loafers. Joan kept telling me that cordoroy pants were not allowed at this firm. She even went to the extreme of looking up the dress code, where all she found was that demin of any kind is unacceptable, which I knew.

Joan then tried to tell me that the pants I was wearing could be considered cordoroy jeans, and thus, unacceptable. Okay, let's break it down for the slow people. Isn't the definition of jeans that they're made out of denim? Denim is a material. Isn't cordoroy a material? A different material than denim? Thus, isn't cordoroy NOT denim and thus not banned based on the dress code prohibiting jeans?

Yeah. So Joan is weird. And I'm not moving to D.C.

We Are the Pod People

Every day, I listen to my new iPod on the way to work and on the way home. And sometimes when I'm at lunch too. I love it. Love, love, love it. It makes me happy. Every time, without fail.

I do not know how to explain how amazing it is to have something you know, you can count on, to make you happy. And it always works. Every time. No matter what kind of bad mood I've concocted.

Something interesting that I've noticed though, is that I get the opposite reaction that I thought I'd get. When you read articles about all the technology out there, there's always a slant about how bad it is, how important it is to disconnect, and bond with the people around you. You know - smile at the man holding flowers (hopefully not red roses), pick up the bag someone dropped near you.

But what I've seen is that more people smile at me when I'm listening to my iPod. Invariably, it's other people listening to music too. As if we're part of some secret club. I've caught people on the bus leaning over, trying to see what song I've got playing. And while normally, someone moving in on my personal (dance) space would piss me off, with this, I tilt my 'pod towards them, to show them what they want to see. Because hey, music is beautiful and we should all share the beauty. Or something.

It's nice, and I like it. Now who's going to come over and teach me the secret iPod handshake? You'll know it's me - I'm the one struggling not to grande jete through the streets as I sing along.

Waterboarding

So this waterboarding thing has been all over the news lately, and I don't get it. I mean, I get what it is.

What I can't understand is how these people go around bragging about their intelligence and how the military does all these studies all the time, yet all they can come up with is waterboarding? It can kill a person! It can cause brain or lung damage!

What good is torturing a person to get information if they're too fucked up to give it to you? There are so many more humane ways you could torture someone. Don't tons of military people have families? Just throw one of their kids in a room with the enemy. You know, like a three year old. Those kids like imitating people talk - if they can drive a parent crazy, surely they can drive a POW nuts and drive them to crack.

There are psychologists hired by the military to come up with ways of torturing people. Really, that's their job - to train other military personnel on how to torture POWs. Don't you think they could come up with ways of making a person spill their secrets that don't potentially cause people to die? I do.

Roses Are Red But Who Cares?

On the very first date I ever had, we went to Adventureland on weekend afternoon (he tried to kiss me in the haunted house), after I'd worked for six hours as a cashier at Foodtown. He arrived at my house with a red rose for me. I was 14, and knew I should thank him, so I did. It was a traditional flower to give a girl, I understood that.

But I've never liked red roses. I'd rather get no roses than red roses. To me, red roses speak volumes. They tell me the giver is traditional and boring. The person who gives red roses doesn't think far. They do juuuuuuust beyond the bare minimum (which would giving no flowers). Their button-down shirts are always blue (or white with blue stripes), their khakis are always Dockers. Maybe it's wrong, but I am always disappointed in a man when I see him clutching red roses at the end of the day. Couldn't you think of anything better? Couldn't you think past what you vaguely recall reading you were supposed to do (to fix whatever's made you buy flowers in the first place) in Maxim, and think about what she would really want and appreciate?

Friday, on the way home from work, I saw a guy with orange and purple flowers in his lap, and had to resist the urge to congratulate him for breaking out of the box and being creative.

I suppose there must be some women who like red roses, but I can't imagine how that works. Could it be possible that I'm friends with people who like red roses? Probably not - I think most of my friends are either creative or artsy and that would translate to non-red roses.

I don't have a favorite flower. They're mostly all pretty, and I can appreciate different kinds. Except the red roses.

I Am, Therefore I Deserve (It's a Long One)

"You should treat yourself." "You work hard; you deserve it!"

I hear these phrases, and phrases like them, quite often. I don't get it. Obviously, I understand what's being said, but I don't get it.

A few months ago, during a big sale, I bought a coat at Macy's for over $100. It's beautiful, it's functional, and it's classic. I'll wear it for years. I know this. And yet. I was so overwhelmed at the idea of spending over $100 on one piece of clothing that I had to ask my brother to come look at it, to confirm its quality, and that it looked good on me.

I've never bought shoes at Payless. I've never bought clothes at WalMart. Sometimes I'll buy Nick & Nora pajamas at Target. I'm not cheap. I'm just not rich. And, if I do say so myself, I'm a tiny bit money-savvy. While I don't know how to play the stock market, I do understand the basic concepts of marketing, advertising, saving, and credit cards.

I used to work for a sub-prime mortgage company. In the legal department, but still. They hired me for my previous experience at having worked in the foreclosure department of a real estate law firm in New York. Do you know what sub-prime mortgages are? They're mortgages for people who have such bad credit that they can't get mortgages. Their interest rates are very high. Often, they tell people who want a mortgage to buy a house "We'll give you one sub-prime mortgage at this high interest rate, and a second sub-prime mortgage at this higher interest rate."

When I worked at that real estate law firm I still lived with my parents. I didn't understand what a foreclosure was exactly. So my boss sat down with me for an hour and explained. A note is a promise to pay (the mortgage). A deed says who owns the house. When you don't pay your monthly mortgage payment for three months, the mortgage company sends all your information to a law firm they have a contract with (normally in the state your house is in) and ask them to begin foreclosure proceedings.

If anyone's interested (let me know), I can go into further details about how to get out of foreclosure (and how to avoid it), but that's not the point of this post, or the above paragraph. The point is, after working at that law firm for a few months I came to the conclusion that "any idiot can get a mortgage!"

As a 22 year-old earning less than $35,000 a year, I probably could have gotten a mortgage. Because mortgage companies would give a mortgage to almost anyone - or so it seemed to me. I went back to my boss. "If it's so easy to get a mortgage, why shouldn't I go run out and get one and buy myself a house?" She smiled at me. "Because you wouldn't be able to afford the mortgage payments and would wind up in foreclosure, and ultimately, with no house and bad credit." Oh. And so I learned.

I realize not everyone has the opportunity to sit down with the head partner of a law firm and pick their brain like I did. I know I was lucky, am lucky, to have so much access to lots of free legal advice. At this point, I don't even know how many times I've gotten free legal advice from the various attorneys I've worked with.

But doesn't everyone know somebody smarter than they are? Let's assume you're college educated, because I think the majority of my six blog readers are. Wouldn't you think someone who's college educated would have taken at least one college course in accounting or finance or some sort of math that teaches people not to buy what they can't afford? Hell, I knew that before even graduating from high school, and I was almost left back in 10th grade!

Granted, I was raised by two fiscally responsible college educated parents. And yes, I know that you can get away with not taking too many credits in math. So maybe you didn't take an accounting or finance class in college. But don't you read? And after you read, don't you think?

I read everything from Newsweek to Cosmo and in both magazines I've read articles explaining the basics of money management. And while I don't pay cash for every single purchase (one suggestion I've read) or keep my credit cards iced in my freezer next to the Ben & Jerry's (another suggestion I've read for impulsive spenders), I think before I purchase.

I think about if I really need it, or just want it. If it goes with what I already have. If I already have one just likeit. How often I'll use it. If I have space for it. If I'll be over wanting it two weeks from getting it home. And often, I walk away without buying.

When I moved earlier this year, after everything was unpacked, put away, boxes were thrown out, I took myself to get a manicure, pedicure, and blow-out. Not because "I deserved it" but because I wanted it, could afford it, and would appreciate it. What I deserved after moving and unpacking was the right, the privlege, of living in my new apartment. That's all.

When I work hard at work, I deserve my paycheck. That's all. I get all bent out of shape when people are talking about money they'll be earning, and they count a bonus they expect to be getting. Think about the word. Bonus. An extra. Something not owed to you. Thus, something you should not count on. Maybe if you work in sales and negotiated a bonus if you reach or exceed your target, then you can count on a bonus. But even then, it's dangerous.

In New Hampshire there is a strip of road in North Conway that has outlet stores, one of them a Coach outlet. Each time we went to New Hampshire we'd spend a day at the outlets, and one of the last stores we'd hit was Coach, for my mother. My mother is not what you'd call a quick-decider, and by the end of the day, we were all short on patience while my mother shopped and looked and touched all the Coach bags. The last time we went, I remember picking up a wallet, feeling the softness of the leather, seeing the price was over $100, and laughing as I put the wallet back. Who would spend so much money on a wallet? Why would anyone need such an expensive thing to hold the money they'll use to spend on other expensive things?

My mother has a Coach bag. I do not. And I'm okay with that. The majority of things I own are two steps above cheap. I own Levis. I bought a pair a few months after moving to San Francisco, and after wearing them and deciding they work for me, I bought three more, donating the five-year old jeans I'd been wearing. That was three years ago, and I recently bought two pairs of jeans from Old Navy. For $14 each, which was why I was willing to buy Old Navy jeans.

Do I deserve 7 For All Mankind jeans? Or Paper Denim and Cloth jeans? You know what? No. No, I don't. Because I wouldn't appreciate them the way they're meant to be appreciated. And I wouldn't look the way people are meant to look in them. And no, I'm not saying that fat people don't deserve nice things, because they do. At least, just as much as skinny people do.

I recently had a conversation with a friend about the difference between need and want. There was something she wanted, and kept saying she needed it. When I questioned her, she explained that she wanted it so badly, and having it made her so happy and she was so very unhappy without it, that she did in fact need it. I disagreed, but went with her to make her purchase.

It's another one of those Differences Between West Coasters and East Coasters I've found. My friend sees being happy as a need. I used to know a couple who, when whipping out their credit card to pay for something, would say "Future [Name] will pay for this." They're from CA too.

I understand. I don't relate, but I understand. I can't fully enjoy something now if Future Green will be crying when the credit card bill comes and it can't be paid in full. I hate debt, and owing.

Lately I've done a lot of interviews, which means sitting around, catching bits of other people's interviews. My competition. And even though it's happened frequently, I can't help being surprised when in response to the "Why should I hire you?" question, the person has responded with "Because I'm a good person and I deserve it."

Okay and we wonder why other countries hate us and think we're spoiled? How are people raising children to think that if they recycle and say thank you once in a while, good things will come to them in life? Like jobs, and expensive purses. If you're a good person, you know what I think you deserve? To walk around in life secure in the knowledge that you're a good person! Personal satisfaction when you go to bed at night that you were the best person you could be. That's it. The world does not owe you.

If it did, I'd be rich, what with all the door-holding I do for people. Hell, just this morning I made an old man smile, and let not one, but two people get on the bus before me. Surely for that I deserve lots of blog hits. And lunch! I should treat myself to a fancy lunch. Maybe at Tadich or somewhere else expensive. Because I deserve it.

Day Three

Neither of the two partners I work for play with their balls in front of me. So in that sense, this job is a big step up from the last one. Also, not only do I get a whole new crop of grandmas to get used to, but both attorneys are grandpas. It's gonna be interesting.

Both guys have warned me they're very busy and I'll be rushing around a lot. Ummm... okay. Whenever you're ready.

Yesterday some random partner's secretary was out, so he gave me several hours of work to do. Towards the end of the day I handed him a folder with the finished work. The guy was on the phone when I arrived at his office, so I walked out after delivering the work. Today I heard nothing. Certainly no thank you (I wasn't waiting for one), but usually a new person gets feedback.

Every single grandma keeps candy on her desk. M&Ms mostly. Maybe it's from Halloween, but I doubt it. Yesterday when i was given the office tour, I was shown the "office where people like to take naps" in between meeting 3827 people all dressed the same way.

This law firm has no jeans day. The idea that I can't wear jeans on Fridays really bums me out, so I've channeled my inner Tim Gunn and decided to find a Friday jeans alternative. Any suggestions? I'm thinking cords.

That's all I've got, sorry. I'm exhausted.

How to Torture An Introvert

Walk them around an entire law firm and introduce them to Every. Single. Person. who works there. I need a nap now. I have no more smile-and-handshaking left in me for the day. When I visualize how I feel, I see a turtle pulling its head inside its shell or a little kid who doesn't want to be talked to anymore facing a corner and putting their hands over their eyes.

P.S. To the person who asked if I had an exit interview at the last firm, no, I did not. Probably because I was a temp. Actually, even at the places where I've left on much better terms, I've never had an exit interview where I'm asked why I am leaving. At most it's "Here's your Cobra info, give us your key, off you go."

Persona Non Grata

The H.R. woman from another West Coast office arrived this morning - here to do three interviews, trying to replace me. Because I'm leaving.

People will barely look me in the eye, let alone talk to me.

Except Speedy, who asked me to follow up on a Notice of Dismissal for a case. A case not on his client list. I told him that, and his response was "Well, I think you filed it." That's nice. I don't. I politely asked him for a little more information, since the name didn't ring a bell and wasn't on his case list. Speedy stared at me and then walked into his office and closed the door.

And they wonder why I don't like working here and don't think I'll do well?

I'm glad today is my last day here - if I had to spend more time in this environment, with everyone all awkward towards me, I'd crack. I think the only way this could be more uncomfortable is if I'd announced that I have a herpes outbreak, and it'd be best if nobody comes near me.

Right now the H.R. chick is in Speedy's office, discussing the first of the three potential replacements who's come for an interview today.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

Reasons I hate my job:

1. Balls scratches his balls.
2. The training is sporatic and incomplete.
3. The firm treats their SF office like the red-headed stepchild of the group.
4. There's no system for basic office issues like reserving an empty office or ordering supplies.
5. I started writing out all the other reasons, but you know what? Fuck it. Who cares anymore? Just please take my word for it that this job sucks.

And so I quit. That's right, I did. I got an offer from a firm I interviewed at over a month ago, asking me to start right away. After several frantic phone calls, I accepted and managed to push out the start date. To Tuesday.

Tomorrow may be a bit awkward, but I'll suffer through it. Tuesday has always been my favorite day of the week.